HE CANNON ROARED IN MY EARS, the smell of smoke sharp and invigorating. I watched as six Union soldiers fell. Behind the first line, the Bluebellies reloaded.

“This is so queer,” Margaret muttered, handing me the powder so I could reload my cannon.

“Oh, shut up,” I said fondly. “We’re honoring history. And quit complaining. You’ll be dead soon enough. A pox upon you, Mr. Lincoln!” I called, adding a silent apology to gentle Abe, the greatest president our nation ever saw. Surely he would forgive me, seeing as I had a miniature of the Lincoln Memorial in my bedroom and could (and often did) recite the Gettysburg Address by heart.

But Brother Against Brother took its battles very seriously. We had about two hundred volunteers, and each encounter was planned to be as historically accurate as possible. The Yankee soldiers fired, and Margaret dropped to the ground with a roll of her sea-green eyes. I took one in the shoulder, screamed and collapsed next to her. “It will take me hours to finally kick the bucket,” I told my sister. “Blood poisoning from the lead. No treatment options, really. Even if I was taken to a field hospital, I’d probably die. So either way, long and painful.”

“I repeat. This is so queer,” Margaret said, flipping open her cell phone to check messages.

“No farbies!” I barked.

“What?”

“The phone! You can’t have anything modern at a reenactment. And if this is so queer, why did you come?” I asked.

“Dad kept harassing Junie—” Margaret’s long-suffering legal secretary “—until she finally begged me to say yes just to get him to stop calling and dropping by. Besides, I wanted to get out of the house.”

“Well, you’re here, so quit whining.” I reached for her hand, imagining a Rebel soldier seeking comfort from his fallen brother. “We’re outside, it’s a beautiful day, we’re lying around in the sweet-smelling clover.” Margaret didn’t answer. I glanced over. She was studying her cell phone, scowling, which wasn’t an unusual expression for her, but her lips trembled in a suspicious manner. Like she was about to cry. I sat up abruptly. “Margs? Is everything okay?”

“Oh, things are peachy,” she answered.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” my father asked, striding toward us.

“Sorry, Dad. I mean, sorry, General Jackson,” I said, flopping obediently back in the grass.

“Margaret, please. Put that away. A lot of people have worked very hard to make this authentic.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Bull Run in Connecticut. So authentic.”

Dad grunted in disgust. A fellow officer rushed to his side. “What shall we do, sir?” he asked.

“Sir, we will give them the bayonet!” Dad barked. A little thrill shuddered through me at the historic words. What a war! The two officers conferred, then walked away to engage the gunmen on the hillside.

“I might need a break from Stuart,” Margaret said.

I sat bolt upright once again, tripping a fellow Confederate who was relocating my cannon. “Sorry,” I said to him. “Go get ’em.” He and another guy hefted the cannon and wheeled it off amid sporadic gunfire and the cries of the commanding officers. “Margaret, are you serious?”

“I need some distance,” she answered.

“What happened?”

She sighed. “Nothing. That’s the problem. We’ve been married for seven years, right? And nothing’s different. We do the same things day after day. Come home. Stare at each other over dinner. Lately, when he’s talking about work or something on the news, I look at him and just think, ‘Is this it?’”

An early butterfly landed on the brass button of my uniform, flexed its wings and fluttered off. A Confederate officer rushed by. “Are you girls dead?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, we are. Sorry.” I lay back down, pulling Margaret’s hand until she joined me. “Is there anything else, Margs?” I asked.

“No.” Her eyes flickered away from me, belying her words. But Margaret was not one to offer something before she was ready. “It’s just…I just wonder if he really loves me. If I really love him. If this is what marriage is or if we just picked the wrong person.”

We lay in the grass, saying nothing more. My throat felt tight. I loved Stuart, a quiet, gentle man. I had to admit, I didn’t know him terribly well. I saw him sporadically at work, usually from afar. The Manning students loved him, that was for sure. But family dinners tended to revolve around Mom and Dad bickering or Mémé’s soliloquies on what was wrong with the world today, and usually Stuart didn’t get a word in edgewise. But what I did know was that he was kind, smart and very considerate toward my sister. One might even say, if pressed, that he adored her a little too much, deferring to her on just about everything.

The sound of fleeing Union soldiers and the cries of triumphant Rebel soldiers filled the air.

“Can we go now?” Margaret asked.

“No. Dad’s just now assembling the thirteen guns. Wait for it…wait for it…” I raised myself up on my elbows so I could see, grinning in anticipation.

“There stands Jackson, a veritable stone wall!” came the cry of Rick Jones, who was playing Colonel Bee.

“Huzzah! Huzzah!” Though supposedly dead, I couldn’t help joining in the cry. Margaret shook her head, but she was grinning.

“Grace, you really need to get a life,” she said, standing up.

“So what does Stuart think?” I asked, taking her proffered hand.

“He says to do whatever I need to sort things out in my head.” Margaret shook her head, whether in admiration or disgust. Knowing Margaret, it was probably disgust. “So, Grace, listen. Do you think I could stay with you for a week or two? Maybe a little longer?”

“Sure,” I said. “As long as you need.”

“Oh, and hey, listen to this. I’m fixing you up with this guy. Lester. I met him at Mom’s show last week. He’s a metalsmith or some such shit.”

“A metalsmith? Named Lester?” I asked. “Oh, Margaret, come on.” Then I paused. Surely he couldn’t be worse than my veteran friend. “Is he cute?”

“Well, I don’t know. Not cute, exactly, but attractive in his own way.”

“Lester the metalsmith, attractive in his own way. That does not sound promising.”

“So? Beggars can’t be choosy. And you said you wanted to meet someone, so you’re meeting someone. Okay? Okay. I’ll tell him to call.”

“Fine,” I muttered. “Hey, Margs, did you run down that name I gave you?”

“What name?”

“The ex-con? Callahan O’ Shea, who lives next door to me? He embezzled over a million dollars.”

“No, I didn’t get around to it. Sorry. I’ll try to this week. Embezzlement. That’s not so bad, is it?”

“Well, it’s not good, Margs. And it was over a million dollars.”

“Still better than rape and murder,” Margs said cheerfully. “Look, there’s donuts. Thank God, I’m starving.”

And with that, we tramped off the field where the rest of the troops already stood, drinking Starbucks and eating Krispy Kreme donuts. Granted, it wasn’t historically accurate, but it sure beat mule meat and hoecake.

HAT NIGHT, I SPENT AN HOUR taming my thorny locks and donning a new outfit. I had two back-to-back dates via eCommitment…well, not dates exactly, but meetings to see if there was a reason to try a date. The first was with Jeff, who sounded very promising indeed. He owned his own business in the entertainment industry, and his picture was very pleasing. Like me, he enjoyed hiking, gardening and historical movies. Alas, his favorite was 300, so what did that say? But I decided to overlook it for the moment. Just what his business was, I wasn’t sure. Entertainment industry…hmm. Maybe he was an agent or something. Or owned a record label or a club. It sounded kind of glamorous, really.

Jeff and I were meeting for a drink in Farmington, and then I was moving onto appetizers with Leon. Leon was a science teacher, so I already knew we’d have lots to talk about…in fact, our three e-mails thus far had been about teaching, the joys and the potholes, and I was looking forward to hearing more about his personal life.

I drove to the appointed place, one of those chain places near a mall that have a lot of faux Tiffany and sports memorabilia. I recognized Jeff from his picture—he was short and kind of cute, brown hair, brown eyes, an appealing dimple in his left cheek. We gave each other that awkward lean-in hug where we weren’t sure how far to go and ended up touching cheeks like society matrons. But Jeff acknowledged the awkwardness with a little smile, which made me like him. We followed the maitre d’ to a little table, ordered a glass of wine and started in on the small talk, and it was then that things started to go south.

“So, Jeff, I’ve been wondering about your job. What exactly do you do?” I asked, sipping my wine.

“I own my own business,” he said.

“Right. What kind?” I asked.

“Entertainment.” He smiled furtively and straightened the salt and pepper shakers.

I paused. “Ah. And how exactly do you entertain?”

He grinned. “Like this!” he said, leaning back. Then, with a flourish and a sudden, sharp flick of his hands, he set the table on fire.

Later, after the firefighters had put out the flames and deemed it safe to return to the restaurant, a large portion of which was covered in the foamy fire retardant that had doused the “entertainment,” Jeff turned beseechingly to me. “Doesn’t anyone love magic anymore?” he asked, looking at me, as confused as a kicked puppy.

“You have the right to remain silent,” a police officer duly recited.

“I didn’t mean the fire to be so big,” Jeff informed the cop, who didn’t seem to care much.

“So you’re a magician?” I asked, fiddling with the burnt end of a lock of my hair, which had been slightly singed.

“It’s my dream,” he said as the officer cuffed him. “Magic is my life.”

“Ah,” I said. “Best of luck with that.”

Was it me, or did a lot of men leave in handcuffs when I was around? First Callahan O’ Shea, now Jeff. I had to hand it to Callahan—he looked a lot better in restraints than poor Jeff, who resembled a crated ferret. Yes, when it came to handcuffs, Callahan O’ Shea was—I stopped that train of thought. I had another date. Leon the teacher was next in line, so on I went, glad that the firefighters of Farmington were so efficient that I wasn’t even late.

Leon was much more promising. Balding in that attractive Ed Harris way, wonderful sparkling blue eyes and a boyish laugh, he seemed delighted in me, which of course I found very appealing. We talked for a half hour or so, filling each other in on our teaching jobs, bemoaning helicopter parents and extolling the bright minds of children.

“So, Grace, let me ask you something,” he said, pushing our potato skins aside to touch my hand, making me glad I’d splurged on a manicure/pedicure this week. His face grew serious. “What would you say is the most important thing in your life?”

“My family,” I answered. “We’re very close. I have two sisters, one older, one—”

“I see. What else, Grace? What would come next?”

“Um, well…my students, I guess. I really love them, and I want so much for them to be excited about history. They—”

“Uh-huh. Anything else, Grace?”

“Well,” I said, a bit miffed at being cut off twice now, “sure. I mean, I volunteer with a senior citizen group, we do ballroom dancing with my friend Julian, who’s a dance teacher. Sometimes I read to some of them, the ones who can’t read for themselves.”

“Are you religious?” Leon asked.

I paused. I was definitely one of those who’d classify herself as spiritual rather than religious. “Sort of. Yes, I mean. I go to church, oh, maybe once a month or so, and I—”

“I’m wondering what your feelings are on God.”

I blinked. “God?” Leon nodded. “Um, well God is…well, He’s great.” I imagined God rolling His eyes at me. Come on, Grace. I said, “Let there be light,” and bada-bing! There was light! Can’t you do better than “He’s great,” for God’s sake? Get it? For God’s sake? (I always imagined God had a great sense of humor. He’d have to, right?)

Leon’s bright (fanatical?) blue eyes narrowed. “Yes, He is great. Are you a Christian? Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”

“Well…sure.” Granted, I couldn’t ever remember anyone in my family (Mayflower descendants, remember?) ever using the term personal savior…We were Congregationalists, and things tended to stay a little more philosophical. “Jesus is also so…good.” And now I had Jesus, raising His head as He hung on the Cross. Wow. Thanks, Grace. This is what I get for dying up here?

“Jesus is my wingman,” Leon said proudly. “Grace, I’d like to take you to my church so you can experience the true meaning of holiness.”

Check, please! “Actually, Leon, I have a church,” I said. “It’s very nice. I can’t say I’m interested in going anywhere else.”

The fanatical blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t get the impression you’ve truly embraced God, Grace.” He frowned.

Okay. Enough was enough. “Well, Leon, let’s be honest. You’ve known me forty-two minutes. How the hell would you know?”

At the H-E-double hockey sticks word, Leon reared back. “Blasphemer!” he hissed. “I’m sorry, Grace! We do not have a future together! You’re going straight to you-know-where.” He stood up abruptly.

“Judge not,” I reminded him. “Nice meeting you, and good luck with finding someone,” I said. I was pretty sure God would be proud. Not just a quote from the Good Book, but turning the other cheek and everything.

Safely in my car, I saw with dismay that it was only eight o’clock. Only eight, and already I’d been in a fire and condemned to hell…and still no boyfriend. I sighed.

Well. I knew a good cure for loneliness, and its name was Golden Meadows. Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in Room 403.

“Her white satin chemise slid to the floor in a seductive whisper.” I paused, glanced at my one-person audience, then continued. “His eyes grew cobalt with desire, his loins burning at the sight of her creamy décolletage. ‘I am yours, my lord,’ she said, her lips ripe with sultry promise. Reaching for her breast, his mind raced… Okay, that’s a dangling participle if I ever heard one. His mind did not, I assure you, reach for her breast.”

Another glance at Mr. Lawrence revealed the same level of attention as before—that is to say, none. Mr. Lawrence was nonverbal, a tiny, shrunken man with white hair and vacant eyes, hands that constantly plucked at his clothes and the arms of his easy chair. In all the months I’d been reading to him, I had never heard him speak. Hopefully, he was enjoying our sessions on some level and not mentally screaming for James Joyce. “Well. Back to our story. His mind raced. Dare he take the promise of forbidden passion and sheath his rock-hard desire in the heaven of her soft and hidden treasure?”

“I think he should go for it.”

I jumped, dropping my tawdry paperback. Callahan O’ Shea stood in the doorway, shrinking the size of the room. “Irish! What are you doing here?” I asked.

“What are you doing here, is a better question.”

“I’m reading to Mr. Lawrence. He likes it.” Hopefully Mr. Lawrence wouldn’t lurch out of his two-year silence and deny that fact. “He’s part of my reading program.”

“Is that right? He’s also my grandfather,” Callahan said, crossing his arms.

My head jerked back in surprise. “This is your grandfather?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well, I read to…to patients sometimes.”

“To everyone?”

“No,” I answered. “Just the patients who don’t get—” My voice broke off midsentence.

“Who don’t get visitors,” Callahan finished.

“Right,” I acknowledged.

I had started my little reading program about four years ago when Mémé first moved here. Having visitors was a huge status symbol at Golden Meadows, and one day I’d wandered into this unit—the secure unit—and found that too many folks were alone, their families too far to visit often or just unable to stand the sadness of this wing. So I started reading. Granted, My Lord’s Wanton Desire wasn’t a classic—not in literary terms, anyway—but it did seem to keep the attention of my listeners. Mrs. Kim in Room 39 had actually wept when Lord Barton popped the question to Clarissia.

Callahan pushed off from the doorway and came into the room. “Hi, Pop,” he said, kissing the old man’s head. His grandfather didn’t acknowledge him. My eyes stung a little as Cal looked at the frail old man, who, as always, was neatly dressed in trousers and a cardigan.

“Well, I’ll leave you two alone,” I said, getting up.

“Grace.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for visiting him.” He hesitated, then looked up at me and smiled, and my heart swelled. “He liked biographies, back in the day.”

“Okay,” I said. “Personally, I think the duke and the prostitute are a little more invigorating, but if you say so.” I paused. “Were you guys close?” I found myself asking.

“Yes,” he answered. Callahan’s expression was unreadable, his eyes on his grandfather’s face as the old man plucked at his sweater. Callahan put his hand over the old man’s, stilling the nervous, constant movement. “He raised us. My brother and me.”

I hesitated, wanting to be polite, but curiosity got the better of me. “What happened to your parents?” I asked.

“My mother died when I was eight,” he said. “I never met my father.”

“I’m sorry.” He nodded once in acknowledgment. “What about your brother? Does he live around here?”

Cal’s face hardened. “I think he’s out West. He’s…estranged. There’s just me.” He paused, his face softening as he looked at his grandfather.

I swallowed. Suddenly, my family seemed pretty damn wonderful, despite Mom and Dad’s constant bickering, Mémé’s stream of criticism. The aunts and uncles, mean old Cousin Kitty…and my sisters, of course, that primal, ferocious love I felt for both my sisters. I couldn’t imagine being estranged from either of them, ever.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, almost in a whisper.

Cal looked up, then gave a rueful laugh. “Well. I had a normal enough childhood. Played baseball. Went camping. Fly-fishing. The usual boy stuff.”

“That’s good,” I said. My cheeks burned. The sound of Callahan’s laugh reverberated in my chest. No denying it. I found Mr. O’ Shea way too attractive.

“So how often do you come here?” Callahan asked.

“Oh, usually once or twice a week. I teach Dancin’ with the Oldies with my friend Julian. Every Monday, seven-thirty to nine.” I smiled. Maybe he’d drop by. See how cute I looked in my swirly skirts, swishing away, delighting the residents. Maybe—

“Dance class, huh?” he said. “You don’t look the type.”

“And what does that mean?” I asked.

“You’re not built like a dancer,” he commented.

“You should probably stop talking now,” I advised.

“Got a little more meat on your bones than those girls you see on TV.”

“You should definitely stop talking now.” I glared. He grinned.

“And aren’t dancers graceful?” he continued. “Not prone to hitting people with rakes and the like?”

“Maybe there’s just something about you that invites a hockey stick,” I suggested tartly. “I’ve never hit Wyatt, after all.”

“Yet,” Callahan responded. “Where is the perfect man, anyway? Still haven’t seen him around the neighborhood.” His eyes were mocking, as if he knew damn well why. Because no cat-loving, good-looking pediatric surgeon would go for a wild-haired history teacher who enjoyed pretending to bleed to death on the weekends. My pride answered before my brain had a chance.

“Wyatt’s in Boston this week, presenting a paper on a new recovery protocol in patients under ten,” I said. Good Lord. Where had I pulled that from? All those Discovery Health shows were starting to pay off, apparently.

“Oh.” He looked suitably impressed…or so it seemed to me. “Well. Any reason for you to hang around, then?”

I was dismissed. “No. None. So. Bye, Mr. Lawrence. I’ll finish reading the book when your charming grandson isn’t around.”

“Good night, Grace,” Callahan said, but I didn’t answer, choosing instead to walk briskly (and gracefully, damn it) out of the room.

My mood was thorny as I drove home. While Callahan O’ Shea was completely right to doubt the existence of Wyatt Dunn, it bugged me. Surely, were such a man to exist, he could like me. It shouldn’t seem so impossible, right? Maybe, just maybe, somewhere out there was a real pediatric surgeon with dimples and a great smile. Not just magicians with tendencies toward arson and religious nut jobs and too-knowing ex-cons.

At least Angus worshipped me. God must’ve had single women in mind when he invented dogs. I accepted his gift of a ruined roll of paper towels and a chewed-up sneaker, praised him for not destroying anything else and got ready for bed.

I imagined telling Wyatt Dunn about my day. How he’d laugh at the bad dates—well, of course, there would be no bad dates if he were a real person—but still. He’d laugh and we’d talk and make plans for the weekend. We’d have a gentle, sweet, thoughtful relationship. We’d hardly ever fight. He’d think I was the loveliest creature to walk the earth. He’d even adore my hair. He’d send me flowers, just to let me know he was thinking of me.

And even though I knew quite well he wasn’t real, I felt better. The old imaginary boyfriend was doing what he did best. I knew I was a good, smart, valuable person. If the dating pool of Connecticut failed to provide a worthy choice, well, what was the harm in a little visualization? Didn’t Olympic athletes do that? Picture a perfect dive or dismount in order to achieve it? Wyatt Dunn was the same idea.

The fact that Callahan O’ Shea’s face kept coming to mind was purely coincidental, I was sure.