by Mary Campisi
How wrong she’d been.
The Master’s in Developmental Disabilities had been sidelined when Grant got into law school. There was only so much money to put into education, and they’d decided to bankroll his career instead of hers. One of us will have to be the leader, Grace, you know that, he’d said. If you want to be the breadwinner, let me know now. Of course, she’d said no and supported Grant. She knew even then, that while he might speak the words, he had no intention of backing out of law school or the number one position in their relationship.
And the husband status? The best friend for life, until-death-do-us-part pledge he’d made long before their wedding day?
Grant Xavier Clarke looked good on paper, and he looked darn fine in a suit, but if a person dug beneath the fancy words and wide smiles, they’d find his inability to grasp the concept of sharing, sacrifice, or commitment. He wanted to do those things, and he tried—she’d give him that—but unless there was a trip or an event to get excited about, he stumbled. Grew bored. People like Grant had a way about them that made taking out the garbage look exciting, but only when they wanted to do it, or someone gave them accolades for the task.
But the rest of the time? The day-to-day routine that comprised 96 percent of the year? That was not Grant’s style, and when the routine suffocated him, he sought his “oxygen” in women like Lisette and Heather.
Go to hell, Grace, Max Ruhland had said the last time she’d seen him, all those years ago. I hope you get exactly what you deserve.
Well, she’d gotten what she deserved. And then some.
Maybe it was time to face the fears she’d carried in her soul since the moment she learned of her dead husband’s first affair.
What if she’d gotten it all wrong? What if a person couldn’t plan her whole life? What if destiny got in the way and threw in a few unexpected situations that, if followed, could lead to real joy?
How much longer was she going to refuse destiny? Would she live the rest of her days on the cusp of life, forcing her world and her decisions into boxes that protected her from getting hurt again? Would her daughters learn from her and choose the “safe” route, even when safe proved limiting and disastrous? Or would she teach them to open their eyes, be fearless and filled with hope as they leapt toward their dreams?
Maybe the real question was how much longer was she going to refuse to forgive herself for the past choices she’d made, so she could draw a clean breath and get a second chance at finding that joy? She had no idea, but maybe the journey started in Magdalena, and maybe her Aunt Frances had known that. Grace cleared her throat, met her sister’s gaze, and said, “I’ll go.”
2
Dear Grace:
If you are reading this letter, I’m no longer walking the streets of Magdalena. I’m sad that I’ve left behind so many friends and special memories, but it was time to leave. Illness has a way of capturing even the most steadfast of us, and stealing our time on this earth. We disintegrate, breath by breath, until there is nothing left but a shadow of who we were.
I’ve missed you, my dear, and so looked forward to your annual Christmas letter and photo. Life does have a way of speeding past us so quickly, doesn’t it? I still remember the summers you spent with me, especially the last one…the talks we had, the petunias and geraniums we planted…the iced tea we sipped on the back porch. And oh, those chocolate chip cookies! Do you remember those? When I looked at you, I saw myself, and the older you got, the more you reminded me of who I’d been—filled with hope for the future, certain life would hand me a big gold star if I worked hard enough, if I always did the right thing.
I clasped those beliefs to my heart, held tight, and ignored the bewildered looks and gentle nudges I received from others. What did they know? They didn’t possess the conviction or the determination I did. I refused to settle or change the course of my life. Goals were meant to be achieved. What was the point of having goals if they weren’t lofty and difficult—maybe at times, impossible?
Life would turn out exactly as I’d envisioned and I would not compromise.
But life has a way of staring down people like me and you and tossing in obstacles and challenges, as if to say, “Who do you think you are? You don’t make the rules.”
I fell in love with the most kind-hearted, generous young man, but he was from the wrong family, with a low-level job, and I turned him away. It didn’t matter that he was working his way through night school to become an accountant. He didn’t fit my plans, and I tossed him away.
Time passed and while I’d rejected a future with him, my heart refused to listen to my head. It would take three years to admit I’d made a horrible mistake. As difficult as it was, I went to him, confessed that I’d never stopped loving him. I promised that if he could find it in his heart to give me another chance, I would spend the rest of my life showing him how much I cared. Bless his heart, he forgave me!
Two weeks before our wedding, he died of pneumonia.
Gone were the dreams, the hope of having a family, the happiness we shared when we were together. If I’d not been such a judgmental fool, insistent on living my life according to the plan I’d created as a young girl, we might not have lost three years. We might have had a child or two before he died.
But I threw away that chance.
Why do I tell you this all these years later?
I think you know…I think, deep down, you’ve always known something needed to be done about what happened that last summer you visited…
There are thirteen “tasks” for you to complete during your stay. My lawyer will provide the list when you meet with him. Oh, and these tasks require help, but don’t worry, I’ve taken care of that for you. My hope is that these tasks will reveal a bit about life and the people you thought you knew, but most importantly, I hope they reveal something about yourself. Embrace these next thirty days, let life and those around you provide inspiration. It’s not too late, Grace. It’s never too late, if you will only open your heart, and consider the possibilities.
* * *
Love Always,
* * *
Aunt Frances
* * *
Grace folded the letter, placed it in her satchel, and tossed the bag onto the passenger seat of the SUV as she pulled onto the road that led to Magdalena, New York. She’d read the letter so many times since it arrived six days ago that it had torn at the bottom and begun to fray. Guilt made her share it with Jenny, and dread forced her to sip air while she waited for her sister’s comments. Grace expected the interrogation to start seconds after Jenny got to Why do I tell you this all these years later? I think you know…I think, deep down, you’ve always known something needed to be done about what happened that last summer you visited…
Grace waited for her sister to begin the barrage with questions like “What’s she talking about? What does she mean by deep down?” And, “Were you keeping a secret from me? What happened at Aunt Frances’s to make her say that?”
But Jenny hadn’t said any of those things. Instead, she’d returned the letter, bit her bottom lip, and studied Grace like she could see right inside her head. Then, she’d said, “This is about that guy, isn’t it?”
Max. “What guy?”
“Come on, Grace. The guy who drove all the way from Magdalena to see you.”
“Who…” And then because there was no use pretending, she’d said, “How do you know that?”
A shrug, followed by a touch on the arm. “I watched you from my window. He had a Chevelle. Black. Really hot guy. Longish hair, tall, lean.” A smile. “My type. Definitely not yours. Except you seemed to go together and he sure thought you did.” A frown. “Right up until he told you to go to hell.”
It was Grace’s turn to shrug. “That was a long time ago.”
“Maybe. Will he be there?”
“I have no idea. I hope not.”
“I hope he is. I hope he wakes you up and makes you feel again.”
She fought for a
clean breath, sucked in air. “He’s probably married with kids by now.”
“Maybe not.”
“If you saw what happened, then you know I hurt him. Bad. Guys don’t come back for another punch in the gut.”
This time, her sister smiled. “Unless they’ve never forgotten you.”
Jenny’s words tormented her during the trip to Magdalena, forced all sorts of questions into her brain. Did Max still live in that town? Was he married with kids—dark-haired ones with blue eyes? Did he still work as a mechanic, maybe own his own shop? And what about the Chevelle?
She gripped the steering wheel, hard. What did any of it matter? She’d made her choice and it hadn’t been him.
But what if it had been him…
* * *
She was coming back to Magdalena.
He’d tried to talk Frances out of it, told her the idea was worse than bad, but she’d lifted a frail hand and informed him her niece couldn’t run forever, and neither could he. You’ve got to face each other, Max. If for nothing else than to realize there’s nothing left between the two of you.
Trust me, Frances, there’s nothing left. Grace had made damn sure of that twenty-two years ago when she’d killed their relationship. Did it even qualify as a relationship, or should he consider it a summer of physical exploration? He’d sure thought it was a hell of a lot more than a touch and feel in the back seat of his car, but the way she’d looked at him the last time he saw her and the words she’d used to trash what they’d shared had left him raw, empty, and unable to trust a woman again.
Too many nights, he’d wondered how he could have gotten it all so wrong. Maybe it had been all about lust and pleasure. At seventeen, wasn’t every guy into lust and pleasure? He blew out a breath, cursed under his breath, and pulled the Chevelle onto the road. Who was he kidding? Lust and pleasure aside, he’d loved her; soul-deep, all-in, no excuses.
And she’d tossed him and his puppy-sick love in the garbage.
Max turned onto Bayberry Street and the home he’d shared with Frances Romano on and off for the past twenty-two years. She’d been a better parent to him than his own, and he owed her. For everything. How could he say no when she shared her plan that conveniently involved him? He couldn’t, but he wanted to, that was for damn sure.
Thirty days in the same house with Grace Romano—scratch that—Grace Clarke. Plus, he’d promised Frances he wouldn’t tell her niece what he really did for a living, or that he hadn’t looked at a price tag in a long time. Nope, he was supposed to let her draw her own conclusions, and what she did with those conclusions would tell the story. Whatever that meant.
It should be easy enough to make her believe he still tinkered on cars in the local garage. No doubt it would be a slick sell because most of the town thought the same thing. Actually, they thought he was a drifter, always in and out of town. Hadn’t he heard Rex MacGregor call him that a few weeks ago? Didn’t matter; he’d stopped caring what other people said a long time ago. A few of his old buddies knew the truth behind his travels, but Nate Desantro and Cash Casherdon would never give him up.
Max pulled into the driveway, parked behind the navy SUV. Interesting. He would have pegged Grace for a minivan type, but other than the few scraps he’d permitted Frances to feed him—widowed, two kids—he knew nothing about her, and that was exactly the way he’d wanted it. What was the point of hearing about his ex-girlfriend’s life? Not interested. Only now he had to spend thirty days in the same house with her and while he planned to spend it fixing up the place, he could only pound so many nails and spackle, sand, and paint so many walls.
Bits and pieces of their lives were bound to leach through their carefully guarded exteriors, but what worried him most was their history seeping into the quiet moments, threatening to lay claim to words and meanings. He stepped out of the car, headed for the front door and the woman who’d obliterated a chunk of his heart. Young, reckless, and too damn naïve, that’s what he’d been, but not anymore. No woman had ever gotten close enough to hurt him again, including his ex-fiancée, and if that was a sad commentary to a half-lived life, at least his heart and his trust were intact.
He fitted the key in the lock, eased the door open. The place looked the same as it had a few hours before when he’d run to the post office and the bank. Max stepped inside, listened. Nothing but the ticking of the grandfather clock in the far corner. He glanced toward the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. In Frances’s final days, they’d wheeled a hospital bed into the living room, and he’d camped out on the sofa next to her, lulled to sleep by the various machines easing her through her last days. It was a difficult two months, but he wouldn’t trade that time for anything. Too bad her flesh and blood didn’t even know she was dying, but that’s what Frances wanted. You’re my family, Max. I want to spend my last days with you.
Was Grace upstairs?
Had she taken over her old room?
Had she discovered his bedroom?
Max let out a long sigh and made his way into the kitchen and the cold beer waiting in the fridge. It would take more than one beer to face her again, but he doubted he’d be ready after a whole case. At least, he had the element of surprise on his side. He knew she was coming…
He opened the fridge, pulled out a beer and twisted off the cap. How long would it take for her to walk down the steps and see him? Ten minutes? An hour? What if she’d fallen asleep? He tossed the beer cap in the garbage and headed into the living room where he plopped onto the cushioned rocker, and waited.
Two beers later, he heard footsteps above him, followed by water… Max tensed, set the beer bottle on the small table beside him. The footsteps moved down the hallway, landed on the steps. One, two, three…she came into view at five, lifted her head and—
“Max?”
“Hello, Grace.” He stood and somehow managed to force a nonchalance into his voice as he took in the woman who’d haunted him for too many years. Age had made her even more beautiful than the last time he saw her. Dark hair, dark eyes, full lips, the most perfect complexion. And curves. Lots and lots of curves. Grace Romano Clarke looked part angel, part seductress, with an air about her that said I’m better than you and we both know it.
Maybe some things didn’t change.
“What…what are you doing here?”
No denying he’d unsettled her. “I live here.” He might have promised Frances he’d camp out in the house with her niece and keep quiet about his financial situation for the next thirty days, but he hadn’t said he’d make it easy or comfortable for the woman who’d trashed his heart. Max crossed his arms over his chest, studied her. “How about you? What are you doing here?”
She ignored his questions, the frown deepening. “You live here?” Confusion spilled through her words, spread to her face.
He nodded. “Frances and I shared this place for almost twenty-two years.” I moved in after you dumped me.
“What?”
“Guess you might have known that if you’d kept in touch.” He didn’t wait for her to respond but zinged her with another uncomfortable truth. “You abandoned her, Grace, and don’t pretend you were too busy living your life to realize she loved you and wanted to be part of that life.”
“But…”
“Yeah, but.” He let the disgust roll through his words. “It was easier to just pretend that summer never happened and Frances was collateral damage.” Those brown eyes swelled with tears, the full lips quivered. So what? So the hell what? Her actions had made a lot of people cry. “All she ever wanted was to see you again, but she wouldn’t ask, not even when she found out she was dying.”
She swiped at a tear. “I didn’t know.”
Anger made him reckless, made him forget her life wasn’t exactly perfect—not anymore. “Of course, you didn’t. How could you, living your perfect life in the suburbs?” He regretted the harsh words the second after he spoke them and attempted an apology. “That was out of line. I’m sorry, and I’m sorry abo
ut your husband.” The pain on her face showed him what losing a person you loved looked like.
Her head dipped in what might be a nod. “Thank you.”
“Look, I know the last thing you expected to find was me in your aunt’s home.” Max shrugged, forced a smile. “I’ll bet you’d rather face a roomful of spiders than see me.” The second he referenced her spider fear, he wished he hadn’t. The past had to stay in the past, and that meant no comments that signaled their former intimacy.
“You’re right on that one.”
Did he detect a hint of humor in her voice? Maybe. “Why don’t we sit down and lay out some ground rules? That will make it a lot easier to get through these next thirty days.”
“You know about the thirty-day request?”
“Unfortunately. So…can I get you something to drink before we get started? There’s iced tea, flavored water, coffee, wine…”
“Do you have scotch? On the rocks?”
Now that he had not expected. “Sure. Scotch it is.” Max would have sworn she’d take the iced tea or flavored water, or possibly, the wine, but scotch? He grabbed another beer, fixed Grace’s scotch, and headed for the living room. She’d taken a seat on the sofa, several feet from his rocker. Close up, she was even more beautiful than she’d been from the steps. “Here you go.” He handed her the glass, careful not to touch her, and settled into the rocker. “To the next thirty days,” he said, lifting his beer bottle.
“To the next thirty days.” She lifted her glass in a half salute, eased it toward her lips and sipped.
Max zeroed in on those lips…
“What’s your plan?”
He cleared his throat, toyed with his beer bottle. “My plan is to make the next thirty days as painless as possible, while still honoring Frances’s wishes. Seems the lawyer has a list for us, and according to Frances we’re going to have to work together to complete it.” Grace took a healthy sip of scotch, clutched the glass between her hands. He remembered those hands, remembered what they could do to him…