by Elicia Hyder
She hesitated.
“I’m fine, Monica. It’s just a bruise.”
Midnight Maven skated up behind her with two bags of crushed ice. “Dr. Hooker, practice isn’t over.”
She nodded and returned to the track.
Maven handed me the bags.
The smaller one, I pressed to the side of my right eye. “Thank you.” I laid down on my left side and rested the other bag on my ass.
“What’s going on with you tonight?” Maven asked. “You’ve been really off your game.”
“I know. It’s been a really crazy week, and I haven’t slept much. Why have you been pushing me so hard all night?”
Maven crossed her arms. “Because I think you have what it takes to play this sport. My job here is to make you even better.”
I wasn’t sure whether to thank her or throw my ice pack at her.
“Leave the ice on your ass for fifteen to twenty minutes at a time a few times a day for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. And be prepared. I’ve fallen on a skate before. There’s nothing like the bruise you’re about to have.”
“Or the black eye, I’m sure.”
“Be sure to post pictures on the team app.” She smiled. “None of us are going to want to miss it.”
The perfect outline of a roller-skate wheel was imprinted in the center of my blackened ass cheek. By the next morning, the bruise had spread like a dark crimson stain from nearly my hipbone to my thigh. It was so glorious I snapped a picture of it in the mirror and texted it to Jason.
Me: Day two, badge of honor.
Jason: Holy hell. You’ve got to be kidding me. Please tell me that’s makeup.
Me: I wish it was makeup.
Jason: Think you should go to the doctor?
Me: Our team doc says no, for now. Just to keep ice on it for a while. Check this out.
I took a picture of my face. My right eye was nearly swollen shut and a deep blackish purple.
Jason: Geez, Grace! It looks like you were in a UFC fight last night.
Me: And it looks like I lost. LOL Kinda makes me look tough though, right?
Jason: I guess. Keep some ice…on all of that.
Me: I will.
Jason: This has been the longest week ever without you.
Me: I know. Is it Saturday yet?
Jason: Right? If I can get my aunt to come help Mom on Saturday morning, I think I’ll come straight there after work and sleep. Maybe come crawl in bed with you.
Me: That sounds like heaven. But I’m going to go ahead and say this now…I have to work on Saturday!
Jason: Fair enough. It’s been a week since I’ve seen you. I can guarantee what I have planned won’t take long.
Me: Haha.
Jason: Heading to bed now. I’ll text you when I wake up.
Me: Sleep well!
All day, I walked with a limp, and by lunch, Kiara was calling me Boss Hobble. Sitting behind the sewing machine was torture, even after I repositioned my seat and foot pedal so I could sit halfway on and halfway off the seat. Still, I managed to finish one dress and start another by the time I finally called it quits near midnight.
On Friday morning, Ben Sinclair-Hoyt called to tell me that his mother had been discharged, and I was welcome to visit her at home if I “dared”—his word, not mine. When I closed the store that evening, I picked up flowers from the market and followed the GPS to the address he’d given me.
Sylvia lived in Belle Meade, the old-money neighborhood of Nashville. Her house was hidden at the end of a long driveway, which was protected by a stone gate and an armed guard. The historic three-story mansion was adorned with thick white columns and tall stone statues. The landscaping was meticulously groomed, and the Christmas lights were expertly hung. I gulped as I pulled up to the entrance.
The front door opened before I even knocked, and a woman about my mother’s age stepped outside to greet me. “Grace Evans?” she asked, then did a double take when she registered my black eye.
“That’s me,” I said, not offering any explanation. I wondered if she would ask about my injury. She didn’t.
“Come on in. Mrs. Sinclair is expecting you.”
I followed the woman inside, and my breath hitched in my chest, standing in the massive marble foyer. Its walls were hand-painted with murals of white horses, and the largest crystal chandelier I’d ever seen hung over my head. “Wow,” I whispered, feeling a bit like Orphan Annie.
The woman led me up a hand-carved wooden spiral staircase to the second level. Sylvia’s other son, Andrew, greeted us at the top. “Ms. Evans, I’m so glad you could make it. Thank you, Marie. I’ll take care of her from here.”
The woman nodded and started back downstairs.
When she was gone, Andrew turned back to me. “It’s nice of you to come.” He was eyeing my face, obviously debating whether or not to ask.
“Roller derby,” I said. I’d learned in the past forty-eight hours that seemed to be an adequate response for a black eye.
He nodded. “Oh, that’s right. Brutal sport, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did you have any trouble finding us?” he asked as we walked down a long hallway covered in expensive crimson carpet.
“No. GPS brought me right to the gate. This place is spectacular,” I said, admiring the framed paintings on the walls.
“Thank you. Our family’s been here a long time.”
“How is she?” I asked quietly.
“Better. It was a bowel infection that caused all the problems on Saturday. She was losing blood, and no one knew. They’ve gotten it under control now, they think. They wanted to keep her in the hospital for a few more days, but she was determined to come home.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Would you mind sitting with her while I run out and make a phone call? I need to check in with my wife.”
“Of course not. You can go home and rest if you need to. I don’t have anywhere to be tonight.”
“That’s quite all right. I appreciate the offer, but she might cut me out of the will if I leave her for too long.” He winked.
We reached an open door near the end of the hall.
“Who’s there? Is that Grace?” I heard Sylvia ask.
I walked inside ahead of him, and Sylvia’s head rolled along her pillow to look toward the door. There was a hospital bed in the center of the lavish bedroom, and Sylvia looked tiny in it, propped up with pillows and hidden beneath layers of blankets. She pressed a button, raising the head of the bed even more.
“Mom, I’m going to go call Lisa. Grace will sit with you until I get back. Do you need anything right now?”
“Yes. Will you bring me that album I said I wanted Grace to see?”
He smiled. “Sure. I’ll be back soon.”
When he was gone, I walked over and sat down in the overstuffed chair beside the head of Sylvia’s bed.
“Good lord, what happened to your face?” she said, reaching over to grip my chin.
“Roller derby accident.”
She scowled. “You sure about that? You didn’t let some man do this to you, did you?”
I smiled. “No. I promise. I got hit with an elbow during practice. How are you feeling?”
“I’m dying, Grace. How do you think I’m feeling?” Sylvia sat back and laid her head against the white pillow.
“What are the doctors saying?” I asked.
“They say it could be three months. Six, if I’m lucky.”
I swallowed. “What about treatment?”
She shook her head. “They think it would buy minimal time. Not worth the agony of having to suffer through it, in my opinion.”
“I’m so sorry, Sylvia.”
“I told you to call me Sylvie, Grace.”
I smiled. It may have been the nicest thing she’d ever said to me.
Andrew returned a moment later carrying an old black leather-bound photo album. She scowled at him. “Took you long enough
.”
His brow lifted. “It was two minutes, Mother.”
She held out her hand for the book. When he handed it to her, her hand and the book dropped to her lap. “Oof. Andrew, are you trying to kill me?”
He just shook his head and walked out of the room.
“Come here, Grace.” She opened the book. The first few pages were black-and-white professional photos of a young woman, richly dressed with a bright smile and jet-black hair. I didn’t need to ask who it was. Sylvia had been stunning when she was younger.
The next photos were all from her youth: a beauty pageant she won in 1953; a newspaper ad for the family business she’d done when she was twenty; a picture of her first shih tzu, also named Miss Taylor. It was an odd walk down memory lane with her, to say the least.
Then she turned the page again. Three women, all wearing roller skates, were laying in a pile on a banked track. A fourth woman was jumping over them.
My mouth dropped open. I grabbed the book. “Are you in this?”
She laughed and it triggered a painful-sounding cough. “That’s me,” she said when the coughing subsided. She tapped her wrinkled, bony finger on the picture. She was one of the women on the floor. “This was in Chicago. 1953, I believe. That’s Charlotte “Basher” Bashburn flying over us. She was a real ball buster.”
“You played roller derby?” I asked, still in disbelief.
“The word played might be a stretch. I skated for a few months while I was in Chicago. I was terrible at it, really. Not nearly as tough as some of the girls like Basher. I was much more suited to the fashion industry, so I left, came back to Tennessee, and got married.” She smiled and turned the page. “Here’s another one.”
The next photo was of her skating. She was clotheslining someone on the track.
I was in awe. “Sylvie, this is incredible.”
She chuckled and coughed again. “I was tickled when you mentioned it all those months ago. And now you play, just like I did. I’d like to live long enough to see you in action.”
Sadness seeped into my veins like a poison. I forced a smile back on my face. “Well, we scrimmage every Wednesday. Maybe once you’re stronger, Andrew can bring you.”
“I’d like that.”
Silence hung in the air for a moment between us. “You know who else plays roller derby?”
Her brow lifted in question.
“You know the young girl you recently gave the dress I made to? Her sister is on the junior derby team within my league.”
She froze, like she knew she’d been caught.
I sighed. “Sylvie, why didn’t you tell me about the dresses? About Lexi?”
She looked toward the window. “I don’t like to talk about Alexandria.”
“The girl you gave the last dress to wore it in the Christmas parade. I saw her in it. She looked like a princess.”
“Her name is Chloe. She told me she was going to be in the parade. That’s why I asked you to rush the dress.”
The rare tenderness on her face made me feel like I was watching the Grinch’s heart grow three sizes.
“Who did you give the others to?” I asked.
She shrugged. “A few I met at the children’s hospital. The rest were other girls I met through Hope Haven.”
“A good friend of mine works there. And, like I said, Chloe’s sister is on our junior roller derby team.”
She perked up. “Really? I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“Yeah. It’s open to girls eight to eighteen.”
Her eyes sparkled with tears.
“Small world, huh?” I asked.
She nodded and looked down at the photo in her book.
“It’s really sweet what you did for those girls in honor of your granddaughter.”
“Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Alexandria”—her breath hitched—“about Lexi.”
I took her hand. “It’s a precious way to celebrate her memory. Thanks for letting me be a part of it.”
“She would’ve loved each of them, Grace. You’re very talented. You’ve certainly found your calling.”
My nose scrunched. “I don’t know about all that. I feel like you’re supposed to love your calling.”
“You don’t love making dresses?” she asked, surprised.
“I used to. But ever since I found out that I most likely won’t ever be able to have my own children, it’s been like rubbing salt in an open wound every time I sit down at my sewing table.”
“I had no idea. I knew you were going through a divorce, but I didn’t know about the children part.”
“I don’t talk about it much.” And I’ve always thought you hated me, I added silently. “My ex-husband actually got another woman pregnant while we were still married and trying to conceive.”
“No!”
“Afraid so,” I said.
“Some men are such bastards.”
“Agreed. As you can imagine, it’s not too fun making princess dresses anymore. I honestly kind of hate it. But for now, it pays the bills.” I smiled. “Thanks mostly to you.”
She chuckled softly, avoiding another coughing fit. “What would you do instead?”
I shrugged. “I really have no idea.”
“I have no doubt you’ll figure it out. And if you’re this good doing something you hate, I can’t wait to see what you do with something you love.”
Sixteen
It was still dark outside when I heard my front door quietly open and close the next morning. I’d hidden a key for Jason outside in the hall, so I wouldn’t have to get up and let him in at the crack of dawn.
Outside in the hall, he tripped over a potted plant by the door and swore. I laughed and hugged my pillow. “It’s OK to turn on the light. I’m awake.”
“Oh, thank God.” He flipped on the light, and through the door, I could see him in his uniform.
Good lord, he was handsome.
“You all right?” I asked.
“Just a couple of broken toes, I think. I’ll be fine.” He came into my bedroom and unloaded his gun on my dresser. “I had a plan to sneak in here and slip into your bed without waking you up. Guess I shot that all to hell. What are you doing awake?”
“I rolled over the wrong way. My ass woke me up.” I reached over and turned on my bedside lamp.
Taking off his utility belt, he froze. “Grace, your face.”
“I told you it was bad. Wait until you see the other bruise.”
He carefully placed his belt on the floor near the door. “I don’t know if I want to.”
“You won’t be able to miss it.”
He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a black bulletproof vest over a white T-shirt.
I smiled. “And I thought your uniform was sexy.”
The Velcro tore away as he peeled the vest off. Then he knelt down beside the bed to unlace his boots. “Let me see it.”
I was only wearing a tank top and cotton panties. I pulled the comforter down, and he drew back in horror. He stopped untying his boot and covered his mouth. “Grace.”
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” I asked, looking back over my shoulder.
Running his hand down his face, he nodded. “Yeah, I have.” He reached up and pulled the blanket back over me. Then he stood, his boots still on his feet. “Mind if I take a shower? I’m gross.”
“Of course not. You want some company.”
“You stay in bed. I’ll be quick.” He turned toward the bathroom.
“Jason?”
He stopped.
“Are you OK?”
“Sure. I’ll be out in just a second.”
That was weird. Sure, the sight of my bruises was alarming. But was it a total turnoff? I got up and walked to the bathroom. I tapped my knuckle against the door and heard the shower running on the other side. “Jason?”
“Come in.”
I pushed open the door and found him sitting on the toilet lid, his elbows balanced on his knees. “What�
�s going on?”
He blew out a deep sigh. “The bruises.” He raked his fingers back through his hair. “I didn’t realize how much I would hate it.”
“I sent you pictures.”
“You did, and I thought I’d be prepared.”
“I don’t understand why this is such a big deal—” Then it hit me like another elbow to the face. I covered my mouth. “Your mom.”
He stood and walked over to me. “Logically, I know this isn’t the same thing. I just didn’t think it would have such an effect on me.”
I put my arms around his neck and hugged him. At least with my head on his shoulder, he couldn’t see my face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think.”
Gently gripping my waist, he pushed me back to look at him. “Don’t apologize. This is my issue. You didn’t do anything wrong. Does it hurt?”
“Not so much anymore. It just looks awful.”
He nodded. “Yeah, it does.”
I slid my hands down to his. “Come to bed. We’ll turn the lights off, and you won’t have to look at me.”
“Come here.” He cradled my face and kissed me. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too. Now turn off that water and come show me just how much.”
Kiara and I were at work in the back room when the front door bells jingled later that afternoon. “It’s just me!” Jason announced.
“Ooo, loverboy is here,” Kiara said with a teasing smile.
I looked at the clock. It was almost five. “In the back!” I called.
He walked through the doorway a moment later, and Kiara and I both turned our chairs to look. She let out a slow whistle. “Wow, you clean up well, Officer Eye Candy.”
“Yes, you do.” I got up to greet him with a kiss. He wore a gray suit with a white shirt and no tie. “You look handsome.”
“Thank you. How’s work been today?” he asked.
“We’re getting there. Kiara, how many more dresses would you say we have to do yet?” I asked.
“Four thousand, three hundred and three,” she said with a grin as she finished the hem of the navy gown she was working on.
I laughed. “It does feel that way. I’d say we’re about a quarter of the way finished with the orders from Black Friday.”