Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [94]
“You can always tell breeding by good posture,” Mémé said, fishing the onion out of her martini and popping it into her mouth. “A lady never hunches. Grace, what is wrong with your hair today? You look like you just stepped out of the electric chair.”
“Oh, do you like it, Mémé? It cost a fortune, but, yes, electrocution was just the look I was going for. Thanks!”
“Mother,” Dad said, “what would you like to do for your birthday this year?”
Mémé raised a sparse eyebrow. “Oh, you remembered, did you? I thought you forgot. No one has said a word about it.”
“Of course I remembered,” Dad said wearily.
“Has he ever forgotten, Eleanor?” Mom asked sharply in a rare show of solidarity with Dad.
“Oh, he forgot once,” Mémé said sourly.
“When I was six,” Dad sighed.
“When he was six. I thought he’d at least make me a card, but, no. Nothing.”
“Well, I thought we’d take you out to dinner on Friday,” Dad said. “You, Nancy and me, the girls and their boys. What do you think? Does that sound nice?”
“Where would we go?”
“Somewhere fabulously expensive where you could complain all night long,” Margaret said. “Your idea of heaven, right, Mémé?”
“Actually,” I said on impulse, “I can’t come. Wyatt’s presenting a paper in New York, and I said I’d go down to the city with him. So sorry, Mémé. I hope you have a lovely night.”
Granted, yes, I’d been planning to tell the family that Wyatt and I had parted ways—Natalie’s wedding would demand attendance, and obviously Wyatt couldn’t show, being imaginary and all. But the idea of spending a Friday night listening to Mémé detail her nasal polyps and having Mom and Dad indulge in their endless bickering, sitting in the glow of Andrew and Natalie while Margaret sniped at everyone…nope. Callahan O’Shea was right. I did a lot for my family. More than enough. Wyatt Dunn could give me one last excuse before, alas, we were forced to break up for good.
“But it’s my birthday.” Mémé frowned. “Cancel your plans.”
“No,” I said with a smile.
“In my day, people showed respect to their elders,” she began.
“See, I was thinking the Inuit have it right,” Margaret said. “The ice floe? What do you say, Mémé?”
I laughed, receiving a glare from my grandmother. “Hey, listen, I have to go. Papers to grade and all that. Love you guys. See you at home, Margs.”
“Cheers, Grace,” she said, toasting me with a knowing grin. “Hey, does Wyatt have a brother?”
I smiled, patted her shoulder and left.
When I pulled into my driveway ten minutes later, I looked over at Callahan’s house. Maybe he was home. Maybe he’d want company. Maybe he’d almost kiss me again. Maybe there’d be no “almost” about it.
“Here goes nothing,” I said, getting out of the car. Angus’s sweet little head popped up in the window, and he began his yarping song of welcome. “One second, sweetie boy!” I called, then walked over to 36 Maple. Right up the path. Knocked on the door. Firmly. Waited.
There was no answer. I knocked again, my spirits slipping a notch. Glancing down the street, I noticed belatedly that Cal’s truck wasn’t there. With a sigh, I turned around and went home.
The truck wasn’t there the next day, or the next. Not that I was spying, of course…just glancing out my window every ten minutes or so in great irritation, acknowledging the fact that…yikes…I missed him. Missed the joking, the knowing looks, the brawny arms. The tingling wave of desire that one look from Callahan O’Shea could incite. And God, when he touched my face that night on the roof, I’d felt like the most beautiful creature on earth.
So where was he, dang it? Why did it bug me so much that he’d gone off for a few days? Maybe he was back in an orange jumpsuit, stabbing trash on the side of the freeway, having broken parole somehow. Maybe he was a CIA mole and had been called up to serve, like Clive Owen’s assassin character in The Bourne Identity. “Must go kill someone, dear…I’ll be late for dinner!” Seemed to fit Callahan more than being an accountant, that