Charming Grace

by Deborah Smith

  Armand stared at me a long time. What he was thinking was hard for him to believe, much less put into words. I understood. Finally, he said in a low, hoarse voice, “Are you tellin’ me you found our papa?”

  I put a hand on his arm. “No. I’m tellin’ you our papa found us.”

  Chapter 20

  Hang on, Boone. I’m coming.

  My hands shook as I drove a rental car into the yard of the old warehouse. The sun had set; a muggy summer night seeped into the damp earth, black creeks, and lonely swamps of the Louisiana pine forest. A light showed through one murky window. A pair of bronze SUV’s was parked nearby.

  Everyone’s home, and the lights are on. Very cozy. Good.

  I got out, took a deep breath, tossed my cheap plaid jacket into the car’s back seat, then retrieved two large, boxed pizzas from the passenger seat. I figured pizza delivery by a redhead in a tank top and tight jeans was as good as any other get-a-foot-in-the-door idea. As I walked toward a narrow side entrance near the lit window, my heart pounded with dizzying fear.

  Boone, please still be inside this building and be unhurt.

  Anxiety flooded me. I slowed, looking at the pizzas. What if I made these punks mad with the pizza-delivery pretense? What if they didn’t appreciate my sly, TV-suspense-show technique? What if they didn’t like anchovies?

  Suddenly the door banged open and four big, unhappy, tattooed, earringed, armed men stepped out. When they got a good look at me in the fading light, their brows shot up in surprise. When I got a good look at them, I saw slow, cow-like eyes and knuckle-dragging expressions. I named them Dumb, Dumber, Dumberer, and Too Dumb To Breathe.

  “Sweetheart, you took a wrong turn or something,” Dumb said in a swamp drawl. “This is private property.”

  “We got a hunt club out here,” Dumber added.

  “Huntin’ deer,” Dumberer put in.

  Too Dumb To Breathe frowned at the others. “Huh?”

  I looked from the Dumb Gang to the pizza boxes, then back again, and sighed. “All right, gentlemen, here’s the truth: My name is Grace Bagshaw Vance. I’m a former Miss Georgia and a former Atlanta TV host. My family’s rich enough to pay two million dollars for me without breaking their piggy banks. So I consider myself a fair trade for the Noleene brothers. Now, how about you letting the Noleenes go and kidnapping me, instead?” The idiots stared at me, open-mouthed. I held out the boxes. “Plus, I brought pizza.”

  Grace.

  They shoved her into the room with us, ruffled but unhurt. “Noleene, you attract strange women,” the lead dickhead drawled. Then he slammed the door shut.

  “Gracie.” I grabbed her by the shoulders, ran my hands up to her face, smoothed them over her hair, checked her for damages.

  She did the same to me, before cupping both hands around my face and kissing me. “I’m sorry,” she moaned. “I tried to make a trade, but they wouldn’t go for it. And they took my damned pizza.”

  I knew exactly how Armand felt when he saw me come through the door. I wanted to yell at her for pulling such a stupid stunt, then kick the door down and take on all four mo-fo’s with my bare hands. I wanted her out of there. I pivoted toward Armand. “We need a plan. Now.”

  He nodded vaguely, staring at Grace in wonder. She eased around me and thrust out her hand. “Armand? I’m Grace Bagshaw Vance. You better have a good reason for getting your brother into this mess.”

  He took her hand between his, brought it to his mouth, and kissed the back of it. “All I can say, chere, is that when he came to visit me this summer in prison all he wanted to talk about was you, and I could see on his face that he was in love. I never wanted him to come here for my sake, anymore than he wanted you to come here for his sake.”

  “Then I suppose you and I share the same problem where Boone’s concerned. We love him.” She faced me, again, looking up with tearful eyes that ripped my heart out then gave it back to me. “I love you,” she repeated hoarsely. “Hasn’t that been obvious to you since that night in Savannah, at least?”

  “I’m kind of dense,” I whispered. “Do you know I’ve loved you since way before Savannah?”

  I’m kind of dense,” she whispered.

  We took each other in a ferocious hug, rocking back and forth, kissing roughly, the pain and love and joy and fear going way beyond anything just romantic. How could the best moment of my life and the worst moment of my life happen at the same time? I held her away from me at arm’s length. “I’m gettin’ you out of here. Go step in that toilet over there and stay out of the way. Me and Armand will coax the Gump Squad in here and kick ass. If I can just get a gun away from one of the bastards I’ll kill all of ‘em. Armand, get ready.”

  But my big brother was already holding up both hands, shaking his head violently and going “No, no, no. Bro, calm down. We can go for broke later if we can’t talk these punks into listening. Just give me time. You know I’m a master bullshit artist.”

  “Yeah, that must be why you’d already talked yourself out of trouble by the time I got here.”

  “I’m a little rusty, okay? But—”

  “Would it help,” Grace asked, “if I had a cell phone?”

  We stared at her. Tight jeans. No bulges. Skimpy tank top. Only the bulges you’d expect. I coughed. “Hidden . . . where?”

  “In a protective plastic baggie.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “And?”

  Even in the dim light, she turned a little pink. “Just give me a moment of privacy, and I’ll retrieve it.” She walked, a little bow-legged but with great dignity, into the tiny toilet, and shut the door.

  Armand gave a low whistle. “I just thought up an invention. The first cell phone for that time of the month when a girl needs to feel extra fresh —”

  “End of conversation,” I ordered.

  First of all, when I got Roarke on the phone and told him Grace had joined the party, he took a few seconds to go quietly ape-shit, ending with, “I should have known she’d track down Titter McCarthy. I never should’ve mentioned his name to her. She’s just like her grandmother. Hell on wheels and won’t take no for an answer. She loves you, son. You understand that, now? Grace loves you and you deserve it.”

  She loves you, son.

  She loves you. Son.

  “I’m a lucky man on more than one count. And yeah, I’m finally beginnin’ to understand that.”

  “All right. Look, I’m not sittin’ here in New Orleans twiddlin’ my thumbs. Armand thought he was dealin’ with a small-time boss, but that boss sold his territory to a bigger dog two months ago, and Armand went with the deal. The new boss is named Caesar Creighton. He’s based in Mississippi and he runs operations all over that state and most of Louisiana. You name it: Dope, gambling, strip clubs, hookers, guns.”

  I looked at Armand. “Caesar Creighton ring a bell?”

  Armand raked a hand through his hair. “Holy merde. Not him.”

  “Oh, yeah, that rings a bell,” I said to Roarke.

  “Creighton’s a crazy bastard, but he’s not out to kill you—if you give him his money. The Caribbean money.”

  “It doesn’t exist.”

  “What?”

  “Tell him he can be happy to know he’s donated two million dollars to charity over the last few years, courtesy of Armand. I hope he likes whales.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Nope. There isn’t any Caribbean bank account. Tell him. Armand wasn’t headin’ down there to live high on the hog with Creighton’s money. He was just planning to vanish. Get out of my way. Let me lead my life without worryin’ about him.”

  “Remind me to hug him, and then to kick his ass.”

  “Get in line behind me.”

  “I’ll go back to Creighton. Let’s hope he believes me. If he doesn’t, I’ll think of something. Just stall his bulldogs and don’t piss ‘em off. They’ve got orders not to hurt anybody.”

  “Until six a.m., right?”

  “I�
�m not goin’ to let that happen. Sit tight. I’ll call you back. For godssake, don’t let Creighton’s dogs know you’ve got a phone.”

  “Don’t worry. We keep it in a hidin’ place you wouldn’t believe. All right, we’ll be waitin’ for you to call.”

  “Hold on there a minute,” Armand said. “I want to talk to him.”

  “Roarke? Armand wants to speak to you.”

  After a quiet second, Roarke said, “Sure. Whatever he has to say to me, I deserve worse.”

  Armand took the phone in the big, dusty hand with the alligator tattoo on the back of it. Slowly, either savoring the moment or afraid of it, he put the phone to his ear. There he stood, my thirty-eight-year old brother, as big and tough as they come, the fast-talker, the sweet-talker, the wise-ass player who’d invented grand stories about our missing papa to make missing him easier to bear.

  “I just want to tell you,” he said to Roarke, “in case we . . . don’t get a chance to talk again anytime . . . soon . . . I just want to say . . . We didn’t forget you, Papa. And there’s nothing to forgive. Come home.”

  And then we all turned girly—him, me, Roarke, and Grace included, and cried.

  In the dark of the night, whispering to me as Armand dozed in the opposite corner and I sat inside the circle of his arms, Boone told me more about his and Armand’s father, Roarke. And about Stone’s father, Roarke. I was so tired and so afraid, I couldn’t even be stunned by the details. In a world tilting wildly, the story made sense.

  It was all G. Helen’s doing.

  My grandmother had now pulled off the biggest coup of her career as The Notorious Radical in our Bagshaw family tree. A year ago she’d met a handsome and successful developer—Roarke—when he came to her about the property she owned at Chestatee Ridge. He’d charmed her, she’d charmed him, then won his trust—and he won hers. She’d gotten him to confess the real reason he wanted to hang out in Lumpkin County during the summer filming schedule for Hero.

  G. Helen couldn’t resist an ex-con in need of help from a moonshiner’s daughter.

  So she’d cheerfully set about helping him maneuver his youngest son, Boone, his oldest son, Stone, and her grieving granddaughter, me, into a messy, churning, mud-puddle of evolving reconciliation. All for the goal of bringing the Noleene, Roarke, and Senterra men together in a happy reunion, with me and Boone on top of the reunion party’s wedding cake.

  Tonight it looked like her goal might fail, at least the party and wedding part, but I marveled at what she’d helped Roarke accomplish.

  “This explains how Stone found you?” I whispered to Boone.

  “In a way. Stone doesn’t know about Roarke bein’ his papa. Not yet, anyhow. But Roarke is the one who let him know he had two half-brothers at Angola. Roarke knew we were there. It tore him up. He wanted to help us, but he worried that we hated his guts and wouldn’t take any help from him. So he sent an anonymous letter to our famous older brother. Just to let Stone know he had two half-brothers in prison. Roarke hoped Stone would do the right thing by us. Stone took it from there.”

  “And helped you.”

  “And helped me,” I said quietly. “Like a brother. Because he is.”

  “He could have told you the truth when he hired you. And not treated you like a Cajun Stepin Fetchit.”

  “I got a theory about that. I think Diamond talked him into keepin’ the secret. Convinced him I was probably a loser, that I’d probably backslide and end up in prison, again. She probably said something like, ‘Just keep the facts under your hat in case one or both of the Noleenes turns out to be a lifer.’ She’s always been smart about what’s good for his image. That’s why he listens to her. Besides, the last thing she wants is for the world to know about Stone havin’ me and Armand for kin. Mr. Law-Man Movie Star and his jailbird half-brothers.” Boone chuckled darkly. “Wait ‘til she finds out Stone’s papa is an ex-con, too.”

  I smiled. Sitting there in the hot darkness, trapped in a situation from which we might not escape alive, I thanked Diamond for my mental picture of her on the cover of The National Enquirer with her hair standing on end and her teeth bared like a mad baboon. “When Diamond finds out,” I said to Boone, “can we be sure to have a camera on hand?”

  Boone and I bent our heads together, chortled, then huddled closer with fierce appreciation. “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  Silence. We enjoyed the words so much, we let them float in the darkness for a while. Boone blew out a long breath. “Stone Senterra’s my brother. I’m goin’ to have to say that about a thousand times before it sinks in. No matter how ass-backwards his methods are, he’s been great to me, all in all. He’s a good man.”

  We sat silently for another moment, not mentioning the fact that Stone had refused to believe Boone and Armand were in trouble and refused to help them, now.

  “Leo’s your nephew,” I offered. “That’s wonderful.”

  “That’s right. Yeah.” He hesitated. “But Diamond’s my sister.”

  “Not by blood. Keep saying that to yourself. ‘Stone Senterra is my biological brother, but Diamond and I don’t share the Senterra family tree at all. We’re not even from the same orchard.’”

  He laughed again.

  I looked at my wrist watch. Its glowing face showed three a.m. “I wish Roarke would call.”

  “Me, too.” Boone retrieved the cell phone from inside a pizza box. Dumb And Company had been kind enough to give me one of my pizzas back. He pressed a button to see the display. When I heard his sharp breath I looked down at the phone quickly.

  The battery was dead.

  “Maybe I should have hidden it somewhere less humid,” I finally managed to say. “Oh, Boone.”

  Boone hugged me tightly against him. “It’ll be all right. Back to Plan B.”

  Me, Grace, and Armand stood in the pitch dark at five a.m., one hour before the Gump Squad was scheduled to give us one-way tickets to nowhere. “Now?” Armand asked. Funny, how I’d become our leader, and how he let me. Like I was the older and wiser brother now, and he looked to me for answers.

  “Not yet. Gimme a second.”

  I began unbuttoning my shirt. The rustling sound made Grace fumble around until she found my chest. “What in the world are you doing?”

  I stripped the shirt off and thrust it into Armand’s hands. “Roarke made me add a little Kevlar to my outfit.”

  Grace grabbed my hands as I began unlatching the buckles that held the bullet-proof vest in place. “Don’t you dare take that off.”

  “Gracie, this is one time I’ll wrestle you ’til you squeal, if I have to. You’re puttin’ this vest on, and that’s that.”

  “Give it to Armand.”

  Armand tsked-tsked. “Save your breath, chere. Me and my bro already had this discussion while you were freshenin’ up in le toilet. We make it a rule to take care of our ladies. I may be a lot of bad things, but I help old folks cross the street, I’m kind to kitty cats, and I don’t take bullet-proof vests away from girls.”

  “This is ridiculous, both of you,” she said hoarsely. “No one’s going to get shot, so I refuse to jinx it by. . .Boone, do not put that thing on me—”

  “I’m not Harp.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I slid the vest over her head then began buckling it on the sides beneath her arms. “I know Harp didn’t wear a vest the day he was killed.”

  “He never wore one. He felt it jinxed . . . ” Her voice trailed off in miserable defeat. I kissed her. She bent her head to mine. “All right. Just be yourself.” In other words—which she wouldn’t say out loud—Please don’t end up like Harp.

  I finished the buckles and stepped back. “I’ve spent all night stickin’ imaginary needles in imaginary Gump dolls, chere. Cajun voodoo will clobber ordinary jinxes every day of the week and twice on Sunday.”

  Armand tossed my shirt to me. As I buttoned it in place he said, “We’ve only got one chance to bumfuzzle these g
oobers. It has to be loud, it has to be fast, and it better be for real. Meaning, bro, that if we get our hands on a gun, we shoot everybody who moves and says ‘Duh.’”

  “I plan to.”

  “All right, then. Let’s do it. But first . . . I don’t want to make you look like a sissy in front of Grace, but gimme a hug.”

  “Grace already knows I’m a hugger.” I grabbed my brother in a deep embrace.

  “We always survived when we were together as kids,” he whispered in French. “Let’s prove that’s still true.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “I don’t want to be a sissy,” Grace intoned. “But give me a hug, too.”

  We each hugged her. Armand, first. Me, second. She and I kissed. “There’s a creekside bar near here,” I told her. “Whiskey and beignets for breakfast. The meal’s on me, okay?”

  “You’re on,” she whispered.

  I let her go. “Now. You get behind me and Armand. You stay behind me and Armand. God help the Gump Squad if you get one of their guns before we do.”

  “You bet. If you think I’m scary with an empty gun, wait until I get a loaded one.”

  She moved to the rear. Armand stepped up beside me. I couldn’t see him, but we rubbed shoulders as we faced the door. “On the count of three,” I said, “we kick it down.”

  “Ready.”

  “One—”

  “Count in French. It’s happier soundin’.”

  “Un. Deux—”

  “Stop!”

  “Armand, for godssake—”

  “I hear something.”

  “That’s the sound of me grindin’ my teeth.”

  “No, Armand’s right,” Grace whispered. “Listen. It’s overhead.”

  We turned our faces toward the low wooden ceiling. At first I only heard the shush of my own heartbeat in my ears. But then . . . a motor. A big motor. A big motor with whomp-whomp sounds. Blades chopping the air.

  “Helicopter,” I whispered.

  “Big freakin’ helicopter,” Armand confirmed.

  Grace grabbed me by the arm. “Maybe we’re being rescued!”