by Mary Campisi
“Are you kidding? Do you really think a half inch is going to determine the life or death of that tulip?” Apparently, she did because Grace ignored him, leaned closer to get a read on the measuring tape. He’d wanted to make this job easier for her, and that’s why he’d weeded and turned the soil. Maybe he should let her dig the holes, measure, and call him when it was time to bury the bulbs. What were a few calluses compared to the headache she was bound to give him if she called him out on every friggin’ hole?
“Six and a half inches.” Grace leaned back on her knees, squinted up at him. “That’s pretty close.”
Was there a speck of admiration in that comment? “Thanks.”
“How’d you do that?”
Years of school. Of course, he couldn’t tell her that, so he just shrugged, said, “I’ve got an eye for it. So, can we get rid of the measuring tape and keep moving? I thought this was a quick morning job, not an all-day event.”
The squint narrowed to a slash. “Instructions are important, Max, even if you don’t think so.”
Sigh. Grace was one uptight woman with a set of rules that didn’t bend. How had that worked out for her? Not well, he’d guess, because life didn’t come with instructions or rules. Most of it you had to learn along the way, adjust, and refocus. The key was having confidence in yourself to make the best choice at the time, and picking the right supporting team. If you lacked confidence or picked the wrong team, you were pretty much screwed.
But how to get Grace to see that?
“Sure, instructions are important, but you can’t let them own you.” The stare said she either had no idea what he was talking about, or did and didn’t like it. “Look, all I’m saying is all instructions aren’t equally important. Burying a bulb a half inch deeper than the recommendation is not the same as putting a ton of dirt in a half-ton pick-up truck.”
The huff said she was not an idiot and didn’t appreciate the inference she was. “I know that.”
“Okay, so relax, don’t be so rigid.” He gentled his voice. “The tulips will come up, trust me.” When she continued to stare at him, he realized she wouldn’t agree, no way. How could she when she couldn’t let go of her rigidity enough to trust him?
But then Grace shocked him.
“All right.” She tossed the measuring tape aside, reached for the bag of bulbs. “I don’t know why I do that…” She fumbled around in the bag, removed six. “Can you dig a hole large enough for these? I’ve read you can plant the bulbs in a circle, with one in the middle, and they’ll bloom like a bouquet,” she said in a quiet voice, head bent to study the bulbs. “I know it’s not the recommended distance apart, but…I’ve always wanted to try it…”
“Sure.” Max stared at the top of her dark head, wished he could see inside to the instant where doubt had crept in her life and snuffed out the confidence she’d once had. He positioned the shovel in the center of the bed. “Here?”
She nodded. “Yes, I think that’s perfect.”
He met her gaze, held it. “I think so, too.” What happened to the young girl with big dreams who wouldn’t let anyone get in the way—especially him? He’d find out, damn straight he would. They didn’t talk much after that, each intent on their respective job, Max digging six-inch-plus-or-minus-a half-inch-deep holes, and Grace positioning and burying the bulbs, covering them with soil. Some holes were for single bulbs, but there were four with large diameters for a “circle” arrangement. Max kept quiet when Grace suggested the outside-of-the-instructions planting, but he sure wanted to comment. See, Grace, he wanted to say. Lightning didn’t strike, you’re still breathing, even though you didn’t follow rules. How about that? But he wouldn’t do it because on some minor, inconsequential level, she’d trusted him.
And he was not going to screw that up.
Grace didn’t get chatty again until lunchtime, if a person considered a sentence here and there chatty. Max would take it because at least she was talking again. He figured she’d had to process her behavior, and reach a conclusion as to why she’d done what she had. If she wanted to share it, fine, and if she didn’t, fine, too. He wasn’t judging and he wasn’t a psychologist. All he knew was that she was walking unsteady ground in the areas of confidence and trust, and if she didn’t get those back…
“Do you realize we’ve already knocked four items off the list, and tonight’s dinner at Harry’s Folly will make five?”
Max bit into his turkey and Swiss with avocado sandwich, chewed. That’s what she was thinking about? Finishing the damn list? What about figuring out why she’d agreed to plant those damn tulips in a circle, not according to the instructions? He chewed harder.
“I’m actually a bit curious to see the place,” she went on. “Christine Desantro said her uncle and aunt own the place, and aside from her husband’s cooking, it’s some of the best Italian cuisine she’s ever tasted.” Her voice dipped. “I guess she thinks I know a lot about Italian food since it’s part of my heritage.” She paused, picked up a wedge of sandwich, studied it. “But Grant wasn’t big on tomatoes or garlic, so…”
He stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, chewed so hard his jaw hurt. He should let that comment go; she probably didn’t even realize how much she’d just revealed about her marriage. Grace might as well have said, Grant wasn’t big on tomatoes or garlic, and I always did what he wanted because I didn’t count. Not really. Yeah, why not just spit out that truth? Max swallowed and let his thoughts form sound. “Who made him king of your world? Did you not get a say in anything, even the friggin’ meals?” Shut up before you say something you can’t take back. No use, his mouth disconnected from his brain, and out spewed more accusations, “What did the guy do to you that made you so damn submissive?”
“I was not submissive!”
The pinched lips said she didn’t like that, not one bit. “Okay, what should we call it then? Timid? Overly agreeable?” He sighed his disgust. “No guy is worth giving up who you are, Grace.”
“I did not give up who I am.”
Did her voice wobble just a bit toward the end? Sure sounded like it. But before he could comment, Grace battled back, more accusatory than curious.
“How do you know your way around the kitchen so well? You can discuss sauces, marinades, and reductions as though you’ve made them—several times.” Her mouth pulled into a frown. “You even knew what a zester was, and most people don’t.”
So, now she wanted to get personal and dig around in his past? He eyed her, trying to detect her level of interest. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about the past.”
She shrugged. “Asking you how you can discuss a reduction with intelligence is asking about your past life? It seems like a pretty innocent question to me.”
Something in her voice didn’t ring true. Grace might not want to admit it, but she was damn curious about him, maybe almost as curious as he was about her. Or, she wanted to zing him for making a nasty comment about her dead husband. “Okay, I’ll play. I dated a chef, and she taught me about sauces and reductions.” He didn’t miss the nostril flare or the raised brows as if she had twenty more questions but would bite her tongue before she’d utter them.
“I see.”
Right. He bet she did. Those two simple words could have sliced him with their sharpness. “I'll tell you more,” he offered. “All you have to do is ask.” Grace stared at him, opened her mouth, closed it. Okay, so she needed a little help. “Were you happy?”
The question seemed to surprise her and he didn’t think she’d answer. He spotted the confusion and pain flitting across her face, seconds before she squelched it and said in a voice that sounded scripted instead of heartfelt, “I was as happy as I could be. Life is about trade-offs. I have my children and I love them, and if marriage wasn’t what I thought it might be, I adjusted.”
Adjusted? What the hell did that mean? The Grace he knew wasn’t into adjusting or trade-offs. That Grace was about finding purpose and a happily-ever-after.
Wasn’t she?
“Adjusted? That doesn’t sound like you.” He knew the instant she didn’t want to talk about it anymore, because her lips pinched and her gaze narrowed.
“There’s a lot that doesn’t sound like me anymore, sometimes even to me.” She let out a tiny laugh. “Did you know I was in a coma after the accident?”
“A coma? Hell no, I didn’t know.” A coma?
“I was. Shaved head, bandage, my own girls were afraid of me. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t remember… There are days I wish I never remembered what happened.” She toyed with the fringe on her shirt. “Jenny rescued me, and I never would have imagined that happening.”
“Jenny, the wild-child sister.” Grace had told him tales about her younger sister, most involving Jenny’s escapades and subsequent grounding. “Whatever happened to her, anyway?”
“She’s married, a stepmother, expecting her first baby… She’s also a pretty well-known photographer who used to globetrot around the world.”
“No kidding?”
Grace nodded, her voice softening. “She’s beautiful; everybody says so. You know what makes her so beautiful? She doesn’t realize it.” Her voice turned softer. “She doesn’t even think about it. That’s what’s so real about Jenny’s beauty. It’s not just what you see, but what you don’t see; what you feel is in her soul. She saved me at a time when I needed her more than anything.”
“You must miss him.” Him being the dead husband.
Her gaze skittered across his face, landed on the damn fringe she’d been playing with since they sat down. “Yes, of course.”
Where was the emotion in those words? Why were they so stingy, so empty? Why didn’t her expression change? Why did it seem like she was forcing her features into place?
Max knew the dead husband was a lawyer. Frances hadn’t said much, but she’d told him that part, and she’d told him the man was a no-good bastard who deserved to burn in hell. That commentary had shocked him because Frances didn’t curse and she never spoke ill of others. But she hated Grace’s husband.
“Yes, he was a lawyer. A partner in a firm.” Pause. “Real estate law.”
“I see.” But he didn’t see, not really. There was a lot missing in her words—like feeling.
Why don’t you tell me how wonderful he was?
How much you loved him?
How much you miss him?
Why don’t you tell me something about the man who was supposed to make you happy?
She dragged her gaze to his, eyes bright. “Do you ever wonder how you got where you are? Like maybe you’ve been sleeping your whole life and one day you wake up and don’t recognize yourself?”
Was she trying to tell him something without actually saying it? Because if he were guessing and into analysis, he’d say that was a confession. And a damn sad one at that. “Sometimes, I guess I do. Most of the time, I don’t dwell on it. I just keep moving forward and find a new way to be content.”
“Content.” Her lips pulled into a faint smile. “That’s about all we can hope for, isn’t it? Everything said, that’s really all that’s left.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said in a gentle voice. “It could be so much more than that, and it should be.” What the hell was he talking about? Did he mean life in general, or did he mean life with her could be so much more? He shoved the last thought from his brain, cleared his throat. He was not going there. “So, you’re a preschool teacher, or a kindergarten teacher, or…”
She shrugged. “I was a kindergarten teacher, but the classes were cut, and now I'm just on the substitute list. I do some tutoring and reading classes on the side, but I took a break to come here.”
How much money could a substitute teacher make? And tutoring, what about that? Teaching little kids to read and learn about numbers? He had no idea what that meant, but he did know his math and that couldn’t mean a big payout. Unless you were looking at the nonfinancial rewards, which Grace probably was. Still, her husband better have left her a big chunk of retirement money and a hefty insurance policy because substitute teaching and tutoring weren’t going to cut it, or pay all the bills. “I know it’s not my business, but I hope your husband saw to your financial security and the kids’ future.”
The stricken look that flitted across her face before she squashed it told him the truth. The dead husband hadn’t left her with much. Why the hell not? Frances had called the man a bastard. What had he done? Had he drained the funds? Cheated on her? Abused her? The possibilities swirled through him, made him queasy. Grace didn’t deserve whatever made her look that way. “Well?”
“Grant did what he thought was best.”
Nice. She thought that snooty remark and the raised eyebrow would stop the questions? Not likely. He hadn’t wanted to know anything about Grace or her life, though Frances had been willing and almost adamant that he hear about it. He couldn’t ask back then because the knowing might have driven him to do something stupid, like go after her if she were unhappy. Or, if she were blissfully in love, he might end up hating her. So, he’d ignored Frances’s offers to tell him about Grace, ignored the annual Christmas cards with pictures included, and pretended Grace didn’t exist.
But that was such a joke, such a damn lie. It worked some of the time, failed most of the time, but it was all he had. Now, she was sitting across from him and if he prodded a bit, she might tell him about her life, her marriage, the man she chose over him. Did he want to know? And if she told him, what then? Would he rush in and rescue her? Would she want him to, or would she go down with a fight and a lie that refused to admit she’d chosen the wrong man?
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I get it.” He should keep his mouth shut, but damn it, he couldn’t, not after the way she’d burned him and left his heart cracked wide open. Still beating. “I’m guessing your dead husband was no prince.” The gasp said he was out of line, but that didn’t stop him. “You’re not denying it, so I doubt I’m off base. Frances didn’t care for him, but she didn’t tell me why. She wanted to; for some damn reason she wanted me to know, but I resisted.”
He rubbed his jaw, held her gaze. “What difference would it have made? It’s not like I could have come to your rescue or punched the guy’s face for hurting you. And you know what? If I’m honest with myself, I have to admit I might’ve tried both. But what then? Would you have left the guy? Would you have run away with me?” He let out a harsh laugh. “You wouldn’t do it when you were seventeen and didn’t have a husband and two girls, responsibilities and respectability in the suburbs. You wouldn’t have done it if the guy were humiliating you every day, would you?”
She opened her mouth, and when the words fell out they were so soft he almost couldn’t hear them. “I don’t know if I would have left with you, but I would’ve wanted to.”
* * *
Harry’s Folly was intimate, elegant, welcoming, and if the food proved half as tantalizing as the aroma, Grace would not be satisfied with one visit. She and Max sat in the back of the restaurant in a leather booth that was a higher grade than the sofa at home. The dim lights cast shadows over Max’s bent head, picked up wisps of copper in his chestnut hair. In the summer, the copper turned lighter, almost golden, and she’d once teased him it would turn gray one day. He’d laughed and said if she didn’t care, neither did he. Today, he’d seen parts of her she hadn’t shared with anyone, not even Jenny. Most days, she snuffed out the emotions, refusing to acknowledge them as she moved through her days, determined to make peace with her life.
But obviously, she hadn’t, and Max had witnessed all of it—the uncertainty, the self-doubt, the hopelessness.
Would he use it against her? Would he prod her for answers about Grant and her marriage? Would she answer him? Max glanced up from the menu, smiled. “There’s a whole section dedicated to veal, and two ravioli dishes, lobster or mushroom.” A dull red crept from the top of his turtleneck to his cheeks. “There are a lot of other
dishes, too,” he stumbled, darted a look at the menu. “I’ve had most of them. You can’t go wrong here.”
It was a nice attempt to recover, but they both knew he’d been thinking about the night Aunt Frances made veal piccata and mushroom ravioli, their new favorites, and how they’d driven to Boone’s Peak later that night…
Your aunt’s lemon meringue pie was great, but I have a taste for something a little sweeter.
Sweeter? She’d laughed, stroked his arm. What have you got in mind?
He’d kissed her, stolen her breath and her thoughts. Let me show you…
After their breakup, she’d sworn off veal and ravioli—all kinds—just in case her brain decided to resurrect memories that should not be brought back to life.
Grace cleared her throat, clasped her hands in her lap. “I think I’ll have the shrimp scampi.”
He nodded. “Safe choice.” Max closed the menu, slid it toward the edge of the table. “I think I’ll have the veal piccata and the mushroom ravioli.”
So much for not resurrecting old memories… Thankfully, she didn’t have time to comment as an attractive, fifty-something man with silver hair descended upon them, slapped Max on the back. “Hey, Max, how are you? It’s been too long. Damn sorry to hear about Frances.”
Max stood, shook the man’s hand. “Good to see you, Harry. And thanks.”
The man named Harry turned to Grace, gave her a once-over. The smile spread over his tanned face, reached the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. “You must be Frances’s niece. I’m Harry Blacksworth. Pop told me all about you.” A wink and a laugh. “All good things, and of course, he had a comment or two about what he thought. But when doesn’t that old man stick his nose in other people’s business?” Another laugh, and a shake of his silver head. “He’s done it to me a time or two, that’s for sure.”
Had Pop Benito told this man about the list? Or that she and Max used to be together? Had he told the whole town?
Max might have wondered the same thing, but he played it cool. “He missed his calling, Harry. I’m not sure if Pop should have been a psychologist or an investigator.”