Anywhere You Are (17 page)

“I don't know how many times I can say no,” Grace told her mother, her voice swallowed up by the sheer number of people crammed into her great room. The space was large, but it simply wasn't designed to hold fifteen people and a huge dog; yet there they were, jammed in like sardines in a can.

Her dad was on the couch, arm thrown over the back in a remarkably relaxed style, considering the tension in the room was so thick you could cut it with a knife. As usual, he had on what Grace called his rocker wear—a denim shirt, slightly darker denim jeans, and boots that added at least two inches to his already considerable height. Sitting next to him was her mom, looking impossibly gorgeous and collected in a designer summer dress, which showed off her model-thin frame to perfection.

Axel and Toby were pacing back and forth like caged beasts, looking utterly ridiculous with their hair infused with product and their rock tees, carefully curated to show off their “authentic” style.

How she could ever have lived in their world for so long, she had no idea. Constantly worrying about her clothes, her makeup, her hair—about who was going to photograph her and how she was going to keep her brand relevant.

Right now, she was wearing a paint-splattered peasant blouse and equally paint-splattered jeans. All she could think about was getting back to her painting—the one she'd been interrupted in the middle of working on by the entire cast and crew of
The Evergood Life.

Rather than have them wreck her studio, she'd reluctantly taken them back to her house, where now, cameramen and lighting people and the hair and makeup artist all crowded around the five of them, as if they were animals on display in a zoo. They'd hashed this out way too many times to count, but no one would leave, no matter how many times she asked.

“You're being ridiculous, Grace,” Sophie said.

“Come on, love, let your mother have her film, there's a good girl,” said Jer.

“No,” Grace said. “I can't.”

Axel threw himself on the other couch. “You're killing us here.”

“Forget it,” said Toby, flinging himself next to Axel. “We're wasting our time.”

“Yes!” Grace said. “You are, so please leave. I have stuff to do and I'm sure you do, too.”

“See?” Toby said. “She's done. And so am I. So let's blow.”

“We are not done,” Sophie snapped.

Blue chose that moment to let out a series of short barks.

“Can you at least put the dog out?” Sophie asked.

“Blue stays.” The poor thing was panting in the heat, but it would be more of a punishment to banish him. He stayed firmly planted by her side, her rock.

Sophie tossed her head and uncrossed and crossed her very long, very lean legs, staring her down. “You know, Grace, you keep saying
no,
but then you go and do something that says yes.”

Her family had been unsuccessfully trying to get her to assent to come back to New York for the better part of an hour. Their discussion had been remarkably one-sided, with all of them—mostly Sophie—using every argument in the book to convince Grace that her entire life was a waste and Grace trying rebut that presumption. Scenes of the two years she'd spent on
The Evergood Life
all came flooding back, like a bad movie flickering through her brain.

The time Tobias got drunk and puked on her bedspread. The time her mom talked her into doing an interview for
Rolling Stone
that painted her in the worst possible light. The drummed-up arguments and fakery for the camera. And all of those times her mom had acted more like her business manager than like a mom. Like she was doing right now.

Grace was tired, hot, and hungry, and all she wanted was for her parents and her brothers and their video crew to leave so she could take Blue on a walk and fix herself some dinner. But her mom had absolutely refused until Grace agreed to join them in the city that very evening.

“I'm not saying yes to anything. Why can't you get that?”

“I don't get why you can't compromise, even in the slightest. In the last week alone, I have had editors from every single tabloid calling me and asking for exclusives. All you have to do is pick up your phone and answer just one of them.”

“I don't want an exclusive,” Grace said. “I don't want anything to do with the tabloids.”

“Of course you do,” her mother said firmly. “We're talking tens of thousands of dollars here. That's real money. You're a hot property, Grace, and you have to capitalize on your fame or you're going to lose it.”

Now they were getting down to the heart of it. “I don't want to be a property,” she told her mother. “I'm a person and I don't care about fame. Why can't you understand that?”

“Everyone cares about fame,” Axel said.

Grace shook her head. “Not me.”
Not anymore.

“But you do care about money,” Toby argued.

“Only that I have enough to live.”

“Look, Grace,” Sophie said, looking gorgeous and glittery and so very hard. “Everyone wants what you have—to look like you, to be who you are—but that's not the way life works. You're special and you have that certain quality that makes people want to know about you. What's the harm in sharing a little?”

“It's never just a little.” They touched and grabbed, always wanting more of you. Another shot. Another quote. Things you didn't want to give. Until they'd taken everything.

“You just need to be smarter about how you market yourself,” her mother said, nodding knowingly. “Come back on
The Evergood Life.
You'd be such an asset to the show. Your brothers are good comic relief, but you provided so much substance. And the viewers
loved
you.”

“My life isn't some reality show, Mom.”

“It was for two seasons,” her mom shot back.

“Doing the show was a mistake.” She hadn't been thinking clearly. In fact, she hadn't been thinking at all. She'd been so young and so clueless and her family was doing it, so why shouldn't she go along for the ride? Except her life had become the most distorted version of
real
she could possibly imagine. She couldn't go back to that. She wouldn't.

“You didn't seem to think so at the time. And you got plenty in return. Darling—” her mom started again.

Grace made a frustrated noise in her throat and shot an imploring look at her father. “Dad, please.”

Her dad looked back and forth between Grace and his wife. “Sophs, love, maybe we should lay off her.”

Sophie turned on her husband. “No, Jer. No. She's been hiding out here for far too long. It's time she came home and made something useful of herself.”

Grace leapt up, finally past her breaking point. “I
am
home!” she hollered. “And I am being useful. I paint! I work! I have normal friends. Friends who don't try to sell my life to the newspapers.” She walked around the chair until she was behind it, gripping the back, her knuckles going white with the pressure. Big Blue lifted his massive head, watching her carefully, waiting for her command. The only one who actually listened to her, these days.

“Perfect,” Francine murmured into one of the cameramen's ears. “Now zoom in.”

Shit,
the cameramen. It was embarrassing how easily she'd been suckered into letting them come in, but she'd believed her dad.
Not to tape you, love.
What a lie! They'd been getting the entire interaction on video; she was sure of it. And they were so insidious, she'd almost forgotten they were there. Like she'd already slipped back into the role of reality show babe.

Her head began to pound, and she rubbed her temples with her fingers. “I swear to God, Francine, I want you out of my house.”

“I go where Sophie goes,” she said, looking to Sophie. The queen.

“The crew stays,” her mother said, and Francine smiled smugly.

Grace shoved herself away from the chair and gestured at her mom, dad, and brothers. “Then you get out!”

Her father made a motion as if he was going to stand, but Sophie merely held on to his arm. “Jer.” A warning. He sat down. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Grace. “Are you really going to kick your own family out of your house?”

“Them,” she said, nodding at Axel and Toby. “They're as wrapped up in it as you are. And as for you, well, you're not really acting like my parents now, are you? You just want to pimp me out—get me to make money so that you make money. That's what it's all about to you, isn't it?”

Sophie didn't even blink. “Hardly. There's also fame.”

So they were back to that. And there was no way out. Or maybe there was.
She
could leave.

“Blue, come,” Grace ordered, and was gratified when the dog immediately stood up. “I'm going out for a walk,” she informed the group. “You'd better be gone by the time I get back.” She looked directly at her mom. “All of you.”

“Oh, no you don't,” Sophie said. “We drove all the way out here from the city to talk to you and you're going to stay and listen to what we have to say.”

“I already did, Mom, a hundred times over. I'm not interested in being on the show. And I'm definitely not coming back to the city with you. This is my home. My life. And you're treating it like it's nothing. Like I'm nothing.”

“Gold,” Francine whispered.

Grace ignored her. “How many times have I tried to talk to you about my art, about my passion for conservation, and you've just dismissed it as a hobby. My ‘bird art.' It's not a hobby. It's what I do. It's what I live for.”

Her mother's eyes narrowed. “And how's that going for you, Grace? Do you have any gallery showings? A book deal? Greenpeace knocking down your door to get you as a spokeswoman?”

“Well, no,” Grace admitted, “but—”

Sophie heard the hesitation in her voice and pounced. “You could have all that and more if you'd let me manage your career, the way you used to.”

“And sell out my whole life in the process,” Grace said, sounding less angry and more bitter. “I've been there, I've done that. How can I make you understand that isn't what I want?”

“You say that,” her mom said. “Then you come out to one of our parties and this appears in the papers the next day.” She tapped the copy of the
New York Post
she'd thrown onto the coffee table earlier that evening. Grace refused to look at the picture of her in Zig's arms, carefully cropped. He looked good—way too good. And she looked happy to be in his arms. What a disaster!

Grace sighed heavily. “For the last time, I came to the party because Dad asked me to come. And this picture was an accident. Someone pushed me.”

Her mother simply raised one elegant eyebrow. “Oh? And was this an accident, too?” She stood, whipping out her cellphone and flicking the screen before holding it out so Grace could see.

Reluctantly, Grace leaned over and squinted at the screen. The video looked like it was taken outside…
oh, crap,
was that Briarwood? There were picketers, and George Arbor was there, being interviewed by a perky reporter. He was saying something about the American bittern, and how it had been spotted on Briarwood's golf course, how Briarwood was going to destroy the ecological resources of the state, one golf hole at a time, and the reporter was smiling and nodding.

In the crowd, behind George's head, a painting of a bittern bobbed and weaved. Grace squinted.
Oh, no…it wasn't…it couldn't be.
But it was.

“Down with Briarwood!” George yelled, waving the painting—
her
painting—right in the camera.

“No!” Grace whispered in dismay.

The perky reporter turned to the camera. “That painting was done by Grace Davingham, daughter of Jerry Davingham, lead singer of the rock group Evergood.” A picture of her—an old, old picture—flashed on the screen. “We have heard that Ms. Davingham, an Eastbridge resident and a noted environmentalist, supports this cause. Thus far, the owners of the club, including Marcus Colby, whom we have footage of from earlier”—a brief shot of Marc's stony face flashed amid a sea of angry ones—“have all refused to comment.” The screen went black.

Her mother clicked off the video and stowed the phone back in her enormous handbag. “All of your protests aren't really ringing true to me, darling. Not when you're putting yourself out there already.”

Grace was barely listening. “When was that recorded?”

“Earlier this evening,” her mother said. “This is just what you need to get everything back on track. You'll be back into the swing of things in no time at all.” She eyed Grace critically. “The first thing you'll need is a good haircut. You'll come into Manhattan for that. I don't trust anyone here to do it properly. Next, a makeover. This boho-chic look you have going won't cut it. Thank God you've kept your body up.”

She was still talking, but Grace tuned her out. Marc was here, tonight, in Eastbridge. God, he must be furious. She had to find him. Talk to him. Tell him that she didn't know what George was going to do with the painting. She prayed he'd believe her.

“You can easily leverage this coverage to increase your profile if you play your cards right,” her mom was saying.

“No,” Grace said, shaking her head. “It wasn't supposed to be like this.” Marc was out there, thinking that she'd betrayed him. The room, already hot, became oppressive. She had to find him. Talk to him now. And not where everyone was surrounding her, breathing down her neck, listening to every word that came out of her mouth. “I have to go.”

“We're not finished.”

“Oh, yes we are. Come, Blue,” she said, walking toward the kitchen. She needed air, stat. Blue followed, letting out a bark, happy to finally be getting his walk. Several crew members edged back when Blue swung around to head toward the door.