Charming Grace (52 page)

“Grace! We need to talk!”

Stone’s booming voice was loud enough for me to hear, too.

Grace frowned. “Stone, where are you calling from—a tree right outside this tent?”

“I’m at the Downs! About to have breakfast with Papa and your grandmama! You and Boone quit playin’ house up there and come see me! You and me need to talk!”

“About what?”

“Getting started on our movie, again!”

Mon Dieu.
“Boone and I will meet you at the Downs in an hour. Bye.” She laid the phone aside and stared blankly into space.

I slid upward and studied her. “Just tell him no.”

She sighed. “I should have loaded the shotgun.”

I sat across the table from Stone in G. Helen’s beautiful sun room. Stone said he needed to talk to me alone. “
Mano-a-mano
,” he said. “Or
mano-a-womano
. Whatever.”

“If you think I’ve changed my mind about your movie, you’re wrong.”

Stone sighed. “Look, Grace, I know I’m a joke and a jerk to you. And yeah, I admit I kinda got carried away with the script for
Hero
. I love to entertain people. Pull out all the stops. Make ‘em laugh, make ‘em cry, make ‘em gasp. And all right, let’s be honest,
mano-a-womano
: I’m scared that someday I
won’t
entertain people. That the magic of what I do will just,
Poof!
—go away. I can’t tell you how I catch lightning in a bottle, Grace. I only know that I
do
catch it, at least in the big dumb movies I know how to make best. When I went into this
Hero
project I thought to myself, ‘If Harp Vance had the guts to die on that rooftop then I should at least have the guts to tell his story right.’ I really meant to do it with dignity. I really did. But then . . . well, the old nervous me took over. The nervous me who loves being loved by people who pay six bucks to see me blow stuff up.”

“Stone, I don’t blame you for—”

“You can blame me. It’s all right.”

For the first time, I saw Stone look serious and pensive. He spread his big hands on the table in supplication. “Grace, I’m 45 years old. These young stars coming up in my kind of films, these young guys I’m competing with, they’re wearing earrings and tattoos. Kanda would
kill
me if I got an earring or tattoo. The NRA would cancel my membership. The organization of police chiefs would take back my honorary badge. I can’t do it.

“And the films coming along now, they’re all slow motion, goofy martial arts, flying through the air. Hell, I can’t tell if the guys are fighting or planning a ballet. It’s like freakin’ Swan Lake without gravity. You know Clint Eastwood gave me my big break? I was just a wrestler trying to get bit parts in movies, and he told his director to work me into
Dirty Harry
. I was just in it for five minutes—just another thug he killed, but I got a couple of good lines, and people noticed me. Clint—now
there
was a movie hero.
There
was some dignity. Some class. When he killed somebody, he did it
right
.”

“Look, Stone, this isn’t about—”

“Grace, I know I’m getting too old for this action stuff. And I’m tired of being a cartoon character. You know what Roger Ebert said about me in a review? That I was a combination of G. I. Joe and Buzz Lightyear. Only they were more lifelike. Look, Grace, maybe my career is a joke, but I entertain people, and I give ‘em something to root for.

“But your husband, he was the real deal. People
need
to see his story. And you. You’re a real hero, too, Grace. Real inspiration. That’s what I want to celebrate. No slow-mo ballet fights. No gimmicks. Something to remember Harp Vance by. Something to remember you by. And something, yeah, to remember
me
by. Grant a middle-aged man with no tattoos a little glory, will ya?”

After a stunned moment, I said quietly, “What are you suggesting?”

“We do it right, Grace. You and me. We write a new script, and we start over, and we get Abbie and Lowe back—you liked ‘em, I could tell—and so we’ll make this movie the way you want it made. I promise.” He made a cross over his heart. “My Dirty Harry word of honor.”

“No air kung fu. No boa constrictors. No white Stone Senterra playing black Grunt Gianelli. And no Siam Patton?”

“No, no, no and no Siam Patton. But . . . couldn’t Diamond have
some
kind of itsy bitsy part?”

“Well, there was a crack-addicted, trailer-park hooker who gave Harp some information on the Turn-Key up in Asheville—”

“Agggh.”

“On the other hand, Marvin Constraint had a girlfriend who was an artist. When Marvin was helping Harp track the Turn-Key, his girlfriend went along and sketched pictures of the Turn-Key from descriptions people gave her. We could write small parts for Marvin and his girlfriend into the movie.” I paused. A little voice whispered inside my head.
Are you crazy? What are you doing?
“Maybe Armand could play Marvin. Only with a full set of teeth.”

“I’m liking this! Grace, you’re a natural born scriptwriter!”

“No, I just have a deep appreciation for the truly weird.”

“Let’s do this movie, Grace. Let’s start over and make a
good
movie about Harp.”

A good movie. About Harp. I looked at Stone as if I’d never seen him before. “I think I’m beginning to like you.”

“What’s not to like? If I were a character in a movie, I’d say I’ve
grown
. I deserve a happy ending. And so do you. And most of all, so does Harp.”

“Then it’s a deal. We’ll start over, with a new script. One that I get to control.”

“Deal.”

I held out my hand. He grabbed it. We shook. Stone intoned solemnly, “I promise I won’t be tied down by entertaining people. I promise. We won’t try to entertain people at all. We’ll just make a good movie.”

I didn’t bother to debate the fine points of Senterra logic. I just nodded and smiled. “Whatever.”

Chapter 22

A little more than a year-and-a-half later, in late March, I knelt at the foot of Harp’s grave at Ladyslipper Lost, before a small rectangular hole I’d dug. I held a fine box made of old chestnut that had been cut from the Downs’ forest by one of my pioneer ancestors. The box, which Boone had made for me, was, about two-feet long and a foot wide. I’d lined it with one of Harp’s soft chambray shirts.

I set it beside the small grave I’d prepared.

“What’s inside this box,” I said softly, to Harp, “is a gift that can only belong here, with you. Boone and I are the only two people who know this is where it will be. Where it belongs. It won’t bring you back, and it won’t make me hurt any less when I remember you. And I’ll
always
remember you. And I’ll always love you. Boone and I will honor your memory. This gift . . . well . . . it’s just a symbol of that love, and that respect.”

I opened the box and took the heavy golden Oscar statue in both hands. “
Hero
. For best picture,” I said. Then I carefully placed the statue back in the box, shut the lid, and lowered the box into the ground. I covered it slowly and methodically, scooping the soft, loamy dirt with my hands. When I neared the top, I took Dancer from her clay pot, and gently planted her there.

“She came from this glen,” I whispered, “and now I’m returning her here, where she belongs. She’ll keep you company. She’s the part of my heart that will always be here, with you.”

I walked out of the forest. Boone waited at the edge, where the cool spring sunlight washed over the trees. The light was beautiful on him, clean and sweet, strong and loving. I smiled. I’d been crying, and Boone could see that, but he saw the smile, too.

“Let’s go build a home, Gracie Vance Noleene,” he said gently.

“Yes. I’m ready.”

He held out a hand.

And I took it.

Charming Grace

Reading Group Guide

1.   Boone and Grace are unlikely lovers. Do you think two people from wildly different backgrounds can really be happy together?

2.   Stone Senterra is a Hollywood superstar who’s both pompous but good-hearted. Does he remind you of any true-life action-adventure stars?

3.   Human tragedies are now fair game for every person with a camera in their cell phone. Do you think this is good for society?

4.   Do you believe adult children can re-unite happily with longlost parents?

5.   Boone and his brother did their time in prison and paid their debt to society. Neither wants to lead a life of crime again. Do you think most youthful criminals can turn their lives around for the better?

About Deborah Smith

Deborah Smith is the award-winning, New York Times bestselling author of A PLACE TO CALL HOME, A GENTLE RAIN, and many others. She has written over forty novels including series romance, women’s fiction, mainstream fiction and fantasy. As editorial director and partner in BelleBooks, a small publishing company she co-owns with three other veteran authors, Deborah edits and writes for a variety of books including the Mossy Creek Hometown Series and the Sweet Tea story collections. She also manages BelleBooks Audio. You can now purchase audio downloads of Deb’s newest novels, read by the author. Visit Deb at www.deborah-smith.com or www.bellebooks.com.  Send comments to her at [email protected]