Author: Kristan Higgins

Natalie with my ex-fiancé, telling me how she was dying to meet my imaginary beau.

I didn’t relish the fact that I was lying to Natalie—and my parents, and grandmother and even Callahan O’ Shea —but it was a far sight better than being Poor Grace, tossed over for her sister. Morally wrong to lie, but hey! If lying was ever justified, I’d have to say it was now.

For a brief second, another scenario flashed across the old brain cells. Callahan O’ Shea sitting by my side, rolling his eyes at how Andrew was even now showing off in the kitchen, chopping parsley like a manic spider monkey. That Cal would sling his big, muscular arm around my shoulder and mutter, “I can’t believe you were engaged to that scrawny jerk.”

Right. That would happen, and then I’d win the Lotto and discover I was the love child of Margaret Mitchell and Clark Gable.

To distract myself, I looked around Nat’s living room. My gaze stopped abruptly on the mantel. “I remember this,” I said, my voice a tad tight. “Andrew, this is the clock I gave you, isn’t it? Wow!”

And it was. A lovely, whiskey-colored mantel clock with a buttery face and elaborately detailed numbers, a brass key for winding it. I found it in an antiques shop in Litchfield and gave it to Andrew for his thirtieth birthday, two years ago. I planned the whole dang party, good little fiancée that I was. A picnic in the field along the Farmington. His work friends—our friends, back then—as well as Ava, Paul, Kiki and Dr. Eckhart, Margaret and Stuart, Julian, Mom and Dad, and Andrew’s snooty parents, who looked vaguely startled at the idea of eating on a public picnic table. What a great day that had been. Of course, that was back when he still loved me. Before he met my sister.

“Oh. Yeah. I love that clock,” he said awkwardly, handing me my wine.

“Good, since it cost the earth,” I announced with a stab of crass pleasure. “One of a kind.”

“And it’s…it’s gorgeous,” Andrew mumbled.

I know it is, dopey. “So. You two are very cozy. Are you living here now, Andrew?” I asked, and my voice was just a trifle loud.

“Well, uh…not…I still have a few months on my lease. So, no, not really.” He exchanged a quick, nervous glance with Natalie.

“Mmm-hmm. But obviously, since your things are migrating here…” I took a healthy sip of my chardonnay.

Neither of them said anything. I continued, making sure my tone was pleasant. “That’s nice. Saves on rent, too.

Very logical.” And fast. But of course, they were in love. Who wouldn’t be in love with Natalie, the fair flower of our family? Nat was younger. Blond, blue-eyed. Taller. Prettier. Smarter. Man, I wished Wyatt Dunn was real! Wished that Callahan O’ Shea was here! Anything other than this echoing sense of rejection that just wouldn’t fade away.

I unclenched my jaw and took a seat next to my sister and studied her. “God, we just do not look alike, do we?” I said.

“Oh, I think we do!” she exclaimed earnestly. “Except for the hair color. Grace, do you remember when I was in high school and got that perm? And then colored my hair brown?” She laughed and reached out to touch my knee. “I was crushed when it didn’t come out like yours.”

And there it was. I couldn’t be mad at Natalie. It was almost like I wasn’t allowed to be mad at Natalie, ever. It wasn’t fair, and it was completely true. I remembered the day she was referring to. She’d permed it, all right, permed that lovely, cool hair, then dyed it a flat, ugly brown. She was fourteen at the time, and had cried in her room as the chemical curls failed to produce the desired results. A week later, her hair was straight again, and she became the only brunette in high school with blond roots.

She’d wanted to be like me. She thought we looked alike—me, three inches shorter, fifteen pounds heavier, the accursed hair, the unremarkable gray eyes.

“There’s definitely a resemblance,” Andrew said. Piss off, buddy, I thought. Here I am taking a class on how to meet a husband, dredging up men on the Internet, lusting after a convict, and you have this pearl, you undeserving jerk. Well. I guess the anger wasn’t quite so gone after all. Not the anger caused by Andrew, that was.

He seemed to catch that thought. “I better check the risotto. I don’t think it’s going to thicken without some serious prayer.” With that, he scurried off into the kitchen like a frightened crab.

“Grace, is everything okay?” Natalie asked softly.

I took a breath. “Oh, sure.” I paused. “Well, Wyatt and I had a little fight.”

“Oh, no!”

I closed my eyes. I really was becoming a masterful liar. “Yeah. Well, he’s so devoted to the kids, you know?”

Yes, Grace, such a prick, your pediatric surgeon. “I mean, he’s wonderful. I’m crazy about him. But I hardly see him.”

“I guess it’s an occupational hazard,” Natalie murmured, her eyes soft with sympathy.

“Yeah.”

“But he makes up for it, I hope?” Nat asked, and I answered that yes, indeed he did. Breakfast in bed …strawberries, and the waffles were a little burnt, it was so cute, he was like a kid…the flowers he sent me (I had actually sent myself some flowers). The way he listened…loved learning about the classes I was teaching. The beautiful scarf he bought me last weekend (in fact, I did have a beautiful new scarf, except that I’d bought it for myself that day Julian and I went shopping).

“Oh, hey, did I tell you I’m up for chairmanship of the history department?” I said, seizing on a change of subject.

“Oh, Grace, that’s wonderful!” my sister cried. “You would do so much for that place! It would totally come alive if you were in charge.”

Then, on cue, my cell phone rang. I stood up, reached into my pocket, withdrew my phone and flipped it open.

“It’s Wyatt,” I said, smiling at Nat.

“Okay! I’ll give you a little privacy.” She started to get up.

“No, stay!” I commanded, then turned to the phone. After all, she needed to hear this conversation…my end, anyway. “Hi, honey,” I said.

“Hi, baby,” said Julian. “I’m thinking of changing my name.”

“Oh, no! Is he okay?” I asked, remembering to frown in concern, as I’d practiced in the rearview mirror on the way here.

“Something more manly, you know? Like Will or Jack. Spike. What do you think?”

“I think he’s lucky you were his doctor,” I answered firmly, smiling at my sister.

“Maybe that’s too butch, though. Maybe Mike. Or Mack. Well, I probably won’t. My mother would kill me.”

“No, no, that’s fine, honey! I understand. Of course she will! No, they both know what you do for a living! It’s not like you’re a…” I paused. “A carpenter or something. A mechanic. You’re saving lives!”

“Down, girl,” Julian coached.

“You’re right,” I said.

“What are you having for dinner?” my friend asked.

“Risotto, asparagus and tilapia. Some delicious tart my sister slaved over.”

“I’ll send some back with Grace!” Natalie called.

“Make sure I get that tart,” Julian said. “I’ve earned it. Shall we chat some more? Want me to propose?”

“No, no, honey, that’s fine. You have a great night,” I said.

“Love you,” Julian said. “Now say it back to me.”

“Oh, um, same here.” My face grew hot—I was not about to declare my love for an imaginary boyfriend. Even I wouldn’t go that far. Then I flipped the phone closed and sighed. “Well, he can’t make it. The surgery was more complicated than he thought, and he wants to stay close until the little guy’s out of the woods.”

“Ooh,” Natalie sighed, her face morphing into something like adoration. “Oh, Grace, I’m so sorry he can’t come, but God, he sounds so wonderful!”

“He is,” I said. “He really is.”

After dinner, Natalie walked me to my spot in the parking garage. “Well, I’m so sorry I couldn’t meet Wyatt,” she said. “But it was great to have you here.” Her voice echoed in the vast cement chamber.

“Thanks,” I said, unlocking the car. I put the Tupperware containing Julian’s generous slab of tart on the backseat and turned back to my sister. “So things are really serious with you and Andrew?”

She hesitated. “Yes. I hope that’s okay with you.”

“Well, I didn’t want you to have a fling, Nat,” I replied a bit sharply. “I mean, that would’ve hurt, you know? I just …I’m glad. This is good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I am.”

She smiled, that serene, blissful smile of hers. “Thanks. You know, I have to thank Wyatt when I do finally meet him. To tell you the truth, I think I would’ve broken up with Andrew if you hadn’t been seeing someone. It just felt too wrong, you know?”

“Mmm,” I said. “Well. I…I should go. Bye, Nattie. Thanks for a lovely dinner.”

Rain came down in sheets as I drove home, my little car’s wipers valiantly battling for visibility. It was a vicious night, colder than normal, windy and wild, much like the night my tire blew out. The night I first met Wyatt Dunn. I snorted at the thought.

I imagined, for one deeply satisfying second, that I’d kept my mouth shut in the bathroom at Kitty’s wedding. That I’d let the guilt work its magic and admitted, yes, it was wrong, a woman shouldn’t date a man who was once promised to her sister. Andrew would have been out of my life forever, and I wouldn’t have to see his eyes light on Natalie’s face with that expression of gratitude and wonder—an expression I can tell you quite honestly I never saw before. No, when Andrew had looked at me, there was affection, humor, respect and comfort. All good things, but no kablammy. I had loved him. He hadn’t loved me back the same way.

Despite Margaret’s sleeping presence in the guest room when I came home, and though Angus did his best to tell me that I was the most wonderful creature on God’s green earth, the house felt empty. If only I did have that nice doctor boyfriend to call. If only he was on his way home to me now. I’d hand him a glass of wine and rub his shoulders, and he’d smile up gratefully. Maybe we’d cuddle on the couch there, then head up to bed. Angus wouldn’t so much as nip Wyatt Dunn, because Angus, in this fantasy anyway, was an excellent judge of character and just adored Wyatt.

I brushed my teeth and washed my face and grimaced over my hair, then found myself wondering if the attic needed, well, a little visit. Yes. Sure it did. It was quite wet out, after all, though the hard rain had stopped around Hartford and it was just kind of foggy and damp now. Surely Callahan O’ Shea wouldn’t be out on his roof. This was simple homeownership…perhaps a window was open up there. It might rain again later. You never knew.

Callahan O’ Shea was out there. Good for you, Cal, I thought. Not the type to let a little New England weather stop him from doing his thing.

He must’ve missed the outdoors in prison. Granted, he’d been in a Club Fed, apparently, but when I pictured him, he was in an orange jumpsuit or black-and-white stripes, in a cell with bars and a metal cot. (There just weren’t enough movies featuring Club Feds, and so the one in my imagination was identical to the prison in The Shawshank Redemption.) For one second, I imagined what it would be like to be down there with Callahan O’ Shea, his arm around me, my head on his shoulder, and the image was so powerful that I could feel the thud of his heartbeat under my hand, his fingers playing in my hair. Occasionally, one of us would murmur something to the other, but mostly, we’d just be still.