Читать книгу Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins - Страница 11

On Sunday, I had the misfortune of attending my mother’s opening at Chimera’s, a painfully progressive art gallery in West Hartford.

“What do you think, Grace? Where have you been? The show started a half hour ago. Did you bring your young man?” my mother asked, bustling up as I tried not to look directly at the artwork. Dad lurked in the back of the gallery, nursing a glass of wine, looking noticeably pained.

“Very…very, uh, detailed,” I answered. “Just…lovely, Mom.”

“Thank you, honey!” she cried. “Oh, someone is looking at a price tag on Essence Number Two. Be back in a flash.”

When Natalie went off to college, my mother decided it was time to indulge her artistic side. For some reason unbeknownst to us, she decided on glassblowing. Glassblowing and the female anatomy.

The family domicile, once the artistic home only for two Audubon bird prints, a few oil paintings of the sea and a collection of porcelain cats, was now littered with girl-parts. Vulvae, uteruses, ovaries, breasts and more perched on mantels and bookshelves, end tables and the back of the toilet. Varied in color, heavy and very anatomically correct, my mother’s sculptures were fuel for gossip in the Garden Club and the source of a new ulcer for Dad.

However, no one could argue with success, and to the astonishment of the rest of us, Mom’s sculptures brought in a small fortune. When Andrew dumped me, Mom took me on a four-day spa cruise, courtesy of The Unfolding and Milk #4. The Seeds of Fertility series had paid for a little greenhouse on the side of the barn last spring, as well as a new Prius in October.

“Hey,” said Margaret, joining us. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, just great,” I answered. “How are you?” I glanced around the gallery. “Where’s Stuart?”

Margaret closed one eye and gritted her teeth, looking somewhat like Anne Bonny, she-pirate. “Stuart… Stuart’s not here.”

“Got that,” I said. “Everything okay with you guys? I noticed you barely spoke at Kitty’s wedding.”

“Who knows?” Margaret answered. “I mean, really. Who the hell knows? You think you know someone… whatever.”

I blinked. “What’s going on, Margs?”

Margaret looked around at the voyeurs who flocked to Mom’s shows and sighed. “I don’t know. Marriage isn’t always easy, Grace. How’s that for a fortune cookie? Is there any wine here? Mom’s shows are always better with a little buzz, if you know what I mean.”

“Over there,” I said, nodding to the refreshments table in the back of the gallery.

“Okay. Be right back.”

Ahahaha. Ahahaha. Ooooh. Ahahaha. My mother’s society laugh, heard only at art shows or when she was trying to impress someone, rang through the gallery. She caught my eye and winked, then shook the hand of an older man, who was cradling a glass…oh, let’s see now…ew. A sculpture, let’s put it that way. Another sale. Good for Mom.

“Are we still on for Bull Run?” Dad asked, coming up behind me and putting his arm around my shoulder.

“Oh, definitely, Dad.” The Battle of Bull Run was one of my favorites. “Did you get your assignment?” I asked.

“I did. I’m Stonewall Jackson.” Dad beamed.

“Dad! That’s great! Congratulations! Where is it?”

“Litchfield,” he answered. “Who are you?”

“I’m a nobody,” I said mournfully. “Just some poor Confederate hack. But I do get to fire the cannon.”

“That’s my girl,” Dad said proudly. “Hey, will you be bringing your new guy? What’s his name again? By the way, your mother and I are thrilled that you’re finally back on the old horse.”

I paused. “Uh, thanks, Dad. I’m not sure if Wyatt can make it. I—I’ll ask, though.”

“Hey, Dad,” Margaret said, coming up to smooch our father on the cheek. “How are the labias selling?”

“Don’t get me started on your mother’s artwork. Porn is what I call it.” He glanced over in our mother’s direction. Ahahaha. Ahahaha. Oooh. Ahahaha. “Damn it, she sold another one. I’ll have to box that one up.” Dad rolled his eyes at us and stomped off to the back of the gallery.

“So, Grace,” Margaret said, “about this new guy.” She glanced around to make sure that we weren’t being overheard. “Are you really seeing someone, or is this another fake?”

She wasn’t a criminal defense attorney for nothing. “Busted,” I murmured.

“Aren’t you a little old for this?” she asked, taking a slug of her wine.

I made a face. “Yes. But I found Nat in the bathroom at Kitty’s wedding, writhing with guilt.” Margs rolled her eyes. “So I figured I’d make it easy for her.”

“Yes. Life must be easy for the princess,” Margaret muttered.

“And another thing,” I continued in a low voice. “I’m sick of the pity. Nat and Andrew should just get on with it, you know, and stop treating me like some crippled, balding cat who has seizures and can’t keep down her food.”

Margaret laughed. “Gotcha.”

“The truth is,” I admitted, “I think I’m ready to meet someone. I’ll just pretend to be seeing someone and then, you know… find someone real.”

“Cool,” Margaret said with a considerable lack of enthusiasm.

“So what’s going on with you and Stuart?” I asked, moving out of the way as an older woman sidled up to LifeSource, a sculpture of an ovary that looked to my nonmedical eye like a lumpy gray balloon.

Margaret sighed, then finished off her wine. “I don’t know, Grace. I don’t really want to talk about it, okay?”

“Sure,” I murmured, frowning. “I do see Stuart at school, of course.”

“Right. Well. You can tell him to fuck off for me.”

“I…I won’t be doing that. Jeez, Margs, what’s wrong?” While theirs was a case of opposites attract, Margaret and Stuart had always seemed happy enough. They were childless by choice, rather well-off thanks to Margaret’s endless success in court, lived in a great house in Avon, took swanky vacations to Tahiti and Liechtenstein and places like that. They’d been married for seven years, and while Margaret was not the type to coo and gloat, she’d always seemed pretty content.

“Well, crap, speaking of disastrous couples, here come Andrew and Natalie. Shit. I need a little more wine for this.” She fled back to the table for another glass of cheap pinot grigio.

And there they were indeed, Andrew’s fair hair a few shades lighter than Natalie’s honey-gold. Considerably more relaxed than at the wedding, when they dared not get within ten feet of each other lest I burst into sobs, they now radiated happiness. Their hands brushed as they approached, fingers giving a little caress though they stopped just short of actual hand-holding. The chemistry crackled between them. No, not just chemistry. Adoration. That’s what it was. My sister’s eyes were glowing, her cheeks flushed with pink, while a smile played at the corner of Andrew’s mouth. Gack.

“Hey, guys!” I said merrily.

“Hi, Grace!” Natalie said, flushing brighter as she hugged me. “Is he here? Did you bring him?”

“Bring whom?” I asked.

“Wyatt, of course!” she chuckled.

“Right! Um, no, no. I think we should be dating longer than a few weeks before I bring him to one of Mom’s shows! Also, he’s… at the hospital.” I forced a chortle. “Hi, Andrew.”

“How are you, Grace?” he said, grinning, his green eyes bright.

“I’m great.” I looked down at my untouched wine.

“Your hair looks gorgeous!” Nat exclaimed, reaching out to touch a lock that was for once curly and not electrocuted.

“Oh, I got a haircut this morning,” I murmured. “Bought some new tamer.” Had to practically sell an ovary of my own to afford it, but, yes, along with the clothes, I figured some better hair control was in order. Couldn’t hurt to look my best when seeking The One, right?

“Where’s Margaret?” Natalie asked, craning her swanlike neck to look around. “Margs! Over here!”

My older sister sent me a dark look as she obeyed. She and Natalie had always scraped a bit… well, it would be more fair to say that Margaret scrapped, since Natalie was too sweet to really fight with anyone. As a result, I got along better with each than they did with each other—my reward for generally being taken for granted as the poor neglected middle child.

“I just sold a uterus for three thousand dollars!” Mom exclaimed, joining our little group.

“There is no limit to the bad taste of the American people,” Dad said, trailing sullenly behind her.

“Oh, shut it, Jim. Better yet, find your own damn bliss and leave mine alone.”

Dad rolled his eyes.

“Congratulations, Mom, that’s wonderful!” Natalie said.

“Thank you, dear. It’s nice that some people in this family can be supportive of my art.”

“Art,” Dad snorted.

“So, Grace,” Natalie said, “when can we meet Wyatt? What’s his last name again?”

“Dunn,” I answered easily. Margaret smiled and shook her head. “I will definitely get him up here soon.”

“What does he look like?” Nat asked, reaching for my hand in girlish conspiracy.

“Well, he’s pretty damn cute,” I chirruped. Good thing Julian and I had gone over this. “Tall, black hair…” I tried to recall Dr. Handsome from E.R., but I hadn’t watched since the episode where the wild dogs got loose in the hospital, mauling patients and staffers alike. “Um, dimples, you know? Great smile.” My face felt hot.

“She’s blushing,” Andrew commented fondly, and I felt an unexpectedly hot sliver of hatred pierce my heart. How dare he be thrilled that I’d met someone!

“He sounds wonderful,” my mother declared. “Not that a man is going to make you happy, of course. Look at your father and me. Sometimes a spouse tries to suffocate your dreams, Grace. Make sure he doesn’t do that. Like your father does to me.”

“Who do you think pays for all your glassblowing crap, huh?” Dad retorted. “Didn’t I convert the garage for your little hobby? Suffocate your dreams. I’d like to suffocate something, all right.”

“God, they’re adorable,” Margaret said. “Who wants to mingle?”

WHEN I FINALLY GOT HOME from my mother’s gynecological showcase, my surly neighbor was ripping shingles off his porch roof. He didn’t look up as I pulled into the driveway, even though I paused after getting out of my car. Not a nice man. Not friendly, anyway. Definitely nice to look at though, I thought, as I tore my eyes off his heavily muscled arms, unwillingly grateful that it was warm out, warm enough that Surly Neighbor Man had taken off his shirt. The sun gleamed on his sweaty back as he worked. Those upper arms of his were as thick as my thighs.

For a second, I pictured those big, burly, capable arms wrapped around me. Imagined Surly Neighbor Man pressing me against his house, his muscles hard and hot as he lifted me against him, his big manly hands—

Wow, you need to get laid, came the thought, unbidden. Clearly, the pulsating showerhead wasn’t doing the trick. Surly Neighbor Man, fortunately, had not noticed my lustful reverie. Hadn’t noticed me at all, in fact.

I went into the house, let Angus into my fenced-in backyard to pee and dig and roll. The scream of a power saw ripped through the air. With a tight sigh, I clicked on the computer to finally follow Julian’s advice. Match.com, eCommitment, eHarmony, yes, yes, yes. Time to find a man. A good man. A decent, hardworking, morally upright, good- looking guy who freakin’ adored me. Here I come, mister. Just you wait.

After describing my wares online, I took a look at a few profiles. Guy #1—no. Too pretty. Guy #2—no. His hobbies were NASCAR and ultimate fight clubs. Guy #3—no. Too weird-looking, let’s be honest. Acknowledging that perhaps my mood wasn’t right for this, I corrected World War II quizzes until it was dark, stopping only to eat some of the Chinese food Julian had brought over on Thursday, then going right back to correcting, circling grammatical errors and asking for more detail in the answers. It was a common Manning complaint that Ms. Emerson was a tough grader, but hey. Kids who got an A in my classes earned it.

When I was done, I sat back and stretched. On the kitchen wall, my Fritz the Cat clock ticked loudly, tail swishing to keep the time. It was only eight o’clock, and the night stretched out in front of me. I could call Julian… no. Apparently, my best friend thought we were codependent, and while that happened to be completely true, it stung a little nonetheless. Nothing wrong with codependence, was there? Well. He e-mailed me, at least, a nice chatty note about the four men who’d been interested in his profile online, and the resultant stomach cramps he’d suffered. Poor little coward. I typed in an answer, assured him that I, too, was now available for viewing online and told him I’d see him at Golden Meadows for Dancin’ with the Oldies.

With a sigh, I got up. Tomorrow was a school day. Maybe I’d wear one of my new outfits. Angus trotting at my heels, I clumped upstairs to reacquaint myself with my new clothes. In fact, I thought as I surveyed my closet, it was time to purge. Yes. One had to ask oneself when vintage became simply old. I grabbed a trash bag and started yanking. Goodbye to the sweaters with the holes in the armpits, the chiffon skirt with the burn in the back, the jeans that fit in 2002. Angus gnawed companionably on an old vinyl boot (what was I thinking?), and I let him have it.

Last week, I saw a show on this woman who was born without legs. She was a mechanic… actually, not having legs made her job easier, she said, because she could just slide under cars on the little skateboard thing she used to get around. She’d been married once, but was now dating two other guys, just enjoying herself for the time being. Her ex-husband was interviewed next, a good-looking guy, two legs, the whole nine yards. “I’d do anything to get her back, but I’m just not enough for her,” he said mournfully. “I hope she finds what she’s looking for.”

I found myself getting a little… well, not jealous, exactly, but it did seem this woman had an unfair advantage in the dating world. Everyone would look at her and say, Wow, what a plucky spirit. Isn’t she great! What about me? What about the two-legged among us, huh? How were we supposed to compete with that?

“Okay, Grace,” I told myself aloud, “we’re crossing the line. Let’s find you a boyfriend and be done with it, shall we? Angus, move it, sweetie. Mommy has to go up to the attic with this crap, or you’ll chew through it in a heartbeat, won’t you? Because you’re a very naughty boy, aren’t you? Don’t deny it. That’s my toothbrush you have in your mouth. I am not blind, young man.”

I dragged the trash bag full of stuff down the hall to the attic stairs. Drat. The light was out, and I didn’t feel like tromping downstairs to get another. Well, I was only stashing the stuff till I could make a trip to the dump.

Up the narrow flight of stairs I went, the close, sharp smell of cedar tickling my nose. Like many Victorian homes, mine had a full-size attic, ten-foot ceilings and windows all around. Someday, I imagined, I’d put up some insulation and drywall and make this a playroom for my lovely children. I’d have a bookshelf that ran all the way around the room. An art area near the front window where the sun streamed in. A train table over there, a dress-up corner here. But for now, it held just some old pieces of furniture, a couple of boxes of Christmas ornaments and my Civil War uniforms and guns. Oh, and my wedding dress.

What does one do with a never-been-worn, tailored-just-for-you wedding dress? I couldn’t just throw it out, could I? It had cost quite a bit. Granted, if I did find some flesh-and-blood version of Wyatt Dunn, maybe I’d get married, but would I want to use the dress I bought for Andrew? No, of course not. Yet there it still sat in its vacuum-packed bag, out of the sun so it wouldn’t fade. I wondered if it still fit. I’d packed on a few pounds since The Dumping. Hmm. Maybe I should try it on.

Great. I was becoming Miss Havisham. Next I’d be eating rotten food and setting the clocks to twenty till nine.

Something gnawed my ankle bone. Angus. I didn’t hear him come up the stairs. “Hi, little guy,” I said, gathering him up and removing a sesame noodle from his little head. Apparently, he’d gotten into the Chinese food. He whined affectionately and wagged. “What’s that? You love my hair? Oh, thank you, Angus McFangus. Excuse me? It’s Ben & Jerry’s time? Why, you little genius! You’re absolutely right. What do you think? Crème Brûlée or Coffee Heath Bar?” His little tail wagged even as he bit my earlobe and tugged painfully. “Coffee Heath Bar it is, boy. Of course you can share.”

I disentangled him, then turned to go, but something outside caught my eye.

A man.

Two stories below me, my grumpy, bruised neighbor was lying on his roof, in the back where it was nearly flat. He’d put on more clothes (alas), and his white T-shirt practically glowed in the dark. Jeans. Bare feet. I could see that he was just… just lying there, hands behind his head, one knee bent, looking up at the sky.

Something contracted down low in my stomach, my skin tightened with heat. Suddenly, I could feel the blood pulsing in parts too long neglected.

Slowly, so as not to attract attention, I eased the window up a crack. The sound of springtime frogs rushed in, the smell of the river and distant rain. The damp breeze cooled my hot cheeks.

The moon was rising in the west, and my neighbor, too irritable to tell me his name, was simply lying on the roof, staring at the deep, deep blue of the night sky.

What kind of man did that?

Angus sneezed in disgust, and I jumped back from the window lest Surly Neighbor Man hear.

Suddenly, everything shifted into focus. I wanted a man. There, right next door, was a man. A manly man. My girl parts gave a warm squeeze.

Granted, I didn’t want a fling. I wanted a husband, and not just any husband. A smart, funny, kind and moral husband. He’d love kids and animals, especially dogs. He’d work hard at some honorable, intellectual job. He’d like to cook. He’d be unceasingly cheerful. He’d adore me.

I didn’t know a thing about that guy down there. Not even his name. All I knew was that I felt something—lust, let’s be honest—for him. But that was a start. I hadn’t felt anything for any man in a long, long time.

Tomorrow, I told myself as I closed the window, I was going to find out my neighbor’s name. And I’d invite him to dinner, too.