Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [64]
Margaret was working—since our chat over the weekend, she’d kept mum on the subject of her husband. Angus watched as I resignedly followed Lou’s advice… a skirt short enough to show that, yes, I had fabulous legs. A little lipstick, a little holy water on the hair, and I was ready to go. I kissed Angus repeatedly, asked him not to feel jealous, lonely or depressed, told him he could watch HBO and order pizza, realized that I was far, far down the path to “Weird Dog Lady” and headed out.
Lester and I were meeting at Blackie’s, and I figured I’d walk. It was a beautiful night, just a little cool, and in the west, there was the thinnest line of red as the sunset held on a little longer. I looked for a moment at my own house. I’d left the Tiffany lamp on for Angus, and my hanging porch light was on. The buds of the peonies were tight with promise… in another week or so, they’d burst into fragrant, lush blossoms that scented the whole house. The slate walk was edged with lavender, ferns and heather, and hostas huddled in a thick green mass at the base of my mailbox.
It was a perfect house, sweet enough to be featured on the cover of a magazine, cozy, welcoming, unique. Only one thing was missing—the husband. The kids. The whole adorable family I’d always envisioned… the one that was getting harder and harder to imagine.
You might wonder why I didn’t sell the house after Andrew broke it off with me. It was, after all, supposed to be our house. But I loved it, and it had so much potential. The thought of not hearing the Farmington River shushing gently in the distance, of letting someone else plant bulbs and hang ferns on the front porch…I just couldn’t do it. And yes, maybe I was holding on to the last piece I had of Andrew and me. We’d planned to be so happy here….
So rather than becoming our house, it became mine. That house was my grief therapy, and as I polished it and made it a sanctuary of comfort and beauty and surprising little delights, you can bet that I imagined my revenge on Andrew. That I’d meet someone else, someone better, smarter, taller, funnier, richer, nicer…someone who freakin’ adored me, thank you so much. And Andrew would see. It was his stupid loss. And he could just be lonely and miserable for the rest of his stupid life.
Obviously, it didn’t turn out that way, or I wouldn’t be standing here on the sidewalk, a fake boyfriend on one hand, a metalsmith on the other, an ex-con who made my girl parts sit up and bark in the background.
“Get going,” I told myself. Margaret might be a bit off love these days, but she wouldn’t fix me up with a bad person. Lester the metalsmith. It was kind of hard to get excited about him. Lester. Les. Nope. Nothing.
Blackie’s was packed, and immediately, I regretted arranging the date this way. What was I supposed to do, just start tapping men on the shoulder and asking if they were Lester the metalsmith? Is there a metalsmith in the building? Please, if you’re a metalsmith, report to the bar immediately.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked as I pushed my way forward.
“A gin and tonic, please?” I asked.
“Coming up,” he said.
Well, here I was, once again trying to convey The Look, the confidence, the appeal, the I’m just an amused observer of life look that didn’t say Quite eager to find boyfriend so I won’t have to be alone when sister marries ex-fiancé, which seems like it’ll be happening soon, damn it. Good dancer a plus.
“Excuse me, are you Grace?” came a voice at my shoulder. “I’m Lester.”
I turned. My eyes widened. Heart rate stopped entirely, then kicked in at about one hundred and eighty beats per minute.
“You are Grace, right?” the man asked.
“Thank you,” I murmured. As in “Thank you, God!” Then I closed my mouth and smiled. “Hi. I mean, yes. I’m Grace. Hello. I’m fine, thanks.”
So I was a babbling idiot. So would you be, if you’d seen this guy. Dear God in heaven, oh, Margaret, thank you, because before me stood a man the likes that every woman on the face of the earth would want to devour with whipped cream