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Inheriting Evil

Page 2

by K S Logan


  Wesley always told her she could, and should, do better, but Grace felt the pressure of getting older. She’d dated here and there, never had trouble finding dates, was an attractive woman, but she grew tired of the cycle of meeting someone, getting to know them and then finding out weeks later, they’re no match.

  Grace had difficulty getting comfortable enough for intimacy. It took time for her, and most of the men she was meeting weren’t willing to wait. Her disability, although not easily noticeable, along with some visible, deep scarring on her back, also from childhood, made closeness complicated. She’d managed to get past this stage with Marc, and, to be honest, she found herself swept away by his successful lifestyle, charming smile, and handsome looks.

  The one thing the Foster brothers did have in common though: they were both quite handy and intelligent. Marc just happened to be a little wiser in some areas because he was older.

  “I don’t care who fixes it,” Grace continued. “We just need our customers to be able to use it.”

  “Well, I replaced the flap and checked the chain, maybe we need a whole new toilet. Maybe you and Marc can have a romantic date at the home store, picking up a new shitter,” Wesley laughed. “I can picture Mr. Debonair now...impressing you with his vast knowledge of all things potty. Gross. Things still getting serious for you and ‘the playa?’” He held his hands up in quotations.

  “I don’t know. Things are going well, I think.” Grace couldn’t help but smile a little as she thought of their last date. Marc had slowed down purposely as they passed the jewelers on their walk after dinner.

  “You know, Wes, you’re are an awesome guy, with so much to offer. Lisa is interested in you. You should ask her out. The four of us could double.”

  “Oh yeah, and have her compare me to ‘Apollo’ all night? No, thanks.” He kicked his runner into the floor.

  “Oh, Wesley,” Grace said. She lifted his chin so she could look him right in his big, doe eyes. “If I were ten years younger, Lisa would have to fight me for you. You’re the warmest, smartest, funniest guy I’ve ever known. Seriously, you should be beating them off with a stick.” She kissed him on the cheek and ruffled his slightly greasy, curly brown hair. “I mean it, buddy, you’re a keeper.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re just saying that,” he said, embarrassed. “But let’s get real here. You would have to be at least twenty years younger.” He ducked out of the way just in time, and Grace missed him with a light kick to his ample, denim-sagging rear end.

  “Anyway,” said Wesley, “Marc is a total jerk. Don’t get your hopes up too high. I’m telling you.”

  “I appreciate your looking out for me, but Marc told me all about his many past relationships. He’s honest with me. I think this time might be different for him.”

  “Ugh, I think I’ll go work on the toilet rather than discuss the details of my brother’s love life,” he said, as he headed to the back. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you though.”

  “Yeah, yeah. And for the umpteenth time too.”

  Indeed, Wesley was the sweetest guy on earth, and she was so grateful to have him in her life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The rain was teeming down sideways as rain always did in the little town of Crossfield, just outside of Newcastle. It never came in a light drizzle, ever a deluge. Grace ran for cover under a store overhang. Devi joined her, laughing uncontrollably, because Grace almost tripped, running across the street.

  “Oh my God, Grace, that would have been freakin’ priceless.” She was bent over, still in hysterics, trying to catch her breath. “For someone named Grace, you sure aren’t very graceful.”

  The two had just finished their weekly kickboxing class. Grace had eventually relented to go with Devi after weeks of constant hounding. With frequent break-ins on the block she explained that they should both know how to protect themselves, just in case. Grace reluctantly gave in but now found she actually enjoyed the classes and looked forward to them. They had been going for almost eight weeks now, and Grace was really getting good. The instructor always commented on her powerful right kick, which was probably due to the daily running Grace had kept up for the past few years; a habit she fell in love with after realizing that staying thin after thirty might be tricky for her 5’3” frame.

  Grace was grateful Devi didn’t mention the robbery to the instructor. She felt stupid enough as it was that she hadn’t adequately defended herself, but practicing in the safety of the class was a whole lot different than using it in a real life situation.

  “Wouldn’t have been so funny if I’d have face planted and then been run over by a bus though, would it?” Grace couldn’t help but start giggling as well as she imagined how funny she must’ve looked trying to save herself from slamming head-first onto the sidewalk.

  Devi laid a hand on Grace’s shoulder, finally calming down. “It’s your turn for lunch Gracey, right?” she said, as they walked the short block to the restaurant. The little Italian place had the best pasta salad, and their pizzas were cooked authentically in a brick oven; Grace and Wesley often shared a pie on Friday nights after closing. It was just a few blocks from Grace’s bookstore, just before the financial district of Crossfield, where the buildings began to lose that Old World charm.

  “What? I don’t think so. I paid last time. Remember your chicken was a little pink, so you ripped the waiter’s head off.” Grace winked at her. Devi was so easy to rile up.

  “I did not rip his head off, but I’d have liked to have strangled whoever cooked the damn thing. Could’ve killed me, you know. Anyway, forget it, I’ll pay. I’m definitely not arm wrestling you for it. You almost ripped my arm off last time.” Grace’s left arm was extraordinarily strong as it had to do the job of two.

  Grace gave a light fist pump. “Yes!”

  They approached the doorway and took a minute to shake the rain off. Devi peered in the window, checking for vacant tables.

  “The restaurant looks busy,” she said. Devi suddenly turned serious and started pushing Grace’s shoulder, trying to move her forward.

  “What are you doing? What’s wrong?” Grace asked, alarmed by her friend’s behavior.

  Devi continued to try to push Grace along. “Nothing, let’s just go. It’s too busy.”

  “Devi stop. It’s always busy.” Grace looked inside the restaurant for herself. “What’s the prob—” then she saw it, or rather, saw them. Inside, against the wall, in a cozy, candlelit corner, sat her boyfriend, Marc. He wasn’t alone. Across from him sat a pretty young woman, smiling and holding his hand. Any thoughts that Grace’s mind might try inventing to excuse the meeting were quickly dashed when she saw Marc bring the woman’s hand to his mouth and kiss it while he fondly gazed into her eyes.

  “What a bastard,” said Devi. “Let’s go.”

  Grace almost banged on the glass, but anger mixed quickly with heartbreak, and instead, she took her friend’s advice. Better to have a plan in place than fly off the handle and end up embarrassing herself.

  They ran the two blocks to Devita’s café, and while Grace took a seat at the counter and removed her drenched jacket, Devi poured two big glasses of Merlot.

  She handed Grace her glass, “I’m so sorry, hon. Wesley’s always saying what a player he is.”

  “I know.” Grace took a large swig and swallowed hard through the big swell in her throat. “I just thought this was special. I thought I was the one that was settling him down, you know? I’m so stupid.”

  “Stop that, Grace. You are not stupid. He is definitely stupid, taking an awesome lady like you for granted. He doesn’t deserve you.”

  “Thanks, Devi. Better to find out now, I guess.” She guzzled the rest of her wine, wanting to go home, be alone, and drown her sorrows. “I’m gonna go. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Hang on, girlfriend.” Devi went to the back, to the kitchen, and returned a few seconds later with a tub full of kulfi, a traditional Indian ice cream. “Take this with you. It’ll
help.”

  Thank goodness for Devi. She really was a great friend, a great person.

  Grace had come to Church Street three years ago to view a space to let, which soon after became her bookstore. After meeting with Mr. Armin Resnik, she had come to Spice Chai, Devi’s family-owned café, and ordered some tea. The aromas coming from the kitchen had Grace’s mouth watering instantly. The scents of curry sauces with onions, tomatoes, garlic, and ginger were heavenly, and the décor inside the little café was rustic and charming with hues of deep, rich reds and golds. There was soft Indian music playing in the background and loud voices coming from the busy kitchen.

  Devi had brought Grace the hot cup of tea herself that day and then proceeded to talk Grace’s head off. She acted as if they were old friends, not complete strangers. Devi went on about exasperating husbands, cold English weather, the state of the roads; you name it. She wasn’t annoying, though, not in the least. Grace felt immediately like a regular patron; like she belonged, and she was thankful for it. Devi spoke enthusiastically with her slender hands, her fingers long and graceful. Her large, chocolate-colored eyes were captivating with thick, sweeping black lashes that blinked dramatically.

  This was a new town for Grace; hopefully, the beginning of a good life and a successful business. New friends were just what she needed. She didn’t know it then, but they would become the best of friends; kindred spirits.

  Devi and her husband, Manny, had opened the café five years previously. Along with the usual café fare: coffees, teas, muffins, and pastries, they also offered authentic Indian dishes made by Devi and her mother; the best Indian take away in Crossfield, possibly the whole of Northern England. Grace’s favorite was the mixed vegetables, extra spicy, with garlic Naan.

  Grace walked toward the door with her tub of ice cream. She felt Devi’s long arms wrap around her from behind.

  “Make sure you call me, Gracey, I’ll worry.”

  “You’re the best, Devi,” she said. “I will.”

  Grace strolled to her apartment in the rain. She didn’t care about getting soaked; this way, no one on the street would notice her tears. She came across familiar faces, nodded hello as she passed, but she was not really seeing them at all. She was hurt, betrayed, and right pissed off.

  She approached the door to her building but kept on walking. She picked up her speed a little and headed for the park where she usually took her morning runs. She put her ice cream down on a bench and then proceeded to the park path at a sprint.

  How could she be so stupid? He really had her fooled. What an idiot she’d been. Her speed increased as she went over things in her mind. Her feet flew over the pavement, leaving a trail of anger and hurt behind her.

  That girl he was with is so young too, and so pretty. Is that why he cheated? Because I’m getting old and maybe not as firm or perky as that little whore. Oh, stop it, Grace. It’s not her fault. She’ll probably end up hurt by him too.

  She was alone at the park; apparently, everyone else had sense enough to stay out of the cold rain. She tried to ignore the frigid drops as they mixed with her warm tears. She was running as fast as she could now, trying to outrun her thoughts and her grief.

  Her lungs eventually felt like they might burst, so she had to stop. She bent over and placed her hands on her knees. On her final large exhale she let out an anguished, angry roar. It felt great to let go and release the emotion, but she probably looked like a lunatic. She turned and jogged at a light pace, back to the start of the path, and picked up her ice cream as she passed it.

  Back in front of her building, she noticed Gus, the homeless man who was always collecting bottles in her neighborhood. Grace always gave him her spare change when she had it, and sometimes she would make an extra sandwich in the morning for him and hand it to him when he passed by the bookstore. He was a nice man, down on his luck, and Grace knew, at any time, any of us could end up in the same state.

  “Hi, Gus,” she said.

  “Hello, Miss Grace.”

  “How’re you going to stay dry tonight?” she asked him.

  “Gotta spot at the shelter, ma’am. Suzie’s holding it for me,” his tongue sometimes slipped out through his missing front teeth when he talked.

  “Well, here,” she handed him the tub of ice cream. “Share this with her when you get there. My treat.”

  “Uh, thank you, Miss Grace. She loves ice cream.” Suzie was a social worker who volunteered at the shelter and really took a shine to old Gus.

  “You’re welcome. Better get going before the doors close for the night.”

  He tipped his worn hat to her, and she entered her apartment building. Sometimes it took someone like Gus to put your problems in perspective.

  “Up yours, Marc,” she said as she turned the key to her flat. Ernie was there at the door with his usual loud feline greeting. “I’ve got my Ernie waiting for me, and he loves me, young or old.” She picked him up in her arms and hugged him, then went to the cupboard for her wineglass.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Grace sat down at her desk with a stack of unopened mail. She rubbed her temples, trying to ease the effects of too much sorrow drowning the night before. The pile of her usual late payment notices, past dues, and final warnings weren’t helping her head at all.

  “What’s this?” It was a letter from a legal firm in Scotland.

  Dear Ms. Calhoun,

  We regret to inform you of your mother’s failing health. It is of utmost importance that you return home to your family’s estate as we expect her imminent passing. Margaret has requested your presence, not only to say final words, but also to inform you of the final arrangements. Please let our office know immediately upon your arrival.

  Sincerely,

  Jackson Humbly

  Senior Partner, HD&F Law

  32 Winston Row, Glasgow

  “Oh, my God. My mother’s dying.” She stood up and went to the small window, the only window in her tiny loft office. Painted shut long ago, it couldn’t be opened, and you could barely see through it after centuries of wind, weather, and dust.

  The sun peeking over the horizon gave a rare, but welcome, warm glow to the quiet street. Grace’s little office was always quite dark, even on the sunniest of days, so she had collected a few lamps to help light up the room. Her favorite was the Emeralite banker’s lamp that sat on the corner of her desk. From 1916, it still worked, had the original pull chain and gave an eye-pleasing illumination from the green glass shade. Along with her scattered, eclectic lamp collection, Grace had many candles situated around the room. The effect when lit, was warm, cozy.

  She liked her office. It made dealing with her money problems a little less stressful and gave her a private spot to work on the logistics of running her business. The loft was small but homey. Grace had adorned the room with an oriental area rug, a small antique desk, and select artwork. She especially liked the fact that she could see the bookstore floor from the loft’s balcony.

  Grace thought about the last time she had seen her mother.

  She left her family home in Scotland at only sixteen. Her Aunt Lena made all the arrangements for her to attend boarding school. Then, after achieving scholarships, she moved to Manchester University in England. Grace vowed never to return home, having suffered many years of physical and mental torment at the hand of her older sister, Morvin. Add the fact that her mother never punished Morvin for her evil deeds, and most of the time didn’t even believe Grace, made her eager to get far away and try to build a life of her own. It had taken years and a lot of self-growth to overcome her feelings of being stupid and useless. How many times did she have to hear that she was just an accident waiting to happen? But she had overcome it and become much stronger (although a stubborn tendency toward slipping, tripping, and spilling remained). Seeing this letter from home, however, brought back all those feelings of when she was that scared, self-conscious young girl.

  Grace remembered how much her mother had argued with her durin
g that last week at home. She insisted on going to boarding school and her mother insisted that she was doing no such thing. So, Grace ended up leaving without her blessing. She often replayed that moment, of looking back at her mother’s face as the taxi drove away, and recalled that her mother’s expression revealed anger more than sadness. She also remembered that Morvin wasn’t there to see her off; she probably could not have been happier at finally being rid of ‘silly little Grace, such a sad waste of space.’

  Now she’s supposed to return? But too much damage had been done. So much time had passed. She’d worked so hard to change from that self-conscious, damaged girl into the self-sufficient, hard-working woman she was now.

  Grace looked over at her favorite painting: a gorgeously framed Van Gogh reproduction of Poppies and Butterflies. She rewarded herself with it years ago, with the first paycheck she received as an Inventory Analyst at a large chain bookstore; pleased that she was finally putting her business degree to use.

  In the eighteen years since she’d left home, she’d sent a few birthday cards to her mother and a letter or two, when she found herself missing her family home, and her mother and father. She never received one reply, not one birthday card or Christmas card since she left. That hurt Grace deeply. She always hoped for a letter of apology, for the way they let Morvin treat her, but they had been blind to her lies and manipulation.

  How could her mother shut her out so completely? Maybe because she was angry at her for leaving, but things had gotten so much worse after Grace’s father disappeared, and she couldn’t take it anymore. Her sister told her their father ran away because he couldn’t stand looking at Grace’s hideous, deformed arm and because of the heavy burden it put on the whole family. Grace knew that wasn’t true. Father was always telling her she could do anything anyone else could do.

  She moved closer to the painting and smiled as she recalled a rare moment with her father. He was never home much, but when he was he had always been kind and encouraging. He would never let her dwell on her disability; in fact, he barely acknowledged it.

 

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