Too Good to Be True. Kristan Higgins

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      CHAPTER FIVE

      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 СКАЧАТЬ