Charming Grace

by Deborah Smith

  Later, on the Delta flight back to Georgia, he was a study in misery. I held his hand tightly and watched him down a rare double Scotch. Harp didn’t usually like any mind-altering substance other than me. “Listen,” I told him, “it’s clear to anyone with eyes that Mika wants to get to know you. And you deserve to know her. We’ve got the resources to fight this.” I tried to smile. “G. Helen’s lawyers can beat up G. Natalie’s lawyers with one briefcase tied behind their backs.” I paused, the smile fading. “I’ll even . . . go to my father for high-powered legal help. I will.”

  “No.” Harp took me by the chin and kissed me. He tasted like Scotch and love. “No. Just . . . help me write good letters to Mika. And pick out the right kind of girly gifts. Maybe, when she’s grown, she’ll come to visit. Of her own free will.” His throat worked while his expression took on the hard lines of self-protection, a look I’d seen many times since we were kids. “What is it about me? My sister ran off and never looked back. Now I can’t even make friends with her kid.”

  “Michelle had problems. She did the best she could. She loved you.”

  “Look, I know I’m meant to be alone—”

  “Meant to be alone? What am I? Chopped goose pate?”

  “Alone except for you, and you’re just plain nuts—”

  “Nuts to love you? Would that be garden-variety peanuts, or fancy cashews?”

  “You can’t joke me out of this mood. I’m not lovable, Grace. I’m not. Your daddy will always hate me. Most of the rest of your family keeps making bets that’ll you’ll come to your senses and divorce me and my civil servant’s salary, and my own niece’s kin don’t want anything to do with me.”

  “Mika does. I promise you. All right? We’ll write to her, we’ll stay in close contact, and someday, someday she’ll come to see you. I promise.”

  After a moment, he managed a nod, but his shoulders sagged. “She’ll have to come of her own free will,” he said, “something my sister couldn’t or wouldn’t do.”

  The day Mika showed up at Bagshaw Downs, a few months after Harp was killed, I was in the big greenhouse behind the mansion. I lay on my back atop a long wooden table, as if posing for the figure on a sarcophagus. Barber’s Adagio for Strings moaned from a CD player, surely the most heart-breaking baroque music in the universe.

  Pots of Harp’s beloved ladyslippers surrounded me on the greenhouse tables, their green leaves poking up like the ears of buried green rabbits, already tinged with yellow and ready to fade back into the soil for a winter’s sleep. My face was swollen from months of tears and hangovers, I was dirty, my clothes hung on me. I made a pathetic and weird sight, best left unseen by the Bless Her Heart public. Which was why G. Helen wisely insisted I spend my time in the greenhouses, in the barn with Harp’s horses, and at Ladyslipper Lost, where I often sat for hours, talking to Harp. He was buried there, beneath a long, plain slab of mountain rock, surrounded by the ladyslippers and several hundred small candles. I had never forgotten how much he feared the darkness. I took candles every day.

  That day in the greenhouse I heard a gasp and the sound of the greenhouse’s glass door banging shut as someone let it go with a startled hand. I sat up slowly. Must be G. Helen, I thought in a bleary, resentful daze. Goddammit, grandmother, leave me alone. Moving makes my brain hurt.

  But instead of my tall, lily-white grandmother, there stood a short, light-brown teenage girl. She clutched a tote bag, a leather suitcase, and a laptop computer case covered in Microsoft logos. A Palm Pilot peeked out of one front pocket of her green cargo pants. A tiny cell phone dangled from a belt loop. It had a Star Trek symbol on it.

  “Mika? Mika!”

  “Aunt Grace? Aunt Grace!”

  The little princess had been replaced by a pretty, round-figured computer nerd. Her curly black hair was pulled back by candy-red barrettes. She wore a t-shirt with dual images of Nelson Mandela and Captain Kirk on it, over the words, Peace to the Planet.

  Aunt Grace?” She craning her head and eyeing me as if I might dive into the orchids like a giant, deranged butterfly.

  “Yes. Yes, it’s me. I’m . . . sorry—” I swung a hand at my appearance. “If I’d known you were—how did you get here?”

  “I graduated from prep school two years early. My grandmother has given me part of my trust fund to spend some time traveling before I enter Harvard—for my worldly education, of course. She assumed I’d tour Africa and Europe, but I opted to experience a far more exotic and forbidden locale.” She paused, watching me carefully. “The Southern kingdom of my white relatives.” Another tense pause. “If I’m welcome here.”

  I stumbled off the table and stood, swaying among the ladyslippers, holding onto the table edge and smiling. “Welcome? Of course you’re welcome here!”

  Her face brightened. “This is going to sound crazy, but . . . not long ago I dreamed one night . . . I dreamed Uncle Harp told me to come here now. He was right there in front of me, alive, talking to me. He said, Grace needs you. She’ll tell you where you belong. I, uh, I have a hard time fitting in. I’m not much of a debutante. I don’t seem to have inherited the DuLane society-girl genes. So I thought I’d see if I fit in here.” She paused. “See how the white half of my family tree lives.”

  “So you talk to Harp too. In your dreams.”

  She smiled sadly. “No, I only listen.”

  “You look perfectly at home here among his ladyslippers. The orchids know their own. You’re Harp’s niece, and that makes you my niece, too, and that means you’re a Bagshaw-Vance-DuLane, and that means you’re home.” And I went to her with my arms out, and she started to cry, and so did I, and we hugged.

  “I hope he knows I finally came to visit him,” she whispered.

  “He does.”

  And so Mika DuLane brought the heart of Michelle Vance home to the dead brother she had abandoned out of love and necessity, which is how most of the saddest desertions are made.

  Like me, she had been trying to make it up to Harp, ever since.

  Boone made a fast turn onto the narrow road where evidence of my gravel blockade had been removed, on Stone’s orders, down to the last embarrassing granite pebble. Laurel whipped by faster. We headed up a mountain side, about one mph less than Mach 1. Boone could not have looked more serious. If I had any doubt he took his job lightly, that shuttered it.

  “Did you know Stone’s son was in town?” I shouted above the wind. Boone preferred his car windows like he obviously preferred my defenses—all the way down.

  “No. And that worries me. I’m supposed to know. I keep an eye on him.”

  “Is he . . . always so unpredictable?”

  “He’s ten pounds of heart in a two pound bag.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Skinny, smart and sensitive. Son of Stone’s first wife. She’s an anthropology prof in New York. Was only married to Stone for a year or two, way back when he was playing bit parts. Leo grew up with her in New York. She never let him visit his papa much as a kid. Said Stone couldn’t set a good example as a papa until he stopped being a Neanderthal.” Boone whipped the car off the pavement onto a narrow gravel lane. We soared through overhanging evergreens and past bright, stern signs that had been hammered onto the trees. Senterra Productions. No Admittance. Armed Guard at Gate Ahead.

  I clutched gnarled red tornadoes made by my hair. “Stone’s first wife thought Stone would evolve into a modern humanoid? How naive of her.”

  “Hey, he’s a good papa. Loves his little girls, loves Leo, loves Kanda. Kanda’s a smart matzah ball and she recognizes a class act when she sees one. His first wife just chickened out.”

  “Kanda thinks Stone’s a class act? Which class? Kindergarten or first grade?”

  “Hey. Kanda’s no pushover. You’ll meet her. You’ll see. Anyway, so here’s the problem: Stone wants Leo to be a meat eater like him, but Leo’s a sprouts-and-tofu type. Stone invited Leo out to California last year when he turned eighteen. Said he’d teach Leo the movie b
iz and put some muscle on him. Leo showed up all eager to be a man’s man and make his papa proud, but so far it’s been like Daddy Dearest with barbells.”

  We rounded a curve in the narrow lane and slid to a stop before a serious metal gate. An armed, uniformed guard wearing the emblem of a security company grabbed the security pass Boone held out the Lamborghini’s window. The man gave Boone a boot-licking smile but peered shrewdly at me. “Okay, Mr. Noleene, but who’s she?”

  “My personal hoochie.”

  “I’m Grace Vance,” I corrected, “and either you let me into this compound to see my niece or I’ll—”

  “She’s got secret supplies of gravel,” Boon interjected. “Open the gate before she busts a dump truck in your—”

  “I can’t just—”

  “Do it.” There was something grim and unsettling in Boone’s eyes. The guard swung the steel gate open and we roared through.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I don’t like Barney Fife rent-a-cops. These guys were hired through Stone’s production people in L.A. I don’t know ‘em but they know me, and I don’t want any trouble with ‘em.”

  I sat back in the low-slung, six-figure-sleek bucket seat, sick at my stomach. These uniformed thugs held Mika. “You don’t like men with badges, I take it.”

  He glanced at me as if I’d pinched him, making me wince instead of him. “I got no problem with a man of the law who upholds the law. I’m not a law breaker anymore, Grace. I’m not a cop hater, either.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Forget it.”

  The compound, set on a wooded knoll overlooking blue mountains, included a dozen huge luxury RV’s, a small colony of high-tech Quonset Huts, and several big construction-type trailers bristling at the bottoms with cables and at the tops with satellite dishes and antennae. In the center sat a friendly old log pavilion that Dahlonegans remembered as the centerpiece of the defunct Do-Rest Camp Grounds, back when tourists came to the mountains to camp in pup tents rather than bed-and-breakfasts. Soon Stone himself would commandeer film crews here, roaming the woods for Harp’s childhood scenes and then using those same woods to mimic other settings where, as a grown man, Harp had tracked the Turn-Key Bomber across the mountains of Georgia, North Carolina, and Tennessee, before finally flushing him down to Atlanta, where they met on the rooftop of an urban mountain, and both died.

  I was out of the car by the time Boone jerked it to a stop in front of a trailer marked Security. Another uniformed man, unsmiling, beefy, Mr. No Neck, I named him, was planted at the base of metal steps to the trailer’s door. He jerked his thumb from me to the door. “Grace Vance? Your girl’s inside, in my custody. I don’t want any trouble from her or you.”

  Boone leapt ahead of me. Suddenly, my world narrowed to a view of his broad shoulders. “Let’s you and me have a talk in private. Right now.”

  “Noleene, you’re not in charge here.” No Neck sniffed at the badge dangling from Boone’s shirt pocket. “I was put in charge of this compound by Diamond Senterra, so back off. Mrs. Vance, behave yourself and you can come inside. Noleene, you give me any grief and I’ll just call the sheriff and tell him to come get Mrs. Vance’s niece. And don’t tell me you’ll call Mr. Senterra, because when he’s not here I only take orders from his sister.” He pivoted and went up the steps. Two equally bull-necked guards followed him. Boone remained motionless, frozen in tight-jawed defeat, as they pushed rudely past him. A muscle flexing in his jaw, he grabbed the trailer’s open door and motioned stiffly for me to go ahead of him. I had just watched him get ceremonially peed on by Diamond Senterra, and he knew it.

  I touched his shoulder as I went by. “Next time, I’ll lock her in the manure trailer and ship her to Mongolia. She’ll be lucky not to get chased by a herd of yaks.”

  He couldn’t even smile.

  Mika looked about as innocent as a rabbit caught in a carrot patch. She sat in a stiff metal chair in the security office, sweating in gray cargo pants, a Lord of the Rings tank top, and an heirloom pearl choker G. Helen had given her for her birthday. Her black curls tangled over her forehead and shoulders. Her Palm Pilot, cell phone, and pager dangled from her belt loops. Her rich-debutante traditions mingled with nerd fashion. Her green Vance eyes looked up at me miserably. “I’ve been trying to hack Mr. Senterra’s personal computer but his firewalls are too good. So I decided—”

  “Sssh,” I warned.

  “Anyway, let’s just say I’m a better hacker than I am a breaking-and-entering chick.”

  I clasped her hand. “But you look so perfect for the part. Always wear pearls and a Hobbit shirt to a burglary. It’s so you.”

  “G. Helen says good pearls are worth stealing.”

  “I bet she never said that about film scripts.”

  Mika looked wounded. I squeezed her hand. “Chill out, Princess Hobbit. It’s my fault. You knew how badly I wanted to see the final script.”

  “I did it for Uncle Harp. It’s the least I can do to protect his legacy.”

  I squeezed her hand again then glared at the scowling guards. Boone stood between them and us with a look on his face that said no one was brushing past him, again. My gaze segued beyond Boone and the guards to the one male in the trailer who looked out of place in a war of testosterone. Where’s Scooby Doo? I thought instantly. Kind gray eyes gazed at me mournfully beneath a shank of brown-blonde hair. The tall, skinny, freckled, goateed young man in baggy jeans, a huge Knicks t-shirt, and a clunky, high-tech wristwatch couldn’t possibly be the issue of Stone Senterra’s Godzilla-like loins. This young guy looked . . . human. He leapt forward and held out a hand. “Mrs. Vance. It’s a major pleasure. Leo Senterra.”

  Mika groaned and slapped her forehead. “Aunt Grace. Leo. Leo. My Aunt Grace. G. Natalie would kill me for being so gauche.” A DuLane did not forget to do introductions.

  I shook Leo’s big, clammy hand. He smiled somberly but his gaze went to Mika. She cast a furtive glance up at him, then they both looked away. I eyed them. “Would either of you like to explain anything to me?”

  “I’m innocent,” Mika said.

  Leo’s mouth worked. He started to say something, but she gave him a look that made him freeze his face. “She’s innocent.”

  Boone gave him a shrewd glance, then turned back to the guards. “End of discussion. We’re outta here.”

  “Mr. Senterra’s son walked in on her. He caught her pilfering the script from Mr. Senterra’s personal files. I happened to be outside the trailer and heard a noise. I came in and found Mr. Senterra’s son trying to subdue her. He had her pinned to the desk.”

  I stared at Leo Senterra in a way that could make paint peel off steel siding. Mika waved her hands frantically. “Don’t hurt him! I can explain!”

  “Mrs. Vance,” Leo gulped. “She can explain.”

  “That script is valuable and confidential,” No Neck growled. “I’m not letting this kid go.”

  I stepped forward. “Wrong. I’m taking my niece home. Mika. Up. Let’s go.” Mika stood. She and Leo Senterra exchanged another round of furtive, heartfelt looks. Guatemalan lovebirds were less obvious.

  “She’s not going anywhere,” No Neck insisted, “except down to the Lumpkin County Jail to cool her heels until I get a call back from Diamond. If Diamond says to file charges, I will.”

  “If Diamond Senterra threatens my niece she’ll—”

  “Don’t you threaten me, lady—”

  Boone stopped me with an arm in front of my face. “Whoa, Gracie. I’ll take care of this.”

  Gracie. So I was Gracie, now. I looked over his arm at No Neck the way Snap hung his head over his stall door anytime he saw the cat coming. “If you think I’ll let you drag my niece to the sheriff’s office you better be packing more than one bullet and a bad attitude, Barney.”

  “What did you call me?”

  “Barney Fife. Barney Fife with steroid-induced stretch marks. On your head.”

  “That’s it.” He po
inted to one of his men. “Call the sheriff.”

  The guard grabbed a cell phone off a desk. Boone turned to me. “If you’ll just let me pound my manly chest and be the alpha gorilla, I’ll take care of this.”

  “I . . . well . . . ” At a rare loss for words, I gaped at him. The alpha gorilla? “Go ahead.”

  He faced No Neck. “Don’t make that call.” His voice was very low, his attitude almost regretful. “If you don’t want to listen to me, then let me get Stone on the phone. I can promise you right now he doesn’t want Mrs. Vance’s niece turned in for pilfering his script.”

  “Noleene, I’ll say it again. Back off. I’m in control of this compound and I’m a professional. I don’t have a criminal record. I didn’t spend nine years in prison. You’re just some lousy ex-con who lucked into a glorified babysitting job because Mr. Senterra felt sorry for you. You get in my way and you’ll be the one in jail. Once a jailbird, always a jailbird.” No Neck glowered at his men. “Make the damned call. Now.”

  A second later No Neck went crashing into a corner, upending a chair and pulling an unplugged coffee maker down on top of him as he hit the linoleum floor. He lay there, grunting and showing a little white above the tops of his eyes and a little trickle of blood where Boone had punched him in the mouth, while his assistants backed away, staring at Boone.

  “I tried to reason with you,” Boone drawled. “Us babysitting gorillas are unpredictable.”

  No Neck sat up, blinking, and wiped his mouth. He jabbed a finger at Boone. “I’ll have your ass for this. Judges don’t like convicted felons who punch security guards.”

  Boone frowned and said nothing in his own defense. There wasn’t much argument. I craned my head around Boone’s shoulder. “You have no case. I saw you take a swing at Mr. Noleene first. He hit you in self-defense.”

  “I most certainly saw that, too,” Mika said.

  “I saw whatever Mika says I saw,” Leo put in.

  No Neck stared at us. “What the hell is going on here? Is this some kind of conspiracy?”