Blessing in Disguise (30 page)

“No ... don’t stop.” His breath was coming in ragged bursts.

“Is this how you want it?”
She
wanted him inside her, but would gladly do this for Jack, knowing he would make it up to her later.

But Jack’s answer was to scoop her up, holding her so that she could wrap both her legs about his middle. He carried her to the sofa, laying her gently onto her back while he lowered himself onto his knees between her legs.

“Now you,” he said.

Before she could protest—tell him she wanted him inside her—there was Jack’s mouth. Teasing. His tongue, light, expert, guiding her to a trembling pitch. Oh, God. How could he ever,
ever,
have believed they would not always have this?

Even as she was crying out, her hips riding the waves of pleasure now coursing through her, Grace knew there would be more. A moment later, Jack was inside her, and this time he was not holding back—she could feel him giving in to his own need, letting go.

Grace came again with a sharp little cry that for once she gave voice to, letting it swell, becoming the scream she’d held back so many times before, fearing Hannah or Chris might hear. Now it seemed to carry her to some new, uncharted place ... and as Jack responded with a cry of his own, Grace suddenly knew where she was.

Home.

It was long past midnight when Grace and Jack finally tip-toed upstairs to bed. Passing Hannah’s room, Grace saw a strip of light shining under her door. She paused, her hand on the knob, then had a better idea.

Waving Jack on ahead of her, Grace crept softly back down the stairs to retrieve the gift-wrapped box stowed among the jumble of bags she’d left by the door. Technically, it
was
Christmas morning, she told herself. Even if Hannah didn’t celebrate it. And, still wrapped in the glow of Jack’s lovemaking, Grace felt sure that nothing, not even Hannah, could make her feel bad.

Nevertheless, as she made her way back up to Hannah’s room, Grace’s heart was in her throat. She knocked softly.

“Come in,” Hannah called groggily.

She found Hannah sitting up in bed, reading. Her sleepy, unfocused expression changed at once, closing as abruptly as the book she was now snapping shut. Quickly, before Hannah could ask her to leave, Grace crossed over to the bed and set the gift down on the rumpled spread covering Hannah’s legs.

“Merry Hanukkah,” she said, realizing even as she smiled weakly at her own joke how lame it was.

Hannah look startled, a bit sheepish. “What is it?” she asked, in the exact same tone Chris used whenever she put a plate of unfamiliar food in front of him.

This time I won’t get upset,
Grace told herself.

“Open it and see,” she said lightly.

Hannah slowly peeled back the wrapping, as if she feared that any moment something might jump out and bite her. Or, worse, that she actually might
like
whatever Grace had gotten her.

But when the top of the box came off, and Lila’s leather jacket appeared from beneath folds of tissue, not even Hannah could contain her delight.

“Oh ... it’s ... it’s ...” she stammered, throwing it on over the T-shirt she wore in place of a nightgown. “I can’t believe it. It’s exactly what I would have picked out.” Then, as if realizing she’d let her guard down, Hannah was blushing and once again drawing her mouth into a narrow line. In a painfully correct voice, she added, “Thank you very much. It was nice of you to get it for me.”

“I sort of inherited it,” Grace explained. “In another life, it belonged to Bruce Springsteen.”

Now it was apparent that Hannah, as she rolled her eyes in disdain, thought Grace was pulling her leg.

“Really,” Grace told her. “My friend Lila knows him—he used to come into her dog-grooming salon.”

“No kidding?” She was starting to open up again, just a little bit. Her eyes gleamed. “I mean, you wouldn’t make up a thing like that, would you?”

“It’s true ... but don’t tell anyone. No one would believe it.” Hannah didn’t have to know that Lila sometimes exaggerated. “It’ll be our secret.”

Hannah looked a bit skeptical at the idea of there being any secrets between them, but, with the precious leather jacket draped over her shoulders, she could only nod. Somewhere outside, a windchime tinkled, and a silly thought popped into Grace’s head—that bit of nonsense in
It’s a Wonderful Life
about how, every time a bell chimes, it means an angel has earned his or her wings. At that moment, Hannah smiled—a natural, open smile aimed directly at her.

I’m no angel,
Grace thought wryly,
but I’ve certainly earned this.

“Well, I’d better be getting to bed,” Grace said as an awkward silence loomed.

She was halfway to the door, feeling only a little bit let down, when Hannah called softly, “Grace?”

Grace turned, holding her quickening hope in check, in case it turned out that Hannah merely wanted her to switch off the light or lower the window shade.

“Merry Christmas,” she heard Hannah say in a lovely, sweet voice, without a trace of sarcasm ... and, before Grace could make too much of it, she added, “Would you turn off the light on your way out?”

Arriving home Thursday evening the following week, Grace found two letters from Blessing in the stack of mail that awaited her. The first one, written on a thick cream note card in her mother’s firm, correct hand, was short and almost painfully succinct:

Dear Grace,

Thank you for your invitation. I will be arriving January 15, and staying with Win, so there is no need for you to trouble yourself in any way. My love to Chris.

As always.

Mother

The second letter was longer, its looping scrawl instantly recognizable as Sissy’s. Grace even caught a faint whiff of her sister’s favorite perfume, Shalimar, from the pink stationery with flowered borders.

Dear Grace,

Thank you for the steak knives you sent for our anniversary. I have some already that Aunt Ida gave us when we got married, but not with bone handles. Too bad you couldn’t make it to the party, but to be honest, I think your being there would’ve upset Mother, who I am very concerned about. She hasn’t been herself lately, a fact which has probably escaped you.

I’ll put it bluntly. Mother is seeing someone. Notice I don’t mention his name, mainly on account of I can’t even bear to say it much less put it down on paper. Let’s just say he used to teach English at the high school, until he lost his mind or found Jesus or whatever it is that would make a grown man want to throw over everything to mow lawns for a living. I think you know who I’m referring to. She says he’s just a friend, but who knows? And the other day when I stopped by to borrow her vacuum cleaner (mine’s being fixed), there he was drinking coffee at the kitchen table with his shirtsleeves rolled up like he owned the place. He had Mother laughing so hard about something she had tears running down her face. I was shocked to say the least.

What I’m getting at is that I think all this stress Mother has been under on account of you-know-what, has really knocked her for a loop. Of course I do what I can to cheer her up, but even though she tries to hide it I can tell she feels pretty low (except with Mr. R., which just shows you how bad it’s gotten). But I suppose it’s only natural she’d be upset over her own daughter planning to publish a load of bald-faced lies about Daddy.

Grace, how could you? After all Mother and Daddy have done for you? I know you never got along all that well with her, but what did she do to deserve this? Mother has nearly worn herself into the ground raising money for Daddy’s memorial library, which thanks to all those articles about your book may not get built after all. If you had any shred of decency left, you’d stop all this and let well enough alone.

About Mother’s plan to go to New York, I worry about her traveling such a distance. Her health isn’t what it used to be, but I expect some good may come of it. I know that deep down you want what’s best for her, the same as I do.

Beech sends his regards. He’s taken off work for a few weeks and is thinking about a career change. He’ll be sorely missed down at Spangler Dodge, but there is no room for him to move up and he’s much too smart to be stuck in one place. He’s considering a position managing that new Sizzler opening up out by Mulberry Acres, so we’ll see.

The boys are fine. Bobby’s fifth-grade class went on a field trip to the cemetery, and guess what he came home with? A rubbing of Eugenia Bell Clayborn’s grave.

1803-1876. She was our great-grandmother, in case you’ve forgotten.

Your sister,

Caroline

P.S. Thanks also for the boys’ Christmas presents. The jogging (?) suit you sent Beau is too small, so I’m sending it back. I hope you can exchange it, but don’t worry if you can’t. Down here we have Little League, so I guess the jogging craze never caught on.

Grace, in a fit of annoyance, crumpled Sissy’s letter and tossed it onto the floor. Her sister pretended to be so concerned about Mother, but it was really only Sissy’s way of sticking it to Big Sister. Damn her!

But then, just as quickly as it had come, Grace’s irritation with her sister passed. Poor Sissy didn’t even qualify as a thorn in her side—more like a sticker, or a tiny splinter. Anyway, she really ought to feel sorry for Sissy, who had nothing in her life but that awful husband
(Career change, my foot
—
I’ll bet they fired him)
and those two impossible boys.

It was Mother who was making her sweat now, despite the loft’s thermostat’s having been pushed down to fifty-five while she was away. Ever since Jack had talked her into inviting her mother up for a visit, Grace had been regretting her offer ... while at the same time not really believing Mother would take her up on it. And now she was actually coming! Grace felt her stomach tighten. But it was more than just nerves, she realized—she felt so
unprepared.

Mother, when she made up her mind about something, was nearly immovable. How could she, the errant daughter, manage to persuade Mother to drop this lawsuit she was threatening?
If only I had someone on my side other than Win
—
someone who could help me convince her. ...

Jack? He was usually wonderful at negotiating. But why should Mother listen to him? She didn’t know him, and the mere fact that he was Grace’s publisher would be enough to prejudice Mother against him.

But it was two weeks before she’d have to face her mother, she reminded herself. What was the point in getting all worked up about it now?

As Chris drifted off to his room, Grace went into her office to listen to the messages on her answering machine. Win had called to let her know about Mother, in case she hadn’t already heard. And her agent. Hank Carroll, who’d been fielding the press in her absence, needed to talk to her about a piece
Esquire
was doing on the new rumors about Senator Truscott. ...

Then a familiar yet unexpected voice jumped out at her.

“Grace, I think we should talk. Give me a call.”

Nola.
Grace’s heart flipped over.

What did she want? Had Nola changed her mind about giving her an interview?

Grace picked up the phone and quickly punched in Nola’s number. Busy. Damn. She waited a few minutes then tried again. Still busy. She glanced at her watch—after six. Even if that wasn’t Nola on the line, she ought to be home from work by now. ...

Grace, still in her fleece-lined corduroy car coat, impulsively grabbed the knit cap and mittens she’d left on the hall table, yelled to Chris that she was going out for a little while, and then was flying out the front door and into the elevator.

Grace mounted the steps of the once-grand, now somewhat decrepit-looking brownstone, and rang the doorbell to Nola’s floor-through. Why
did
Nola call? Maybe, after reading the manuscript, Nola was having second thoughts about stonewalling her. Was she ready to talk? Or had Nola wanted simply to chew her out?

The security-barred front window of Nola’s first-floor apartment was lit, but the clutch of Chinese-restaurant menus stuck in the mail slot might mean that she hadn’t yet returned from work.

Even so, Grace waited, head ducked low against the cold wind that stung her cheeks and her neck, where the pulled-up collar of her coat didn’t quite meet her chin. Down the street, a car alarm went off. Though she seldom paid much heed to the city’s never-ending assault on her senses, Grace now wanted to clap her hands over her ears.

The intercom crackled. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” Grace answered unthinkingly. Her heart began to pound.

Why hadn’t she identified herself? Why would Nola even recognize her voice? Yet Grace had an inexplicable feeling that Nola
would
know it was her.

The door swung open, and an oblong of light spilled out, exposing an imposing square-shouldered figure who stood framed in the doorway. Grace blinked, her vision blurring for a moment before adjusting to the glare, and when she looked again Nola had stepped forward and was peering out at her.

“What are
you
doing here?” Nola, wearing a tailored navy suit with gold piping, looked as if she’d just arrived home. She hadn’t even slipped off the dark pumps that looked as if they’d be uncomfortable as hell, and that Grace had just noticed were unusually large.

“I got your message,” she said simply.

Nola nodded, as if she didn’t need to be told why Grace hadn’t phoned before dropping in.

This odd connection Grace sensed between them—had Nola felt it, too? Grace thought of an article she’d written years ago, for
The New Yorker,
about the long-term affects on two men, strangers to each other, of a gruesome Mafia murder they’d witnessed. And how those two—each of whom, fearing for his life, had refused to testify at the trial—brought together for the first time after more than a decade, had fallen into one another’s arms and wept, speaking of their shared fears and horrific memories as if they were long-lost brothers.