Oscar’s brow furrows. “Oh for Pete’s sake, ask them to change the channel.”
Brenden glances at me then closes the door after him. When he’s gone, a draft of emptiness chills my heart. I have to tell him the truth. How?
“What are you afraid of?“ Oscar asks.
“Are you speaking of facing Rufus? Or the easy task of telling Brenden that I’m Grace Doll and risk that he’ll tell the world?”
His eyes twinkle and tease. “What risk? It’s all about timing,” he says. He reaches for my hand. “You’re good at timing. It’s always been one of your strengths.”
Chapter Twenty
~Brenden~
Grace’s face beams from the black and white film like a full moon in a midnight sky. Her voice spins soft threads of want through my body. No. That woman tore my family apart. I’m confusing Grace with Katherine. I can admit that.
Katherine obviously hates the woman. Why else would she run out of the room, ready to hurl? What kind of a diva was the actress?
The vibrating cell phone breaks my concentration on both women—a good thing. To keep my head straight, I pull the phone out. Solomon, again.
This matter needs to be discussed over the phone. I’m waiting for your call.
My nerves jump. I’m too curious about the desperate man willing to make up such outlandish stories. How much farther is he willing to go with this obsession?
I dial.
“You’re one sick bastard, you know that?”
“There’s a marking on the back of her neck. A star.”
The man is overboard. “Why would she have a star there?”
“Ask Grace.”
“I told you, she died two weeks ago.” I click off the phone. I want to huck it against the wall, and I almost do. His implication is impossible and insulting—I’m angry he’s desecrated Dad’s death because of his sick obsession with a woman who already damaged my life.
Ask Grace. His disturbing comment is stuck in my head even if it is outlandish. All I can think about is looking at the back of her neck. How are you going to do that? Excuse me, but can I see the back of your neck? And then what?
Who is she, really?
My cell phone vibrates. Again. I’m not going to talk to Solomon until I check out his claims and can tell him to choke on them.
I plunk into a chair, backpack at my feet. The weariness settling into my muscles drags my body near the edge of exhaustion. It’s not likely I’ll sleep with suspicion chewing on me.
The vibrating phone has to stop. I pull it out and turn it off before the battery dies. Then I slip the phone away. My sketchpad. Just seeing it eases my building anxiety. I pull it out, grab a pencil.
My gaze is drawn to the screen. To Grace. The loss and disappointment I feel at not getting to meet her and talk to her about Dad weigh like boulders on my chest. An intense longing lingers in spite of the fact that I will never get to tell her off. Pencil pressed against paper, I scrape. Furious strokes. Slashes. Her face—the look of urgency in her eyes. But her voice works my heart into soft putty. My strokes slow, soften as I sketch the fullness of her mouth, the feminine softness of her jaw. The scratching sounds of my pencil eases my tight muscles. Fluid thoughts of her pour her image through tendons and sinews until the final stroke—the side of her neck, and I stop.
Ask Grace.
The door to the ER opens. She appears. Her eyes latch on mine and she crosses to where I sit, stopping inches from me. Her gaze shifts to my drawing. In a surreal exchange, Grace’s dialogue narrates the curious moments passing between.
“If you don’t believe me, who will?” Grace’s character asks.
“Everything you’ve said makes me feel like you’re lying to me. I need reasons. Proof,” her costar says.
“Ready?” She buttons her coat, tightens the scarf.
“We don’t have to leave on my account. Like I said, I can sleep—”
“It’s been arranged.” She strides to the exit like a woman with a mission. I hop to my feet and follow.
The double doors slide open. We’re hit in the face by a gust of icy air.
“Hey, it stopped snowing,” I observe.
“Where’s the car?” she asks.
“Over here.” I lead her to the snow-covered SUV and when we get there, give her the keys. My fingertips touch the palm of her hand, her breath billows out in small gasps and, for a second, she looks like she’s going to faint. But she steadies herself. She opens the trunk and pulls out a snow scraper. I extend my hand. She hesitates, then gives me the scraper and gets in the car, to start the engine. The car has a three-inch build up of snow, but it’s powdery, and brushes off easily.
After the windows are clean, I climb in and shut the door. The heater blows cold air and both of our breaths hiss out in white wisps.
“Brenden,” she says. My name sounds melodic coming from her lips. “I wouldn’t have taken the box and not told you.”
Her eyes are earnest—beautiful. I want to believe that she’s not b.s.ing me. I don’t say anything because my head’s jammed with, Ask Grace. Ask Grace. The resemblance seems even more striking—my crazy imagination on overdrive. Still, a pit opens in my stomach that I’m allowing Solomon’s words a corner in my consciousness.
“It’s the truth,” she says.
“I walk in and you’re holding my backpack.”
She lifts her chin. “I was tempted. But I didn’t take it.”
“Can you tell me what’s in the box?”
She takes a deep breath and cautiously backs the car out of the parking space.
“I can’t tell you that—yet.”
“Why? Don’t you trust me?”
“That’s not it.”
“Do I scare you?”
She seems to struggle with a reply. “You do scare me,” she whispers.
“What did I do to—”
“You didn’t do anything. I’m not used to being around…anyone… but Oscar. I’ve been taking care of him for a very long time.”
“I get that. I took care of Mom. It’s not easy.”And I can relate to how the rest of life can suck along with it.
“I owe it to him.”
“He’s lucky to have you,” I repeat what she said to me about Mom. A soft smile lights her face.
Ask Grace. I wish she’d tell me how she was related to the woman. I can’t wait to put Solomon out of his obsessive misery and shut him up with the truth. “Can I ask you another question? Since we’re on a roll.”
She smiles. “Are we?”
“I definitely feel a roll.”
Her glance is coy. Seductive? I don’t know. All I know is I want to put my arms around her and feel her.“How did Grace wind up with Oscar and not Dad?”
She takes a deep breath. Earlier, she didn’t want to talk about Grace, but I have to have some answers. And, she seems a little more receptive now.
Flicking on the left hand turn signal, she navigates the car through snow-buried streets. After a moment, she says, “Jonathan knew Rufus would suspect something if we all disappeared at once.”
“We?”
“They,” she stammers. ‘They’ jumps in my head, sending off warning bells. “Jonathan had a high profile job at the studio. Oscar, on the other hand, wouldn’t be missed.”
“So, Solomon refused to believe the police findings in spite of the investigation?”
She nods. “You saw Rufus,” she says, wary curiosity in her voice. ”Tell me about your meeting.”
“He had me come to his place. The house is pimped out like a shrine to Grace Doll. Pictures everywhere—I even saw my drawing.”
Her eyes widen. I’m not sure I should keep going, but she doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “The man looked like he had on a Halloween costume. Seriously grotesque. Scarred, he said, for trying to save his wife.”
I watch her closely for—what? I’m not sure. Her lips pinch when I say the word, ‘wife.’
“Anyway, he told me the typical ‘sorry for your loss’ b
.s. then asked if Dad had bequeathed me anything.” I snort. “Like I’d tell him. He kept asking how close I was to Dad. He wanted to buy me. Even though things sucked between Dad and me, I’m not—I wouldn’t do that.”
“I know Jonathan loved you,” she says. How can she know that? But her eyes glisten—and the mood in the air shifts from uncertainty to what feels like truth.
“Anyway.” I clear my tight throat. “I told him to get off my back and then I left. He was so mad I thought he’d claw my face off. Then he had someone tail me. You wouldn’t believe the lengths I had to go to, to get out of town. And, still, he managed to have someone follow me.”
She grips the steering wheel.“Someone followed you…here?”
Damn. “Well, to Utah, yes. But not to your house.”As my explanation rushes out, her pallor whitens. She steers the car with one hand, the other covers her mouth. “I grabbed a cab, and, when we took off from the airport nobody had picked the guy up.
“It’s okay.” I reach across the cab and lay my hand on her shoulder. “You’re okay. She’s not in danger anymore, remember?”
Her body trembles. Her eyelashes flutter, like she’s going to lose consciousness. The car swerves. Instinctively, I grab the wheel, try to steady it. We’re alone on the street, but the car fishtails and slides out of control.
Chapter Twenty-One
~Grace~
“Are you okay?” His hand—on my shoulder now, then on my face, checking for injury. His body snugs next to mine with an urgency to check for safety, but my body betrays me, wanting, fantasizing something else.
Idiot. You could have killed us. Panic sears my nerves. But Brenden’s nearness—his touch—sends that tornado of fire through me. Pulse pounding, I suck in a breath. My mind flashes an image of me wrapping my arms around him.
Stop this.
He’s so close. To kiss his lips…to become a part of him. ”Yes, I’m fine. I didn’t mean to—I don’t know what happened.”
What must he think? You should have stopped yourself back at looking at him. This is out of control now.
“You sure you’re okay?”he asks.
I nod.
Scraping his hands down his face, Brenden lets out a low sigh and eases back, sliding to the passenger’s seat. “You want me to drive?”
“No.” I lock my hands on the wheel, press my foot on the gas. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I don’t know how you drive in this stuff. Scares me.”
When will this voracious flow ebb? Don’t look at him. Something else, something else. I turn on the radio. Music has always soothed me, and I’m relieved that one of my favorite singers is on the satellite station. As the lyrics float in the air, the melody irons out my crimped anxiety.
Out the corner of my eye, Brenden watches me, a half grin on his lips. “What?” I ask.
“Frank Sinatra?”
“You know Frank?”
“Not personally,” he laughs.
My cheeks heat. “Frank Sinatra relaxes me.”
“Whatever works while we’re driving.”
Lyrics about longing seem ironically apropos and I find myself smiling. The song melts the space between us, questions besiege me: what kind of music does he like? Is he a romantic? Does he like to dance? Take long strolls? I know so little about him. He’s right here, don’t be afraid—ask. “What kind of music do you like?”
He scrubs his jaw—now starting to shadow with dark stubble, accentuating the sharpness of his jaw. “A lot of different kinds. There’s a place for everything, in my opinion. Except maybe this.” He grins. “Kidding. Dad loved him.”
“Jonathan had excellent taste in music. But I never understood his interest in Simon and Garfunkle.” I realize how familiar my comment sounds, and a thick awkwardness clogs the air.
He eyes me. “Between him and Mom, I got a pretty broad exposure to the arts.”
“Diversity is always good,” I say, neutralizing the subject because I don’t want to dampen the mood. “I need to fly to Los Angeles.” I pull onto our street. “As soon as the airport is open.”
“What about Oscar?”
“He’s in good hands, and he knows I’m going. Since you’ll be returning to Los Angeles, maybe we can… fly down…together.”
I shouldn’t try to read anything into what he might be feeling. But I can’t deny that the look of pleasure in his eyes excites me.
“Yeah,” his voice is rough. “We can do that. I should call the airport, see what they’re doing with my flight—rescheduling and stuff.” He pulls the cell phone out of his pocket. His jaw twitches.
“Something wrong?”
“Solomon won’t leave me alone.” His eyes skim my face, as if dissecting every inch. Heat builds beneath my cheeks.“The man’s out of his mind—literally.” He pauses, and the air tenses with something heavy. “He thinks you’re Grace Doll.”
Breath stalls in my lungs. Keep driving, you’re almost home.
“I told him—and—maybe I shouldn’t have, maybe it wasn’t my place, but you deserve to grieve in peace.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him she was dead. That she’d died two weeks ago.”
Oh god no. Light headed, I press on the gas pedal, the car surges up the driveway, kicking back snow. At the house, I slam on the brakes and the car halts. I shove the gear in park. My hands lock around the steering wheel.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I probably shouldn’t have, but you looked so scared…I thought if he knew he’d back off.”
My heart scrambles in my chest. “You’ve made this worse.”
“How?” His tone is defensive. “You want that man hounding you? He’s out of his mind. Someone needs to lock him up and throw away the key. Or better yet, he needs to just die.”
It seems hours drag by, though it’s only seconds before I can take a breath into my lungs. This really is going to happen. I am going to see Rufus face to face. Brenden’s expression is hurt, tentative, waiting for my response.
“If I even thought there was a chance of compromising Grace and Oscar,” he leans close as if he might jump out of his skin, “I wouldn’t have said anything.”
I’ve wounded him. He thought he was helping me, but he doesn’t know the truth. This is my fault. “I know you wouldn’t. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it like it sounded.”
My gaze shifts to the front window of the car, the driveway with fresh footprints to our porch. The front door is wide open. “Oh no.”
Brenden opens the car door and jumps out, slogging through snow, his gaze intently on the ground.
I leave the engine running and exit, wrapping myself in a hug. My body’s shaking.
“Call the police. I’ll check it out.” Brenden hikes through the imprints left in the snow and disappears inside. I make the call to 911. My head reels. I close my eyes against horrific scenarios invading my mind.
The sound of feet thudding causes me to open my eyes. Brenden’s face is pale, taut against the cold. He comes right to me. I prepare myself for a physical assault when he touches me. His breath clouds the air between us. “It’s a mess in there.”
Rufus.
I turn and vomit into the white snow at my side. Bent over, I heave until the muscles in my stomach cramp.
Brenden’s touch on my back sends soothing warmth through my troubles. I suck in a deep breath, stand upright and meet his concerned gaze.
“I’m going inside,” I say, passing him. He follows me.
The furniture’s intact, but every drawer has been opened and dumped. I wade through files and papers littering the floor. Photographs are gone from the shelves. In the kitchen, every drawer that had any paperwork has also been emptied.
Behind me, Brenden picks up the house phone and calls the police.
Without touching anything, I start down the hall. The bathrooms are untouched, so are the linen closets. Oscar’s room has been turned upside down, so has my office. Every
bolt of fabric has been unraveled. Each handmade blouse, jacket, skirt and dress has been ripped from the hanger and tossed. Oscar and I had never gotten lazy about anything that would identify us. Every time we moved I opened a safe deposit box for storing important files or paperwork.
My heart skips when I enter the wreck of my bedroom. Anger roars through me. I’m more certain now that I have to confront Rufus and get him off my back.
Sirens boom outside. After a few minutes I hear the voices of the police officers mingle with Brenden’s as they come down the hall toward the bedroom. They ask questions. I answer, all the while my blood charges with the need to put all of this to a stop.
It seems to take forever to fill out papers. They check out every inch inside and outside the house.
I tell the officers I’m leaving town and they inform me they will check on the property while I’m away and continue the investigation. Then they leave.
“Do you want me to help—”
“No.” I shake my head. “I can’t take the time to do this now. Something else is more pressing.” I start toward the front door.
“You still want to leave?”
I’m more determined now than ever. “Yes.”
He grabs my shoulders. Craving sears my blood, soaring through muscles and bone, melting me.
“Maybe you should take some time and —what’s wrong?” Panic breaks his voice. He gathers me up—sending another disabling wave of desire crashing through me. I long for this. And more. Even as my heart beats with terror.
He carries me to the couch and gently lays me down. His palms frame my face, the contact paralyzing my lips, the paralysis racing down my throat, neck, spreading with abandon until my hands and feet are prisoners.
“We have to leave,” I rasp. “Right now.”
“I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“No! No, I’m all right. I promise.”
“But you almost passed out—twice now. You should be looked at.”
“I’m fine, really. Please, this is not about my health. I’m certain it’s just shock. I need to get to Los Angeles as soon as possible. Once I do that, everything will fall into place.”
Grace Doll Page 12