Catch of the Day Winner—2008 Romance Writers of America RITA^® Award “Smart, fresh and fun! A Kristan Higgins book is not to be missed!” —New York Times bestselling author Carly Phillips

“Higgins has crafted a touching story brimming with

smart dialogue, sympathetic characters, an engaging

narrative and the amusing, often self-deprecating

observations of the heroine. It’s a novel with depth

and a great deal of heart.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4½ stars, Top Pick

“Goes down sweetly. An utterly charming story!”

—New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter

“When your heart needs a smile, when you want to believe

in falling in love again or when you just want to read a

great book, grab one by Higgins. You can’t go wrong.”

—dee’s book dish Best Book of the Year, 2007

Fools Rush In “Where has Kristan Higgins been all my life? Fools Rush In is a spectacular debut.” —USA TODAY bestselling author Elizabeth Bevarly

“Higgins reached deep into every woman’s soul and

showed some heavy truths in a fantastically funny and

touching tale. This book is on my keeper shelf and will

remain there for eternity. It will be re-read and

loved for years to come.”

—dee’s book dish

“A fresh intelligent voice—Kristan Higgins

is too much fun!”

Cindy Gerard, USA TODAY bestselling author of To the Limit

“Higgins is a talented writer [who] will make you want to

search high and low for anything that she has written.”

—Chicklit Romance Writers

“Outstanding! This is a story well worth reading

”—Coffee Time Romance

Too Good to Be True

Kristan

Higgins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the memory of my

grandmother, Helen Kristan, quite the loveliest

woman I’ve ever known.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

At the Maria Carvainis Agency…thanks as always to the brilliant and generous Maria Carvainis for her wisdom and guidance, and to Donna Bagdasarian and June Renschler for their enthusiasm for this book.

At my publisher, thanks to Keyren Gerlach for her gracious and intelligent input and to Tracy Farrell for her support and encouragement.

Thanks to Julie Revell Benjamin and Rose Morris, my writing buddies, and to Beth Robinson of PointSource Media, who makes my website and trailers look so great.

On the personal side, thanks to my friends and family members who listen endlessly to my ideas—Mom, Mike, Hilly, Jackie, Nana, Maryellen, Christine, Maureen and Lisa. How lucky I am to have such a family and such friends!

Thanks to my great kids, who make life so enjoyable, and especially to my honey, Terence Keenan. Words, in this case, are just not enough.

And, finally, thanks to my grandfather, Jules Kristan, a man of steadfast devotion, keen intelligence and innate and boundless goodness. The world is a better place because of your example, dearest Poppy.

PROLOGUE

MAKING UP A BOYFRIEND is nothing new for me. I’ll come right out and admit that. Some people go window shopping for things they could never afford. Some look at online photos of resorts they’ll never visit. And some people imagine that they meet a really nice guy when, in fact, they don’t.

The first time it happened was in sixth grade. Recess. Heather B., Heather F. and Jessica A. were standing in their little circle of popularity. They wore lip gloss and eye shadow, had cute little pocketbooks and boyfriends. Back then, going out with a boy only meant that he might acknowledge you while passing in the hall, but still, it was a status symbol, and one that I lacked, right along with the eye shadow. Heather F. was watching her man, Joey Ames, as he put a frog down his pants for reasons clear only to sixth grade boys, and talking about how she was maybe going to break up with Joey and go out with Jason.

And suddenly, without a lot of forethought, I found myself saying that I, too, was dating someone… a boy from another town. The three popular girls turned to me with sharp and sudden interest, and I found myself talking about Tyler, who was really cute and smart and polite. An older man at fourteen. Also, his family owned a horse ranch and they wanted me to name the newest foal, and I was going to train it so that it came for my whistle and mine alone.

Surely we’ve all come up with a boy like that. Right? What was the harm in believing—almost—that somewhere out there, counterbalancing the frog-in-the-pants types was a boy like Tyler of the horses? It was almost like believing in God—you had to, because what was the alternative? The other girls bought it, peppered me with questions, looked at me with new respect. Heather B. even invited me to her upcoming birthday party, and I happily accepted. Of course, by then I was forced to share the sad news that Tyler’s ranch had burned down and the family moved to Oregon, taking my foal, Midnight Sun, with them. Maybe the Heathers and the rest of the kids in my class guessed the truth, but I found I didn’t really mind. Imagining Tyler had really felt… great, actually.

Later, when I was fifteen and we’d moved from our humble town of Mount Vernon, New York, to the much posher burg of Avon, Connecticut, where all the girls had smooth hair and very white teeth, I made up another boy. Jack, my Boyfriend Back Home. Oh, he was so handsome (as proved by the photo in my wallet, which had been carefully cut from a J.Crew catalogue). Jack’s father owned a really gorgeous restaurant named Le Cirque (hey, I was fifteen). Jack and I were taking things slow…yes, we’d kissed; actually, we’d gotten to second base, but he was so respectful that that was as far as it went. We wanted to wait till we were older. Maybe we’d get preengaged, and because his family loved me so much, they wanted Jack to buy me a ring from Tiffany’s, not a diamond but maybe a sapphire, kind of like Princess Diana’s, but a little smaller.

Sorry to tell you, I broke up with Jack about four months into my sophomore year in order to be available to local boys. My strategy backfired…the local boys were not terribly interested. In my older sister, definitely… Margaret would pick me up once in a while when she was home from college, and boys would fall silent at the mere sight of her sharp, glamorous beauty. Even my younger sister, who was only in seventh grade at the time, already showed signs of becoming a great beauty. But I stayed unattached, wishing I’d never broken up with my fictional boyfriend, missing the warm curl of pleasure it gave me to imagine such a boy liking me.

Then came Jean-Philippe. Jean-Philippe was invented to counter an irritating, incredibly persistent boy in college. A chemistry major who, looking back, probably suffered from Asperger’s syndrome, making him immune to every social nuance I threw his way. Rather than just flat out tell the boy that I didn’t like him (it seemed so cruel) I’d instruct my roommate to scrawl messages and tack them to the door so all could see: “Grace—J-P called again, wants you to spend break in Paris. Call him toute suite.”

I loved Jean-Philippe, loved imagining that some well-dressed Frenchman had a thing for me! That he was prowling the bridges of Paris, staring sullenly into the Seine, yearning for me and sighing morosely as he ate chocolate croissants and drank good wine. Oh, I had a crush on Jean-Philippe for ages, rivaling only my love for Rhett Butler, whom I’d discovered at age thirteen and never let go.

All through my twenties, even now at age thirty, faking a boyfriend was a survival skill. Florence, one of the little old ladies at Golden Meadows Senior Village, recently offered me her nephew during the ballroom dancing class, which I help teach. “Honey, you would just love Bertie!” she chirped as I tried to get her to turn right on her alamaena. “Can I give him your number? He’s a doctor. A podiatrist. So he has one tiny problem. Girls today are too picky. In my day, if you were thirty and unmarried, you were as good as dead. Just because Bertie has bosoms, so what? His mother was buxom, too, oh, she was stacked…”

Out came the imaginary boyfriend. “Oh, he sounds so nice, Flo… but I just started dating someone. Drat.”

It’s not just around other people, I have to admit. I use the emergency boyfriend as…well, let’s say as a coping mechanism, too.

For example, a few weeks ago, I was driving home on a dark and lonely section of Connecticut’s Route 9, thinking about my ex-fiancé and his new lady love, when my tire blew out. As is typical with brushes with death, a thousand thoughts were clear in my mind, even as I wrestled with the steering wheel, trying to keep the car from flipping, even as I distantly realized that voice shrieking “OhGodohGod!” was mine. First, I had nothing to wear to my funeral (easy, easy, don’t want to flip the car). Second, if open casket was an option, I hoped my hair wouldn’t be frizzing in death as it did in life (pull harder, pull harder, you’re losing it). My sisters would be devastated, my parents struck dumb with sorrow, their endless sniping silenced, at least for the day (hit the gas, just a little, it will straighten out the car). And God’s nightgown, wouldn’t Andrew be riddled with guilt! For the rest of his life, he’d always regret dumping me (slow down gradually now, on with the flashers, good, good, we’re still alive).

When the car was safe on the shoulder, I sat, shaking uncontrollably, my heart clattering against my ribs like a loose shutter in a hurricane. “JesusJesusthankyouJesus,” I chanted, fumbling for my cell phone.

Alas, I was out of range for cell service (of course). I waited a few moments, then, resigned, did what I had to do. Got out of the car into the cold March downpour, examined my shredded tire. Opened the trunk, pulled out the jack and the spare tire. Though I’d never done this particular task before, I figured it out as other cars flew past me occasionally, further drenching me with icy spray. I pinched my hand badly enough for a blood blister, broke a nail, ruined my shoes, became filthy from the mud and axle grease.

No one stopped to help. Not one dang person. No one even tapped their brakes, for that matter. Cursing, quite irritable with the cruelty of the world and vaguely proud that I’d changed a tire, I climbed back into the car, teeth chattering, lips blue with cold, drenched and dirty. On the drive back, all I could think of was a bath, a hot toddy, Project Runway and flannel pajamas. Instead, I found disaster waiting for me.

Judging from the evidence, Angus, my West Highland terrier, had chewed through the child safety latch on the newly painted cabinet door, dragged out the garbage can, tipped it over and ate the iffy chicken I’d thrown out that morning. There was no if about it, apparently. The chicken was bad. My poor dog had then regurgitated with such force that the walls of my kitchen were splattered with doggy vomit so high that a streak of yellow-green bile smeared the face of my Fritz the Cat clock. A trail of wet excrement led to the living room, where I found Angus stretched out on the pastel-shaded Oriental rug I’d just had cleaned. My dog belched foully, barked once and wagged his tail with guilty love amid the steaming puddles of barf.

No bath. No Tim Gunn and Project Runway. No hot toddy.

So what does this have to do with another imaginary boyfriend? Well, as I scrubbed the carpet with bleach and water and tried to emotionally prepare Angus for the suppository the vet instructed me to give, I found myself imagining the following instead.

I was driving home when my tire blew out. I stopped, reached for my cell phone, yadda yadda ding dong, blah blah blah. But what was this? A car slowed and pulled in behind me. It was, let’s see, an environmentally gentle hybrid, and ah, it had M.D. plates. A Good Samaritan in the form of a tall, rangy male in his mid-to late-thirties approached my car. He bent down. Hello! There it was…that moment when you look at someone and just…kablammy. You Just Know He’s The One.

In my fantasy, I accepted the kind Samaritan’s offer of help. Ten minutes later, he had secured the spare on the axle, heaved the blown tire in the trunk and handed me his business card. Wyatt Something, M.D., Department of Pediatric Surgery. Ah.

“Call me when you get home, just so I know you made it, okay?” he asked, smiling. Kablammy! He scrawled his home number on the card as I drank in the sight of his appealing dimples and long lashes.

It made cleaning up the puke a lot nicer.

Obviously, I was quite aware that my tire was not changed by the kindly and handsome doctor. I didn’t tell anyone he had. Just a little healthy escapism, right? No, there was no Wyatt (I always liked the name, so authoritative and noble). Unfortunately, a guy like that was just too good to be true. I didn’t go around talking about the pediatric surgeon who changed my tire, of course not. No. This was kept firmly private, just a little coping mechanism, as I said. I hadn’t publicly faked a boyfriend in years.

Until recently, that is.

CHAPTER ONE

“AND SO WITH THIS ONE ACT, Lincoln changed the course of American history. He was one of the most despised figures in politics in his day, yet he preserved the Union and is considered the greatest president our country ever had. And possibly ever will have.”

My face flushed… we’d just begun our unit on the Civil War, and it was my favorite class to teach. Alas, my seniors were in the throes of a Friday afternoon coma. Tommy Michener, my best student on most days, stared longingly at Kerry Blake, who was stretching so as to simultaneously torment Tommy with what he couldn’t have and invite Hunter Graystone IV to take it. At the same time, Emma Kirk, a pretty, kindhearted girl who had the curse of being a day student and was thus excluded from the cool kids, who all boarded, looked at her desk. She had a crush on Tommy and was all too aware of his obsession with Kerry, poor kid. “So who can sum up the opposing viewpoints? Anyone?”

From outside came the sound of laughter. We all looked. Kiki Gomez, an English teacher, was holding class outside, as the day was mild and lovely. Her kids didn’t look dazed and battered. Dang. I should’ve brought my kids outside, too.

“I’ll give you a hint,” I continued, looking at their blank faces. “States’ rights vs. Federal control. Union vs. secession.

Freedom to govern independently vs. freedom for all people. Slaves or no slaves. Ring a bell?”

At that moment, the chimes that marked the end of the period sounded, and my lethargic students sprang into life as they bolted for the door. I tried not to take it personally. My seniors were usually more engaged, but it was Friday. The kids had been hammered with exams earlier in the week, and there was a dance tonight. I understood.

Manning Academy was the type of prep school that litters New England. Stately brick buildings with the requisite ivy, magnolia and dogwood trees, emerald soccer and lacrosse fields, and a promise that for the cost of a small house, we’d get your kids into the colleges of their choice—Princeton, Harvard, Stanford, Georgetown. The school, which was founded in the 1880s, was a little world unto itself. Many of the teachers lived on campus, but those of us who didn’t, myself included, were usually as bad as the kids, eager for the last class to end each Friday afternoon so we could head for home.

Except this Friday. I’d have been more than happy to stay at school this Friday, chaperoning dances or coaching lacrosse. Or heck, cleaning the toilets for that matter. Anything other than my actual plans.

“Hi, Grace!” Kiki said, popping into my classroom.

“Hi, Kiki. Sounded like fun out there.”

“We’re reading Lord of the Flies,” she informed me.

“Of course! No wonder you were laughing. Nothing like a little pig killing to brighten the day.”

She grinned proudly. “So, Grace, did you find a date?”

I grimaced. “No. I didn’t. It won’t be pretty.”

“Oh, shit,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Well, it’s not the end of the world,” I murmured bravely.

“You sure about that?” Like me, Kiki was single. And no one knew better than a single woman in her thirties that hell is going to a wedding stag. In a few hours, my cousin Kitty, who once cut my bangs down to the roots when I was sleeping over at her house, was getting married. For the third time. In a Princess Diana–style dress.

“Look, it’s Eric!” Kiki blurted, pointing to my eastern window. “Oh, thank you, God!”

Eric was the guy who washed Manning Academy’s windows each spring and fall. Though it was only early April, the afternoon was warm and balmy, and Eric was shirtless. He grinned at us, well aware of his beauty, sprayed and squeegeed.

“Ask him!” Kiki suggested as we stared with great appreciation.

“He’s married,” I said, not taking my eyes off him. Ogling Eric was about as intimate as I’d been with a man in some time.

“Happily married?” Kiki asked, not above wrecking a home or two to get a man.

“Yup. Adores his wife.”

“I hate that,” she muttered.

“I know. So unfair.”

The male perfection that was Eric winked at us, blew a kiss and dragged the squeegee back and forth over the window, shoulder muscles bunching beautifully, washboard abs rippling, sunlight glinting on his hair.

“I should really get going,” I said, not moving a muscle. “I have to change and stuff.” The thought made my stomach cramp. “Kiki, you sure you don’t know anyone I can take? Anyone? I really, really don’t want to go alone.”

“I don’t, Grace,” she sighed. “Maybe you should’ve hired someone, like in that Debra Messing movie.”

“It’s a small town. A gigolo would probably stand out. Also, probably not that good for my reputation. ‘Manning Teacher Hires Prostitute. Parents Concerned.’ That kind of thing.”

“What about Julian?” she asked, naming my oldest friend, who often came out with Kiki and me on our girls’ nights.

“Well, my family knows him. He wouldn’t pass.”

“As a boyfriend, or as a straight guy?”

“Both, I guess,” I said.

“Too bad. He’s a great dancer, at least.”

“That he is.” I glanced at the clock, and the trickle of dread that had been spurting intermittently all week turned into a river. It wasn’t just going stag to mean old Kitty’s wedding. I’d be seeing Andrew for only the third time since we broke up, and having a date would’ve definitely helped.

Well. As much as I wished I could just stay home and read Gone With the Wind or watch a movie, I had to go. Besides, I’d been staying in a lot lately. My father, my gay best friend and my dog, though great company, probably shouldn’t be the only men in my life. And there was always the microscopic chance that I’d meet someone at this very wedding.

“Maybe Eric will go,” Kiki said, hustling over to the window and yanking it open. “No one has to know he’s married.”

“Kiki, no,” I protested.

She didn’t listen. “Eric, Grace has to go to a wedding tonight, and her ex-fiancé is going to be there, and she doesn’t have a date. Can you go with her? Pretend to adore her and stuff?”

“Thanks anyway, but, no,” I called, my face prickling with heat.

“Your ex, huh?” Eric said, wiping a pane clear.

“Yeah. May as well slit my wrists now.” I smiled to show I didn’t mean it.

“You sure you can’t go with her?” Kiki asked.

“My wife would probably have a problem with that,” Eric answered. “Sorry, Grace. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It sounds worse than it is.”

“Isn’t she brave?” Kiki asked. Eric agreed that I was and moved on to the next window, Kiki nearly falling out the window to watch him leave. She hauled herself back in and sighed. “So you’re going stag,” she said in the same tone as a doctor might use when saying, I’m sorry, it’s terminal.

“Well, I did try, Kiki,” I reminded her. “Johnny who delivers my pizza is dating Garlic-and-Anchovies, if you can believe it. Brandon at the nursing home said he’d hang himself before being a wedding date. And I just found out that the cute guy at the pharmacy is only seventeen years old, and though he said he’d be happy to go, Betty the pharmacist is his mom and mentioned something about the Mann Act and predators, so I’ll be going to the CVS in Farmington from now on.”

“Oopsy,” Kiki said.

“No big deal. I came up empty. So I’ll just go alone, be noble and brave, scan the room for legs to hump and leave with a waiter. If I’m lucky.” I grinned. Bravely.

Kiki laughed. “Being single sucks,” she announced. “And God, being single at a wedding…” She shuddered.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I answered.

FOUR HOURS LATER, I was in hell.

The all too familiar and slightly nauseating combination of hope and despair churned in my stomach. Honestly, I thought I was doing pretty well these days. Yes, my fiancé had dumped me fifteen months ago, but I wasn’t lying on the floor in fetal position, sucking my thumb. I went to work and taught my classes… very well, in my opinion. I went out socially. Granted, most of my excursions were either dancing with senior citizens or reenacting Civil War battles, but I did get out. And, yes, I would (theoretically) love to find a man—sort of an Atticus-Finch-meets-Tim-Gunn-and-looks-like-George-Clooney type.

So here I was at another wedding—the fourth family wedding since The Dumping, the fourth family wedding where I’d been dateless—gamely trying to radiate happiness so my relatives would stop pitying me and trying to fix me up with odd-looking distant cousins. At the same time, I was trying to perfect The Look—wry amusement, inner contentment and absolute comfort. Sort of a Hello! I am perfectly fine being single at yet another wedding and am not at all desperate for a man, but if you happen to be straight, under forty-five, attractive, financially secure and morally upright, come on down! Once I mastered The Look, I planned on splitting an atom, since they required just about the same level of skill.

But who knew? Maybe today, my eyes would lock on someone, someone who was also single and hopeful without being pathetic—let’s say a pediatric surgeon, just for the sake of argument—and kablammy! We’d just know.

Unfortunately, my hair was making me look, at best, gypsy beautiful and reckless, but more probably like I was channeling Gilda Radner. Must remember to call an exorcist to see if I could have the evil demons cast out of my hair, which had been known to snap combs in half and eat hairbrushes.

Hmm. There was a cute guy. Geeky, skinny, glasses, definitely my type. Then he saw me looking and immediately groped behind him for a hand, which was attached to an arm, which was attached to a woman. He beamed at her, planted a kiss on her lips and shot a nervous look my way. Okay, okay, no need to panic, mister, I thought. Message received.

Indeed, all the men under forty seemed to be spoken for. There were several octogenarians present, one of whom was grinning at me. Hmm. Was eighty too old? Maybe I should go for an older man. Maybe I was wasting my time on men who still had functioning prostates and their original knees. Maybe there was something to be said for a sugar daddy. The old guy raised his bushy white eyebrows, but his pursuit of me being his sweet young thing ended abruptly as his wife elbowed him sharply and shot me a disapproving glare.

“Don’t worry, Grace. It will be your turn soon,” an aunt boomed in her foghorn of a voice.

“You never know, Aunt Mavis,” I answered with a sweet smile. It was the eighth time tonight I’d heard such a sentiment, and I was considering having it tattooed on my forehead. I’m not worried. It will be my turn soon.

“Is it hard, seeing them together?” Mavis barked.

“No. Not at all,” I lied, still smiling. “I’m very glad they’re dating.” Granted, glad may have been a stretch, but still. What else could I say? It was complicated.

“You’re brave,” Mavis pronounced. “You are one brave woman, Grace Emerson.” Then she tromped off in search of someone else to torment.

“Okay, so spill,” my sister Margaret demanded, plopping herself down at my table. “Are you looking for a good sharp instrument so you can hack away at your wrists? Thinking about sucking a little carbon monoxide?”

“Aw, listen to you, you big softy. Your sisterly concern brings tears to my eyes.”

She grinned. “Well? Tell your big sis.”

I took a long pull from my gin and tonic. “I’m getting a little tired of people saying how brave I am, like I’m some marine who jumped on a grenade. Being single isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

“I wish I was single all the time,” Margs answered as her husband approached.

“Hey, Stuart!” I said fondly. “I didn’t see you at school today.” Stuart was the school psychologist at Manning and had in fact alerted me to the history department opening six years ago. He sort of lived the stereotype…oxford shirts covered by argyle vests, tasseled loafers, the required beard. A gentle, quiet man, Stuart had met Margaret in graduate school and been her devoted servant ever since.

“How are you holding up, Grace?” he asked, handing me a fresh version of my signature drink, a gin and tonic with lemon.

“I’m great, Stuart,” I answered.

“Hello, Margaret, hello, Stuart!” called my aunt Reggie from the dance floor. Then she saw me and froze. “Oh, hello, Grace, don’t you look pretty. And chin up, dear. You’ll be dancing at your own wedding one day soon.”

“Gosh, thanks, Aunt Reggie,” I answered, giving my sister a significant look. Reggie gave me a sad smile and drifted away to gossip.

“I still think it’s freakish,” Margs said. “How Andrew and Natalie could ever… Gentle Jesus and His crown of thorns! I just cannot wrap my brain around that one. Where are they, anyway?”

“Grace, how are you? Are you just putting up a good front, honey, or are you really okay?” This from Mom who now approached our table. Dad, pushing his ancient mother in her wheelchair, trailed behind.

“She’s fine, Nancy!” he barked. “Look at her! Doesn’t she seem fine to you? Leave her alone! Don’t talk about it.”

“Shut it, Jim. I know my children, and this one’s hurting. A good parent can tell.” She gave him a meaningful and frosty look.

“Good parent? I’m a great parent,” Dad snipped right back.

“I’m fine, Mom. Dad is right. I’m peachy. Hey, doesn’t Kitty look great?”

“Almost as pretty as at her first wedding,” Margaret said.

“Have you seen Andrew?” Mom asked. “Is it hard, honey?”

“I’m fine,” I repeated. “Really. I’m great.”

Mémé, my ninety-three-year-old grandmother, rattled the ice in her highball glass. “If Grace can’t keep a man, all’s fair in love and war.”

“It’s alive!” Margaret said.

Mémé ignored her, gazing at me with disparaging, rheumy eyes. “I never had trouble finding a man. Men loved me. I was quite a beauty in my day, you know.”

“And you still are,” I said. “Look at you! How do you do it, Mémé? You don’t look a day over a hundred and ten.”

“Please, Grace,” my father muttered wearily. “It’s gas on a fire.”

“Laugh if you want, Grace. At least my fiancé never threw me over.” Mémé knocked back the rest of her Manhattan and held out her glass to Dad, who took it obediently.

“You don’t need a man,” Mom said firmly. “No woman does.” She leveled a significant look at my father.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dad snapped.

“It means what it means,” Mom said, her voice loaded.

Dad rolled his eyes. “Stuart, let’s get another round, son. Grace, I stopped by your house today and 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.

12 İz.

Too Good to Be True

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

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