HIS IS, LIKE, SO LAME.” Kerry’s expression combined disgust, incredulity and martyrdom the way only a teenager’s could.

“I thought we got to ride horses,” Mallory whined. “You said we were in the cavalry. That guy has a horse. Why can’t I have a horse?”

“Picture us dismounted,” I said tightly. Suffice it to say, my mood over the past forty-eight hours had been poor at best.

My righteous indignation had faded about ten minutes after Callahan had closed the door with such finality, leaving hot shards of shock flashing across an echoing emptiness. Callahan O’ Shea, who thought I was beautiful and funny, who smelled of wood and sun, didn’t want anything more to do with me.

Last night, despite Julian and Margaret’s best efforts to distract me with a Project Runway Season 1 DVD marathon and mango martinis, I’d sat in a daze of self-disgust, not eating, not drinking, tears leaking out of my eyes as Tim Gunn urged on the troops in the background. Well into the wee hours of this very morning, hard little sobs hiccupped out of me like pebbles until I finally fell asleep around 6:00 a.m. Then, realizing I’d ordered my Civil War class to attend the Gettysburg reenactment, I jolted out of bed, drank three cups of coffee and now stood before them, a sickly caffeine buzz in my head, an ache in my chest.

“Children, the Battle of Gettysburg lasted for three days,” I said, dressed in my Yankee blues. “When it was over, fifty-one-thousand men would be dead. The Confederates’ line of wounded stretched fourteen miles. Ten thousand injured. One in three men killed. The bloodiest battle in American history. The beginning of the end for the South.”

I looked into the eleven dubious faces before me. “Look, kids,” I said wearily. “I know you think this is lame. I know we’re in Connecticut, not Pennsylvania. I know that having a couple hundred oddball history geeks like me running around, firing blanks, isn’t the real thing.”

“So why’d you make us come?” Hunter asked, earning an admiring “Like, exactly!” from Kerry.

I paused. “I want you to try…just try, just for the next couple hours, to put yourselves as best you can in the minds of those soldiers. Imagine believing in something so passionately that you’d risk your life for it. For an idea. For a way of life. For the future of your country, a future you knew you might never see. You’re here, you lucky, nice, well-fed rich kids, because you stand on the shoulders of this country’s history. I just want you to feel that, just a little bit.”

Kaelen and Peyton rolled their eyes in unison. Hunter discreetly checked his cell phone. Kerry Blake examined her manicure.

But Tommy Michener stared at me, his mouth slightly open, and Emma Kirk’s eyes were solemn and wide.

“Let’s go, kids,” I said. “Remember, you’re part of First Cavalry now. General Buford is over there. Do what he says, and just…well. Whatever.”

With a few groans and giggles, the kids straggled after me. I got them in line with the other Brother Against Brother members. General Buford (better known as Glen Farkas, an accountant from Litchfield), rode his horse up and down the line. The kids sobered at the sight of the snorting bay mare, the sword flapping at the general’s side. Glen was really good at this.

“When does it start?” Tommy whispered.

“As soon as General Heth attacks,” I whispered back.

“My heart’s kind of pounding,” Tommy said, grinning at me. I patted his arm, smiling back.

And here they came. The Rebel yells pierced the air, and over the hill streamed dozens of Confederates.

“Onward, men!” called General Buford, wheeling his horse. And with a mighty yell, First Cavalry followed, Tommy Michener at the front of the pack, his empty musket held high, yelling at the top of his lungs.

Five hours later, I was driving the Manning minibus back to school, grinning like an idiot.

“That was so cool, Ms. Em!”

“Did you see me nail that guy with my bayonet?”

“I was actually, like, scared!”

“I thought that horse was gonna trample me!”

“Tommy and I took over that cannon! Did you see that?”

“And when those other dudes came up behind us, when we were, like, losing it?”

Kerry Blake kept up her ennui, but the rest of them were chattering like wild monkeys. And I was soaring. Finally. Finally, the subject we’d been studying all semester had had a tiny impact on their polished, protected worlds.

Once at Manning, they piled out of the car. “I’ll e-mail you a copy of that picture, Ms. Em,” called Mallory. Even though modern inventions were frowned upon at reenactments, we’d bent the rules and taken a picture in front of a cannon. My kids and me. I’d have it blown up, frame it and put it in my office, and if I was head of the department, I’d…

Well. Chances were, I wasn’t going to be head of the department. The announcement still hadn’t been made, but telling Dr. Stanton about Callahan O’ Shea had pretty much killed my chances. I wondered if I should tell him I wasn’t seeing my ex-con anymore. But no. If I wasn’t going to get the promotion because of some guy I was or wasn’t seeing, I guess I didn’t really want it.

Maybe Callahan had cooled off, I thought as I drove home. Maybe he’d see my point. Maybe he’d been missing me, too. Maybe my lie didn’t seem so bad, now that some time had passed. Maybe—

As I turned onto my street, I saw a real estate sign up in front of Cal’s house. My heart stuttered. Yes, I’d known Cal was planning to sell the house. I just hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

The front door opened, and a woman emerged…the blonde from the bar. His real estate friend. Callahan followed right behind.

Margaret’s car was not in the driveway, which meant no backup for me. She had a big case pending, so chances were she was at her office. I was on my own. I opened the car door and got out.

“Hey, Cal,” I called. My voice was fairly steady.

He looked up. “Hi,” he said, closing his front door behind him. He and the woman came down the walk where I’d once smacked Callahan O’ Shea with a rake.

“Hi, I’m Becky Mango, as in the fruit,” she chirped, sticking out her hand.

“Hi,” I said. “Grace Emerson, as in Ralph Waldo.” Well, didn’t I sound nice and snooty. “I live next door,” I added, glancing at Callahan. He was looking at the new landscaping, which had gone in this past week. Not at me.

“Beautiful house!” Becky exclaimed, gazing at my place. “If you ever want to sell it, give me a call!” She stuck her hand in her bag and pulled out a card. Becky Mango, Mango Properties Ltd. Licensed Realtor. The logo matched the one on the For Sale sign.

“Thanks. I will,” I said, then turned to the brooding male next to her. “Cal, do you have a minute?”

He looked at me, those blue eyes that had once smiled so wickedly now so guarded. “Sure,” he said.

“Callahan, I’ll see you next week?” Becky asked. “I think I might have a property you’d be interested in down in Glastonbury. Real fixer-upper, going on the market next month.”

“Okay. I’ll call you.” We both watched as she got in her car and drove off.

“So you’re…you’re done here?” I asked, though the answer was rather obvious.

“Yup.” He slung his bag into the bed of his pickup truck.

“Where to now?” My eyes stung, and I blinked hard.

“I’m working on a place up in Granby,” he said. “I’ll be in the area until my grandfather…as long as he’s around.” He took his keys out of his pocket, not looking at me. “But I don’t think he’s long for the world.”

My throat tightened. Cal’s last relative, except for the estranged brother. “I’m sorry, Cal,” I whispered.

“Thank you. Thank you for visiting him, too.” His dark blue eyes flickered to mine, then dropped to the driveway once more.

“Callahan,” I said, putting my hand on his warm, solid arm. “Can we just…can we talk?”

“What about, Grace?”

I swallowed. “About our fight. About…you know. You and me.”

He leaned against the truck and folded his arms. Body language not promising, folks. “Grace, I think you’re…I think you have things you need to work out.” He started to say something else, then stopped, shaking his head. “Look,” he continued. “You’ve been lying to me since the day we met. I have a problem with that. I don’t know if you’re over Andrew, frankly, and I don’t want to be your rebound fling. I was looking for…well, you know what I was looking for.” He looked at me steadily, his expression was neutral.

A wife, a couple of kids, a lawn to mow on weekends. “Cal, I…” I stopped and bit my thumbnail. “Okay. You have a thing about honesty, so I’ll be honest now. You’re partly right. I made up the boyfriend because I wasn’t completely over Andrew. And I didn’t want anyone to know because it made me feel so…small. So stupid, carrying a torch for the guy who dumped me for my sister. Even pretending that I had a great boyfriend was better than people knowing that. Having people think some wonderful guy out there adored me…it was a nice change.”

He gave a half nod, but didn’t say anything.

“When Andrew fell for Natalie…” I paused, then went on. “I loved him, he didn’t love me quite so much, then he took one look at Nat, who’s basically perfect in every way and my baby sister, too, and he fell in love with her. That’s hard to get over.”

“I’m sure it is,” he said, not unkindly.

“But what I’m trying to say is that I am over Andrew, Callahan. I know I should’ve told you the truth about Wyatt, but—” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and forced myself to continue. “I didn’t want you to see me as someone who got traded in.”

He sighed. Looked at the ground and shook his head a little. “I was thinking about that time I walked you home from Blackie’s,” he said. “You were on a date, weren’t you?” I nodded. “I bet you were pretty…desperate.”

“Yup,” I admitted in a whisper.

“So I was just about your last shot, wasn’t I, Grace? Your sister’s wedding was coming fast, and you hadn’t found anyone. The ex-con next door was the best you could do.”

I flinched. “No, Cal. That’s not how it was.”

“Maybe,” he said. He didn’t say anything more for a minute, and when he did, his voice was gentle. “Look, if you are over Andrew, I’m glad for you, Grace. But I’m sorry.”

Well, dang it. I was going to cry. Tears burned my eyes, and my throat hurt like I was being strangled. He noticed. “To be really blunt here,” he said very quietly, “I don’t want to be with someone who lies to make herself look better. Someone who can’t tell the truth.”

“I did tell the truth! I told you everything,” I squeaked.

“What about your family, Grace? You planning on coming clean with your folks? With Andrew and your sister?”

I cringed at the thought. Like Scarlett O’ Hara, I’d been planning on thinking about that tomorrow. Or the next day. Possibly never. It’s fair to say that I was hoping the Wyatt Dunn fantasy would just fade into the past.

Callahan glanced at his watch. “I have to go.”

“Cal,” I said, my voice breaking, “I really would like you to forgive me and give me another chance.”

He looked at me a long moment. “Take care of yourself, Grace. I hope you work things out.”

“Okay,” I whispered, looking down so he wouldn’t see my face crumple. “You take care, too.”

Then he got in his truck and drove away.

BACK IN THE HOUSE, I sat at my kitchen table, tears dripping off my chin, where Angus cheerfully licked them off. Great. Just great. I blew it. How I ever thought my Wyatt-Dunn idea was a good one was completely beyond me. I should never have…If only I’d…Next time I’d just…

Next time. Right. It occurred to me in a dizzyingly painful flash that guys like Callahan O’ Shea didn’t grow on trees. That God had thrown a man down right next door, and I’d spent weeks in judgment. That just like my best friend Scarlett O’ Hara, I hadn’t seen what was right in front of my face. That any guy who’d drive an hour and a half so I could see Gone With the Wind was worth ten—a hundred—of the type of guy who’d string me along until twenty days before our wedding. It’s about time, Callahan had said the first time I’d kissed him. He’d been waiting for me.

The thought caused a hard sob to ratchet out of me. Angus whined, nuzzling his little face against my neck. “I’m okay,” I told him unconvincingly. “I’ll be fine.”

I blew my nose, wiped my eyes and stared at my kitchen. It was so pretty here. Actually, now that I looked at it, it was rather…well, perfect. Everything had been chosen with an eye toward getting over Andrew—colors that would soothe my heartache, furniture that Andrew would never like. The whole house was a shrine to Getting Over Andrew.

And yet it wasn’t Andrew I kept seeing here. Nope. I saw Callahan sitting in my kitchen, teasing me about my pajamas…Callahan holding my mother’s sculptures in his big hands…Cal shaking Angus off his foot, or sinking onto his knees because I hit him with the field hockey stick or cooking me an omelet and telling me everything about his past.

Before long, someone was going to buy the house next door. A family, maybe, or an older couple, or a single woman. Or even a single man.

I knew one thing. I didn’t want to see it. Almost without realizing it, I fished out the business card in my pocket and grabbed the phone. When Becky Mango answered, I simply said, “Hi, this is Grace Emerson and we just met. I’d like to sell my house.”