Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [89]
Except me. I wanted her to use her brain instead of coast on her situation, but Kerry didn’t really care what I thought. That was clear. The board of trustees might well share her ennui.
“Grace!” Margaret’s voice boomed through the house, making Angus jump. I swear, my older sister was becoming more and more like Mémé every day. “I’m making whole grain pasta with broccoli for dinner. Want some?”
I grimaced. “No, thanks. I’ll throw something together later on.” Something with cheese. Or chocolate. Possibly both.
“Roger that. Oh, shit. Stuart’s here.”
Thank God. I leaped to the window, Angus bouncing merrily behind me. Sure enough, my brother-in-law was coming up the path. It was almost dark, but his standard white oxford glowed in the dimming light. I moved out into the hallway to eavesdrop better, shutting the door behind me so Angus wouldn’t blow my cover. Margaret stomped to answer the soft knock. I could see the back of her head, but no more.
“What do you want?” she asked ruthlessly. I detected a note of pleasure under her tone…Stuart was finally doing something, and Margaret appreciated that kind of thing.
“Margaret, I think you should come home.” Stuart’s voice was quiet, and I had to strain to hear. He didn’t say anything else.
“That’s it?” Margaret barked, echoing my own thought. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“What more would you like me to say, Margaret?” he asked wearily. “I miss you. I love you. Come home.”
My eyes were suddenly wet.
“Why? So we can stare at each other every night, bored out of our minds?”
“I never felt that way, Margaret. I was very happy,” Stuart said. “If you don’t want to have a baby, that’s fine, but all these other complaints…I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m no different from how I’ve always been.”
“Which may be the problem,” Margaret said sharply.
Stuart sighed. “If there’s something specific you want me to do, I’ll do it, but you have to tell me. This isn’t fair.”
“If I tell you, then it doesn’t count,” Margaret retorted. “It’s like planned spontaneity, Stuart. An oxymoron.”
“You want me to be unexpected and surprising,” Stuart said, his voice suddenly hard. “Would you like it if I ran naked down Main Street? How about if I started shooting heroin? Shall I have an affair with the cleaning woman? Would that be surprising enough?”
“You’re being deliberately obtuse, Stuart. Until you figure it out, I have nothing to say. Goodbye.” Margaret closed the door and leaned against it, then, a second later, peeked out the transom window. “Goddamn it,” she muttered. I heard the sound of a car motor starting. Apparently, Stuart was gone.
Margaret caught sight of me, crouched at the top of the stairs. “So?” she asked.
“Margaret,” I began cautiously, “he loves you and he wants to make you happy. Doesn’t that count, honey?”
“Grace, it’s not that simple!” she said. “He’d love it if every night of our life was the same as the night before. Dinner. Polite conversation about literature and current events. Sex on the prescribed days. The occasional dinner out, where he takes half an hour to order a bottle of wine. I’m so bored I could scream!”
“Well, here’s what I think, roomie,” I said, my own voice growing hard. “He’s a decent, hardworking, intelligent man and he adores you. I think you’re acting like a spoiled brat.”
“Grace,” she said tightly, “since you’ve never been married, your opinion really doesn’t count a whole heck of a lot right now. So mind your own business, okay?”
“Oh, absolutely, Margs. Hey, by the way, how much longer do you think you’ll be staying?” Sure, it was bitchy, but it felt good.
“Why?” Margaret said. “Am I cutting in on your time with Wyatt?” With that, she stomped back into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, feeling that I really should have control of my own house and shouldn’t