by Jessica Bird
Smith leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't care what you bring me as long as it isn't road kill."
"Of course, Mr. Smith. Right away." The maître d' bowed and the waiters bustled out of his way.
Smith went back to looking at Grace.
* * *
"Who is that man over there?" Grace's mother demanded.
"Which man?" she said, even though she knew precisely who it was.
"That man with Edward and the two waiters. I don't recall ever seeing him in here before. He seems to be causing a problem of some sort."
Grace took a small sip from her water glass. "How was your trip down from Newport?"
Her mother continued to stare at the tuxedoed knot around Smith, as if she could will away the disruption. "The trip was fine. Just fine."
"And how are you settling in?"
To her relief, her mother finally looked away from Smith's table.
"Mercedes Walker is coming down from Boston tomorrow. We're having a bit of a reunion."
"Jack is here tonight, by the way."
"Really?" This time when her mother scanned the room, her eyes were warmer. She waved in Jack's direction as he nodded.
Grace glanced over at Smith, wondering what had been said between him and Jack and what the problem with the waiters had been. His eyes, as they met hers, were so intense that a rush of awareness went through her. She frowned. If she wasn't careful, she was going to mistake his focus on her for being something more than professional.
Which would only take her further into dangerous territory.
She was paying him to watch her, she reminded herself. It was his job. He wasn't bowled over by her feminine mystique.
Mostly because she had none, Ranulf had gotten that right, unfortunately. Whatever Grace's attributes, she wasn't one of those women who had a lot of sex appeal. Never had been. And her husband's obvious and well-shared disappointment with their love life had only underscored what she'd always believed about herself.
She thought about the kisses she and Smith had shared.
He'd been passionate because he was a passionate man. His reaction had more to do with his own sex drive than with any special quality of hers.
"Grace?"
Her mother's strident voice bought her back to the present.“I'm sorry?"
“I was telling you about my forthcoming trip to Paris. I shall be staying with the Viscomte—"
This time, Grace was careful to pay attention as her mother laid out her plans in minute detail. The only pause came when the waiter brought their entrees. As a salmon fillet was placed in front of Grace, she hid a grimace.
She hated fish.
"You'll like that much better than the beef, darling," her mother said as an identical plate was put down at her place setting. "Now, tell me about the Gala."
"I think it's progressing quite nicely." Grace picked up her fork. She didn't like to lie, but had no intention of speaking the truth.
"Your father always had such a talent for those events. He was responsible for securing Betsy Ross's first flag for auction. Do you remember that?"
Grace let the story she'd heard countless times wash over her. Reminding herself to nod as soon as she heard a pause, she brought her fork to her lips and took the salmon into her mouth. She had to fight to keep from gagging.
Her eyes left her mother's well-preserved face and traveled through the room she knew so well. The place made her think of her father. She'd loved coming to dinner with him all alone. It had started out as a birthday tradition when she'd been younger and, as she'd grown up, they had done it more regularly.
Her father would watch her intently as she spoke, all the while tracing the tip of a silver teaspoon on the heavy linen tablecloth. She could still hear the soft rasping sound of it rising up between them. He would move the spoon in circles while he was listening. When he would speak, he would draw invisible squares, turning the corners as he made his points.
Those moments had been the very best of him, of their relationship. A sense of loss made her put the memories aside for another, more private, time.
She looked over to Smith and stiffened. She sensed that those hooded eyes were seeing through her social smile and her carefully observed manners. He knew, she suspected, that she was exhausted, tense, and lonely. Did he know that she despised the dinner she'd allowed her mother to order for her, too?
"Grace," her mother said sharply.
She turned her head. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?"
"I asked after Ranulf."
Grace's hand tightened on her fork. "Oh, he's well."
"Your husband is such a marvelous man. Did you know he wrote to me?"
"When?" She tried to keep her face smooth. Unlined. Pleasant.
Inside, she was wondering why in the hell Ranulf was reaching out to her mother. Now that they were separated, he should keep to his own family. She made a mental note to talk with her lawyer about it.
"The letter arrived last week. He said that he was going to be in town and that the three of us should get together." The disapproving tone, the one that made Grace's shoulders tighten like a vise around her spine, came back. "I assumed you would have brought him tonight."
"He was busy."
"Well, I did call on short notice. "Will you send him my regards?"
"Of course."
"Now tell me, when will you be having children?"
Grace choked on the fish. Coughing, she fumbled to get a napkin to her mouth.
Her mother didn't miss a beat. "Your one-year anniversary is coming. It's time, don't you think? Your father missed the opportunity of knowing his grandchildren. I don't want the same thing happening to me."
Grace took a sip of water. And another one. "I'm busy with the Foundation right now. I can't—"
An impatient hand waved away her words. "Let Lamont run the place. That's what your father really wanted."
Grace's eyes flared. Slowly, she put her glass down. "What did you say?"
"You can't honestly think he'd want you cooped up in that dreary office all the time. That's why he cultivated Lamont. Besides, what could you possibly know about running the Foundation? I was talking to Charles Bainbridge the other day, pointing out to him that you were really under too much stress. You need to be taking care of Ranulf right now, not worrying about business. Charles agreed."
Grace felt the blood drain from her face. Bainbridge was the chair of the board and the leader of the men who were rallied against her.
Her mother looked concerned. "Darling, you're not eating. Is the fish not to your liking? I'll summon Edward."
As her mother began to lift her hand, Grace rushed in, "No, no, the salmon is fine."
In the silence which followed, she tried to get her temper under control.
"Mummy, how could you do that?" she said quietly.
Her mother looked up in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"
"How could you undermine me like that? "
"Good Lord, are you talking about Bainbridge? I did you a favor. You really can't handle the responsibility—"
"I will be the one to decide that."
Carolina Hall froze. As her mother's expression turned icy, Grace fought against being submerged in her mother's censure.
"I find that comment and your attitude most ungracious."
Grace took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry, Mummy. But I know I can be what the Foundation needs and I want a chance to prove it. You going behind my back to Bainbridge is not helping me accomplish my goals." As her mother stared hard at her, she played her only strong card. "Besides, do you really want someone other than a Hall running the Foundation?"
That got through to Carolina. Slowly, the thaw came.
"You and your father were always alike. Once he got it into his head he was going to do something, nothing could sway him. I still believe, however, your focus should be on Ranulf and the family you will have with him. That's how I was with yo
ur father and look at how successful our marriage was. Don't you want that kind of accomplishment?"
As if marriage was a game to be won, a playing field on which to triumph over others.
All things being equal, Grace thought, she'd rather have a good partnership than something worthy of a social trophy.
She made an effort to change the subject. "Mummy, did you know we're going to do a tribute to Father at the Gala this year?"
"Ah, lovely. You know, your father started the tradition of the Gala."
"I know." Grace kept most of the exhaustion out of her voice.
"It was in 1962 that he first came up with the idea. We had the first one in our own home..."
When their plates were cleared, the waiter asked if they would like dessert.
"None for us," her mother answered. "Just coffee. Black."
Grace was wishing they could have skipped the coffee when her mother said, "You don't look well."
"I don't?" She picked up her water glass again and rationed what she drank. She wanted to save the last inch or so in case her mother dropped another bomb and got her choking again.
"No. And you've seemed very distracted tonight. You haven't been sleeping, have you?"
"I've been busy."
"Do you grieve for your father?"
The words were so quiet, Grace almost didn't hear them. She looked up in surprise.
"Yes, I do. I miss him tremendously."
The coffee came with the check. Carolina carefully drew her signature on the bottom followed by WH 1. She lingered with the pen in her hand, staring down at the slip of paper. Her eyes drifted upward, coming to rest on the candle that burned on the table between them.
"You and he were always so close. You worshiped him. I can remember, when you were a little girl, I found you in his closet once. He'd been gone for a week or two on business. You'd gotten into his clothes, had put yourself into one of his suits. You had a necktie around your neck that almost reached the ground. You must have been five or six."
Grace smiled sadly. "I remember that. You were furious because I wasn't allowed in your bedrooms."
"Was I? I don't recall. What I remember was your explanation. You told me that because he was gone, you needed to do his job for him, but you didn't have anything suitable to wear. It was really quite charming."
Her mother's eyes misted over, the smallest of changes, easily missed. Grace reached across the table for her mother's hand. She was surprised when they remained linked for a few moments.
"You always looked up to him," her mother murmured. "Your faith was enviable."
Grace frowned. Enviable? What an odd way to put it, she thought. Especially coming from her mother, who had made it her life's work to support the man.
Carolina pulled back, put the pen down, and lifted her coffee cup to her mouth. She blinked in quick succession a number of times.
"Do you miss him?" Grace asked quietly.
"Of course. I lived with the man for forty-six years. One gets used to having them around. How is your coffee? Mine is a little cool."
Grace sighed. She never drank caffeine late at night and had no intention of trying whatever had been placed before her.
"Mine is fine," she murmured.
"Which reminds me," her mother said. "We're closing up Willings late this year because of your father's death. I want you to come to Newport for Columbus Day weekend."
"Alright."
"You and Ranulf will come together." Her mother's eyes sharpened over the rim of her cup.
Grace stiffened.
She should just get the announcement over with, she thought. She wasn't going to change her mind about the divorce and time wasn't going to alter her mother's reaction.
"Mummy, I need to talk to you about something."
A familiar male voice interrupted her. "Mrs. Hall, how are you?”
"Jackson Walker!" Her mother exclaimed, accepting a kiss on her cheek. "I was hoping you would come over. How are you?"
"I'm well." Jack smiled and his regal face looked less austere.
"How is Blair?"
"Perfect in every way."
Grace heard her mother laugh and let the conversation fade away. She looked over at Smith. He was drinking coffee while his eyes were fixed in her direction.
"Did you hear that, Grace? "
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Jack and Blair will come over Columbus Day weekend, as well."
"That's wonderful."
Grace offered an enthusiastic smile to her old friend but, as she looked into his eyes, she knew she hadn't fooled him. When he turned to go, he rested a hand on her shoulder. Leaning in to kiss her cheek, he whispered, "Call me if you want to talk, okay?"
She nodded, placing her hand over his. "Thank you."
Jack strode out of the room, waving to a few of the other diners as he left.
"Such a lovely gentleman, that Jackson," her mother said. "You know, if you hadn't found Ranulf, he was the one I'd hoped you'd marry. The Walkers are an excellent family and he is such a success."
"Yes, he is."
Her mother glanced over at a grandfather clock. "It's late. I must go."
As they were walking to the cloakroom, her mother said, "You were about to say something?"
"It was nothing, Mummy. Nothing at all."
chapter
10
Eddie let out a whoop of joy as Smith tossed his leftovers into the front seat. " Bonus! So what am I eating? Lobster Newburg? Filet mignon?"
They were waiting while Grace and her mother said good-bye in front of the club.
"I think it's spaghetti."
Eddie craned around. "Let me get this straight. You go into a place like that and you order freakin' spaghetti?"
"I didn't order it." Grace's face was showing strain as she smiled and nodded. He was amazed that her mother didn't pick up on it.
"What do you mean you didn't order it? Did a fairy just wave a wand and it appeared ?"
"Don't know about the fairy but it was delivered by an evil little henchman."
Eddie laughed. 'I'm not going to go there."
"Wise of you."
After her mother had been swallowed into a black Town Car, Grace came over to the SUV and Smith opened the door for her. While Eddie pulled away from the curb, Smith glanced across the seat. She looked like she'd been pulled through a wringer but she wasn't asking for pity. There were no heaving sighs of exhaustion, no emotional tirades about whatever was wrong with her mother.
Just quiet forbearance. Delicate strength.
Funny, he'd never thought the two words could be used together.
"Rough meal?" he said.
She leaned her head back against the seat and glanced at him sideways. Her eyelids were half closed. "It could have been worse."
She turned away.
They'd gone about three blocks when Smith said sharply to Eddie, "I think we're being tailed. Pull over."
Grace's head snapped up as the Explorer halted. A white car passed them.
"That looks like the sedan that tailed me to my father's funeral," she said.
"Follow it," Smith told Eddie.
The Explorer shot back into traffic. Smith did his best to get the license plate but taxis and other cars kept getting in the way. As they approached an intersection, he thought they were going to get lucky. The light was turning orange and only one car separated them from their prey.
But with an abrupt burst of speed, the sedan raced through the light and dodged down an alley. Eddie gunned the engine to shoot around the vehicle in front of them but a taxi blocked their way at the last moment. Smith watched the taillights of the sedan get smaller and then disappear.
"You get anything, Eddie?"
"Nah, I was too busying trying to get close to the damn thing."
Smith glanced over at Grace. "Take us home."
"Sure, Boss."
After they drew up in front of her building, Smith got out and helped Grace from the ca
r. When she was standing close beside him, he reached into the back and pulled out the duffel bag and metal briefcases that Eddie had picked up from his hotel.
"Thanks for getting my stuff," he said to his friend. j
"No problem. And the doorman accepted the grocery delivery twenty minutes ago. Told me he'd leave it in the hall. What time do you need me tomorrow?”
"Seven-thirty."
"Right-oh."
And then, despite the fact that she looked like she was ready to fall over, Grace leaned into the car and smiled at Eddie. "When you heat up the pasta, do it over a stove if you can. High heat and move it around a lot. That way, the vegetables will stay crisper. I think you'll like the flavor. The head chef comes from Tuscany. Goodnight, Eddie."
Smith glanced at his friend. The man was wearing a bemused expression, having been thoroughly charmed.
" 'Night, Eddie," he said wryly.
"Yeah, Boss," the man said distractedly as he pulled away.
On the way up the building, Smith asked, "How'd you know what I had for dinner? "
"You aren't the only observant one."
When they reached her apartment, Grace's hands were shaking as she tried to unlock the door. It took her several attempts before she let them in. As she reached down for one of the grocery bags he told her to not worry about it.
"Then I'm going to go to bed," she said as he deactivated the alarm and shuttled the food inside.
He followed her down the hall, dropped his bag and the briefcases next to the bed he'd slept in the night before, and kept going into her bedroom. When she looked at him curiously, He told her he was just checking the rooms.
After doing a quick pass through the master suite, he checked the rest of the penthouse, unpacked the groceries, and went to his own room. He was taking off his leather jacket when he heard the sound of water rushing from down the hall.
As he tossed his coat over a chair, Smith imagined her stripped free of that black dress with her hair down around her shoulders. The locks would end just over the tips of her breasts and he'd have to gently push them aside to kiss her skin. He pictured the blond waves covering his chest and falling onto his face as they made love.