Too Good to Be True. Kristan Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ you really need new windows. Margaret, nice job on the Bleeker case, honey.” It was Dad’s way to jam in as much into a conversation as possible, sort of get things over with so he could ignore my mother (and his). “And, Grace, don’t forget about Bull Run next weekend. We’re Confederates.”

      Dad and I belonged to Brother Against Brother, the largest group of Civil War reenactors in three states. You’ve seen us…we’re the weirdos who dress up for parades and stage battles in fields and at parks, shooting each other with blanks and falling in delicious agony to the ground. Despite the fact that Connecticut didn’t see a whole lot of Civil War action (alas), we fanatics in Brother Against Brother ignored that inconvenient fact. Our schedule started in the early spring, when we’d stage a few local battles, then move on to the actual sites throughout the South, joining up with other reenactment groups to indulge in our passion. You’d be amazed at how many of us there were.

      “Your father and those idiot battles,” Mom muttered, adjusting Mémé’s collar. Mémé had apparently fallen deeply asleep or died… but no, her bony chest was rising and falling. “Well, I’m not going, of course. I need to focus on my art. You’re coming to the show this week, aren’t you?”

      Margaret and I exchanged wary looks and made noncommittal sounds. Mom’s art was a subject best left untouched.

      “Grace!” Mémé barked, suddenly springing back to life. “Get out there! Kitty’s going to throw the bouquet! Go! Go!” She turned her wheelchair and began ramming it into my shins, as ruthless as Ramses bearing down on the fleeing Hebrew slaves.

      “Mémé! Please! You’re hurting me!” I yanked my legs out of the way, which didn’t stop her.

      “Go! You need all the help you can get!”

      Mom rolled her eyes. “Leave her alone, Eleanor. Can’t you see she’s suffering enough? Grace, honey, you don’t have to go if it makes you sad. Everyone will understand.”

      “I’m fine,” I said loudly, running a hand over my uncontrollable hair, which had burst the bonds of bobby pins. “I’ll go.” Because damn it, if I didn’t, it would be worse. Poor Grace, look at her, she’s just sitting there like a dead possum in the road, can’t even get out of her chair. Besides, Mémé’s chair was starting to leave marks on my dress.

      Out onto the dance floor I went, as excited as Anne Boleyn on her way to the gallows. I tried to blend in with the other sheep, standing in the back where I wouldn’t really have a chance of catching the bouquet. “Cat Scratch Fever” came booming over the stereo—so classy—and I couldn’t suppress a snicker.

      Then I saw Andrew. Looking right at me, guilty as sin. His date was nowhere in sight. My heart lurched.

      I knew he was here, of course. Him coming was my idea. But seeing him, knowing he was with another woman today in their first appearance as a couple, made my hands sweat, my stomach turn to ice. Andrew Carson was, after all, the man I thought I’d marry. The man I came within three weeks of marrying. The man who left me because he fell in love with someone else.

      A couple of years ago, at Cousin Kitty’s second wedding, Andrew had come as my date. We’d been together for a while, and when it was bouquet toss time then, I’d gone up more or less happily, pretending to be embarrassed but with the smug contentment of a steady boyfriend. I didn’t catch the bouquet, and when I left the dance floor, Andrew had slung his arm around my shoulder. “I thought you could’ve worked a little harder out there,” he’d said, and I remembered the thrilling rush those words had caused.

      Now he was here with his new girlfriend. Natalie of the long, straight, blond hair. Natalie of the legs that went on forever. Natalie the architect.

      Natalie, my much adored younger sister, who was understandably lying low at this wedding.

      Kitty tossed the bouquet. Her sister, my cousin Anne, caught it as planned and rehearsed, no doubt. Torture time over. But, no. Kitty spied me, picked up her skirts and hustled over. “It will be your turn soon, Grace,” she announced loudly. “You holding up okay?”

      “Sure,” I said. “It’s déjà vu all over again, Kitty! Another spring, another one of your weddings.”

      “You poor thing.” She gave my arm a firm squeeze, smug sympathy dripping out of her, glanced at my bangs (yes, they’d grown out in the fifteen years that had passed since she’d cut them) and went back to her groom and the three kids from her first two marriages.

      THIRTY-THREE MINUTES LATER, I decided I’d been brave long enough. Kitty’s reception was in full swing, and while the music was lively and my feet were itching to get out there and show the crowd what a rumba was supposed to look like, I decided to head for home. If there was a single, good-looking, financially secure, emotionally stable man here, he was hiding under a table. One quick pit stop and I’d be on my way.

      I pushed open the door, took a quick and horrifying look in the mirror—even I didn’t even know it was possible for my hair to frizz that much, holy guacamole, it was nearly horizontal—and started to push open a stall door when I heard a small noise. A sad noise. I peeked under the door. Nice shoes. Strappy, high heels, blue patent leather.

      “Um…is everything okay?” I asked, frowning. Those shoes looked familiar.

      “Grace?” came a small voice. No wonder the shoes looked familiar. My younger sister and I had bought them together, last winter.

      “Nat? Honey, are you okay?”

      There was a rustle of material; then my sister pushed open the door. She tried to smile, but her clear blue eyes were wet with silvery tears. I noted her mascara didn’t deign to run. She looked tragic and gorgeous, Ilsa saying goodbye to Rick at the Casablanca airport. “What’s wrong, Nat?” I asked. “Oh, it’s nothing….” Her mouth wobbled. “It’s fine.” I paused. “Is it something to do with Andrew?” Natalie’s good front faltered. “Um… well… I don’t think it’s going to work between us,” she said, her voice cracking a little, giving her away. She bit her lip and looked down.

      “Why?” I asked. Relief and concern battled in my heart. Granted, it sure wouldn’t kill me if Nat and Andrew didn’t work out, but it wasn’t like Natalie to be melodramatic. In fact, the last time I’d seen her cry was when I’d left for college twelve years ago.

      “Um… it’s just a bad idea,” she whispered. “But it’s fine.” “What happened?” I asked. The urge to strangle Andrew flared in my gut. “What did he do?”

      “Nothing,” she assured me hastily. “It’s just… um…” “What?” I asked again, more forcefully this time. She wouldn’t look at me. Ah, dang it all. “Is it because of me, Nat?”

      She didn’t answer.

      I sighed. “Nattie. Please answer me.”

      Her eyes darted at me, then dropped to the floor again.

      “You’re not over him, are you?” she whispered. “Even though you said you were… I saw your face out there, at the bouquet toss, and oh, Grace, I’m so sorry. I should never have tried—”

      “Natalie,” I interrupted, “I’m over him. I am. I promise.”

      She gave me a look loaded with such guilt and misery and genuine anguish that the next words came out of my mouth without my being fully aware СКАЧАТЬ