I nod.
“Were they ever a couple?”
“No.”
“So, did he have anything to do with the fire? Or was that all Dad’s doing?”
“Jonathan planned it, but Oscar assisted.”
“How did Solomon find out she survived?”
“Her bones weren’t found so Rufus refused to believe she was dead.” Queasy, I release Oscar’s hand and sit back in the chair. I detest regurgitating that night, but my past has caught up with me yet again. Avoiding the inevitable won’t do anymore, not with Jonathan gone and Oscar soon to follow him. “Tell me about what happened when Rufus contacted you?”
Brenden shifts his feet, folds his arms over his chest. “The funeral hadn’t been over for an hour when he sicced one of his suits on me, asking if I’d come to his house and meet him.”
A chill shivers over my skin. Discussing Rufus is so distasteful, every word must be carefully considered before it passes my lips.“Did you meet with him?”
He shifts again, like he’s uncomfortable. “I had to, to get him off my back. He had me followed, broke into Dad’s house, ransacked my room. He’s ruthless.”
“Why would he ransack your room?”
“I don’t know, except maybe he knows about the safe deposit box.”
“Oh no.”
“The man’s out of his mind. But I’m positive it was him. Who else could it be?”
Bile curdles in my stomach. The room’s spinning, so I close my eyes. No one owns you. I’d repeated these words on an endless loop in the early years after my escape, hoping to convince myself that I was safe. My life was mine now, not Rufus’. As decades passed, threats of discovery diminished and so did my fears.
“It doesn’t matter anyway, does it?” Brenden says. “He can’t do anything. Grace is gone.”
I steady my roiling stomach by concentrating on Oscar. Brenden is right. Oscar and Jonathan and I rarely spoke of Rufus. If we did, it was to encourage me to take my life wherever I wanted without regard to Rufus’ ghost.
“I’m sorry.” Contrition tightens Brenden’s face. “I feel like this is my fault. Like somehow I brought that douche bag back into your life.”
Douche bag? The vulgar expression fits Rufus perfectly. “You’re right. He can’t do anything to her now.”
* * *
I can’t convince myself that I haven’t done something wrong here. I don’t know what, exactly, but the look on Katherine’s face makes my gut ache. How much had Grace and Oscar told her about Solomon?
“This is kind of out there, but maybe if you call Solomon yourself and tell him she passed away he’ll back off,” I suggest. “He can’t refute her granddaughter—or daughter’s— claim.”
Her face drains of color—and I think I see a flash of fear in her eyes. But then it’s gone.
“Yes,” she swallows. “That’s something to consider.”
“I mean, when you’re ready. I know it’s still hard to talk about. She only passed away days ago. And…never mind.”
“No, what?”
She probably has no idea the man has a shrine to Grace Doll in his house.“Who knows what he’s going to say. That’s a conversation you don’t need right now.”
She studies me with those hypnotic eyes. My knees feel like they’re going to cave. My heart, hell, my whole chest feels cut open when she looks at me.
In the depths of my pocket, my cell phone vibrates. Again. I’d bet my soul the devil is calling. The buzz catches her attention. Her gaze traps mine in question.
“I’ll be back in a second,” I say even though I don’t want to leave. She looks small and vulnerable in the chair, the room’s sterile whiteness reflecting off her skin. I want to think she’d like me to stay—that I offer comfort and support. That she wants me.
My cell phone vibrates again. In the main area of the ER, doctors and nurses stand in clusters, talking. I quickly cross to the exit. Anger starts to bubble. I pull out the phone. Eighteen calls from Solomon.
Solomon picks up on the first ring. “Brenden—”
“Get off my back.”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“I said I don’t want your money.” I pace. The image of Katherine in the chair smacks me dead center in my heart. She deserves to mourn Grace without this loser crawling all over her. “Grace is dead.”
“I believe otherwise.”
“Believe what you want, but the truth is she died—really died—two weeks ago.”
A dense silence fills my ear. From the TV hanging on the wall of the ER, retro music spins from speakers. I know the music. A black and white movie starts. Paradise Found. A Rufus B. Solomon Production.
Starring Grace Doll.
“Where are you getting your information?” Rufus’ voice is lower, quieter.
On the screen, actors’ names scroll. Titles appear over a black and white image of a cottage protected by snow-covered trees, like a Christmas card.
My mouth opens, but I can’t speak the irony of the moment is bizarre. I laugh.
“Are you laughing at my expense?” Solomon barks in my ear.
“Not everything is about you, douche bag. Her granddaughter told me. She’s gone. It’s over. Leave it alone and don’t call me again.” I disconnect the phone.
I can’t stop staring at the screen. Maybe it’s because I’m here, doing this for Dad, but thrill surges through my veins anticipating seeing Grace. I’ve watched Paradise Found. The movie plays annually around Christmas—its New Year’s story of two lovers starting over considered a classic.
Grace’s face fills the frame. I see her differently now. In my mind, Katherine’s image layers over the black and white picture feeding my brain. When Grace begins talking, it’s Katherine’s voice in my head.
Then I feel that compelling force. She stands across the room, her eyes on the television. Her face is blank. Does it hurt seeing Grace Doll? Does she hate herself for despising someone who never gave her what she wanted? Someone she shares a face with?
I cross to her. Her eyes remain fastened to the screen in cold antipathy. “I came out here and it was on. Ironic timing, right?”
Her gaze slides to mine. Seconds clip by. Grace’s lyrical voice in the background makes the moment surreal, me looking at Katherine, hearing Grace’s voice. She eyes me as if she’s waiting for me to say something more.
“Is everything okay with Oscar?” I ask.
“He’s resting. I need a breath of air.”
Like a robot, she turns and starts walking away toward two double doors that open automatically when she nears. Urged by a feeling I can’t identify, I follow her into a long, sterile gray hall that smells like rubbing alcohol and paper towels. We walk in silence. My mind flashes one of multiple moments just like this, when I’d walked with Mom—hooked to her IV—down the long, yellow-lit halls of Cedars Sinai.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t apologize,” she snaps. “It’s not your fault that movie was playing.”
Her profile is rigid—like her mechanical walk. She looks straight ahead. “It must be hard, seeing her all the time. She was such a huge star.”
“I don’t see her all the time. I don’t allow myself to.”
“How can you avoid it? She’s still on the cover of tabloids now and then, and her movies are always on television and the internet.”
“I don’t read garbage periodicals. I don’t watch her films on the television. And I’m not on the internet.”
I come to an abrupt halt. She continues walking. “You’re not online—ever?”
“Never.”
By now she’s a dozen feet ahead of me so I jog to catch up. “But you have a computer.”
“No, I don’t.”
“How can you not have a computer?”
She stops and shoots me a stare as if to say, that’s the stupidest question I’ve been asked. Chin lifted, she continues down the hall. Now that I feel like a complete idiot, I wonder at the idea of cont
inuing after her. My cell phone vibrates in the pocket of Oscar’s coat. I pull it out. Judy.
Maybe Katherine wants to be alone. I hang back, and take the call. “What?”
“Where are you?”
“Out of town.”
“Out of town? How? You’re a child. Children don’t go out of town alone. Your father just died!”
“What does that have to do with anything? And, I’m eighteen. You remind me every time you tell me to get a job and get out. I’m out. Be happy.”
“Do you have a job?”
My eyes follow Katherine. “In a manner of speaking, yeah, I do.”
“You either do or you don’t. Which is it?”
“The beauty of being out of the house is I don’t have to answer to you.”
“How do I know you’re not going to get into any trouble?”
“You don’t.” I laugh, enjoying that I’m ruffling her.
“Come get your stuff out of my house if you’re so independent.”
Annoyed, I click off the phone. Katherine’s turning left now, following the direction of the passageway. I break into a run to catch up. My cell phone vibrates again.
Keeping her in my sights I slow. Soloman. The man texts? Or has he dictated his message to one of his droids?
Grace had a hysterectomy.
I come to a halt. Stare at the words.
I reply: You’re wrong. I’ve met her granddaughter.
Where are you?
I lift my gaze. She’s approaching another set of closed double doors. A sign says restricted entry. She stops and turns, pressing her back against the doors with sigh of exasperation.
Where does she want to go?
Who is she?
Queasiness trickles in my stomach. Phone in hand, I continue toward her. Questions fumble in my head. Grace had a hysterectomy. What exactly is he implying? He’s losing his mind.
As I approach, her eyes flick to mine and hold.
Why would Solomon make up an outrageous story? Without speaking, we walk back the way we came until we’re again in the ER lobby. We enter the area to the sound of her voice—and my brain skips. It’s Katherine standing next to me. Grace is on the TV.
She glances at the television. Her eyes widen, her lips part as if she’s horrified at what she sees onscreen.
Chapter Nineteen
~Grace~
My voice, like a macabre soundtrack, fills my body with revulsion. My eyes are drawn to the scene playing out on the television even with the horrific act that took place: the cozy living room, the couch where Rufus raped me in front of Jonathan. The photographs.
Bile surges up my throat.
I run to the restroom and vomit. Cold shakes rattle my body from head to toe. Sweat coats my skin. An old rage tears through the moral decency I’ve worked hard to restore and preserve. Rufus. Humiliation and helplessness reappear—emotions I thought I’d inoculated myself against decades ago.
No one owns you.
I rise from the toilet, flush it and scrub my hands, face and mouth with cool water from the sink, facing my reflection. Nothing’s changed.
A tap on the door sends my heart into a round of flurries.
The door cracks open. Brenden peers in. “Are you okay?”
I nod, unable to take my gaze from him because just looking at him lifts my soul. Brenden holds the door open for me and I exit the bathroom and, passing him, sensual energy seeps into the air, tempting me. As difficult as it is to think of my past, I’m not going to let Rufus have one more second of control over my life. I’m not the girl he took from her family. I’m not his doll.
“You sure you’re okay?” Brenden’s stays close to my side, his eyes discerning.
“I need to speak with Oscar privately.” It takes every ounce of control I can muster to ignore the sensations begging me to explore new hope with Brenden. If he wasn’t Jonathan’s son, I’d have dismissed him by now, resigned to the life I’ve lead. But my attraction to him soars through my every breath. Light-headed, I fumble through the ER and pound on the door for entrance. Finally, the nurse buzzes me through.
“Miss? Are you all right?” she asks as I wobble past her.
I nod. Keep going. Keep going. I need to see Oscar, that will douse my wild libido with reality.
I pull the chair to the side of Oscar’s bed and take his hand. The dead-white light casts his tired face and body in a ghostly hue, and, the flooding sensations brought on by Brenden begin to subside.
“What happened?”he rasps.
“It’s nothing that can’t wait until you’re home. How are you feeling?”
“Have you told Brenden the truth?”
I bite my lower lip, shake my head. “No. That’s the last of my concerns. You—you’re my concern.”
“I wondered if there’d be trouble.” Trouble? I want to laugh. Even picturing Brenden causes my insides to liquefy. Oscar’s eyes twinkle. “Ah, I see.”
“Nonsense.” But my cheeks are warm, giving me away.
“I may be dying but I’m not blind. It’s a good thing, I think, that he’s here.”
“He’s talked to Rufus.”
Oscar’s eyes widen. “Dear god in heaven.”
“Rufus didn’t even wait until Jonathan’s casket was in the ground.”
With a hiss of disgust, Oscar’s skin begins to pink with rage.
“At least Brenden didn’t give him anything,” I say.
Oscar swallows with relief. “He’s Jonathan’s son.”
“Yes, but his feelings for Jonathan are very resentful. I feel responsible.”
“Don’t. That’s water under the bridge.”
“But he and I are on that bridge.” I rise, scrubbing away a chill.
A nurse comes in and checks him, says he’s oxygenating better and that they’ll move him into a private room. I gather his clothes and follow the nurses who push the portable bed through double doors, down a long hallway until we reach a sleepy section of rooms waiting for patients.
The light in the room is at a twilight setting, the scent of sterile linens is strong as they settle Oscar into his new bed. I place his pajamas and slippers in the closet. When we’re left alone again, I stand next to his bedside. Rufus’ image forces its way into my head—and I hate it. I swallow back the urge to vomit. I won’t lose the control I’ve earned.
Even though the idea of facing Rufus looms, I can’t ignore the completion of peace that awaits if I finally do accept what needs to be done.
“I’m tired,” he drawls. “It’s going to be all right. Go home.”
”I’m going to see Rufus.”
Oscar’s eyes widen. He studies me for long moments that cause me to wonder if he’s behind my decision or not. “You’re serious about this?”
“How else can I ever be completely done with my past?”
“I don’t know if you can ever be completely done. Can any of us?”
“I know everything stays with you to some degree or another, but I’m tired of being afraid. I don’t have to wonder if he’s going to find me, Oscar—he has. We can’t move, you’re sick. This needs to be over.”
He ponders my words, and the sharpness in his eyes softens. “I’ve been waiting for you to come to this conclusion.” He pauses. “Take Brenden.”
I have no idea how I’ll approach the subject or if Brenden will agree to go. “I’ll only be gone a day. You’re safe here, and you’ll be well cared for. I’m going to make the arrangements, all right?”
He nods. Closes his eyes. A tear slips out from behind his lashes and my heart aches. I lean over, kiss his forehead. He grasps my arms tight and holds me close. “You’ll have the freedom you deserve.”
“Shh.” I lay my cheek against his forehead, holding my own tears in place.
“Be careful.”
I stand erect, our hands still joined. “Rufus can’t do anything to me.”
From where I stand, I catch Brenden’s backpack on the floor on the other side of the room. The
nurse must have brought it, assuming it belonged to Oscar. I cross, pick it up and look at Oscar.
He shakes his head. “Sis, no.”
“I’ll tell him…later,” I rationalize, fingers on the zipper. The vial. The backpack smells like Brenden, and I lift it to my nose and inhale. Oscar’s brow arches. I have the fleeting thought that Oscar is right, Jonathan sent Brenden—and not just to give me the vial.
The door opens and Brenden enters. His eyes skip from mine to the backpack, back to me. Behind him, the door comes to a quiet close.
I extend the backpack. “I didn’t…”
“I discouraged thieving.” Oscar tries to lighten the tension. “You owe Brenden an apology.”
I can’t apologize to him, even though I may owe him one. I only apologize to people I love and trust.
“She always has been stubborn,” Oscar says on a sigh of disappointment. I avoid his gaze.
Brenden studies me through wary eyes. When he takes the backpack, his fingers brush mine. Warmth flurries from my hand, through my arm and floods my body, pooling in my wobbling knees. I reach out, grab hold of the foot of the bed and sit.
Brenden hoists the backpack onto his back, anchoring his hands on the straps. If he trusted me at all, he doesn’t anymore. His gaze continues to probe. I try to calm my fluttering heart. Not looking at him helps.
“Oscar, you feeling better?” he asks.
“I’m fine.” Oscar waves his hand. “You two get back to the house. You need sleep.”
He knows I don’t sleep.
“I’ll catch some z’s out in the lobby if I need to.” Brenden crosses to me. “Get comfortable. Let me take your coat and scarf.”
Maybe he’s not angry at me after all. “I’m fine, thank you.” In fact, the warm layer of clothing gives me a sense of safety—from my precarious reaction to him.
“Go,” Oscar says. “I’ll be all right.”
Oscar’s trying to get me alone with Brenden so I will talk to him.
Brenden opens the door and pauses in the jamb. “She’d probably rather be in here,” he says. “A Grace Doll movie is showing out in the lobby.”
Grace Doll Page 11