by Mary Campisi
“Notebook? What are you talking about?”
“She kept a notebook and I found it. It was buried with her schoolbooks in the back of her closet. She probably thought she was safe since it was a manila composition book that looked like a Humanities notebook. Boring to most, especially me and our mother, who was prone to snooping. But a Humanities notebook would be filled with quotes and thoughts from Thoreau, Emerson, those types. And then there was the notebook about you. I took it after Grace got married, just to be sure it stayed safe… I never told her I had it, because if I did, she’d know I read it, and I couldn’t do that to her. It’s in one of the moving boxes in the basement. I’ll see if I can find it.”
A notebook about him? Why? Tell me what it said, damn it! I want to know every single word, because even if she doesn’t feel that way any longer, I want to know what she used to feel like, what she felt like before she burned me. Did she suffer, wish she’d made a different choice? Tell me all of it. Of course, he didn’t say that. What was the point? “Whatever you read were the musings of a seventeen-year-old, hardly the feelings of a thirty-nine-year-old.”
“Are you sure about that? Are you sure she doesn’t feel the same way she did back then?” Her next words slithered through the line, wrapped around his neck. “Are you sure she doesn’t regret what she did and the choices she made? Because I think she does. I think if she had it to do again, she’d run away with you, and I’m not so sure she’d tell any of us. I think she’d just go.”
“Then you give her more credit than I do.” She really thought Grace would run away with him if she had another shot? No. No.
“She’s scared, Max. Scared of telling you how she feels, scared you’ll reject her, or maybe more scared you won’t. What would it mean if you two decided to give it a go? She’s got two girls, a life in the suburbs, a thirty-nine-year-old body, and a heck of a lot of issues. How would a gorgeous guy with no commitment tendencies stay in love with that life?”
“Is that a rhetorical question or do you expect an answer?”
He felt her smile through the phone. “Both.”
“This guy is not that guy. He doesn’t buy into words like gorgeous. He’s not interested in proving a point or living anybody’s life but his own. He wants steady, he wants real, he wants the girl. The one who’ll look at him and think he’s king, even on a crappy day, the one who doesn’t judge him by the size of his portfolio or the measure of his biceps.”
“That’s what I thought. Go after her, Max. Don’t give up on her. My sister’s worth it, even if she doesn’t think so herself. Show her that if she gives you her love and trust, you’ll never disappoint her.”
“And the girls? What about them? Will she let me get to know them, be a part of their lives, an important part?” Maybe one day be a stepfather?
“I think she will. I think once she takes that first step, and the second one, you’ll be there to catch her when she starts to fall. You’ll show her she doesn’t need to be afraid, that you’ll help her, that you’ll be a father to the girls.” Her voice softened, spilled into the line with affection. “And maybe, just maybe if the stars align and God sees fit, you’ll have a child together. Kind of like Elliot and I are doing… but you’ll always love all the children as your own. Just like I love my stepdaughter. That’s called real love.”
* * *
Max was stretched out on the sofa, half watching the football game and answering work emails when he heard Grace’s SUV pull in the driveway. After his conversation with Jenny, he needed a distraction and decided work and the football game would do the trick. Of course, a bowl of popcorn and another beer helped. He’d been in the middle of an email message about delivery times for a batch of intake manifolds when he heard Grace. Max checked his watch; 10:53 p.m. Apparently, she’d enjoyed her night with her friends since she’d been gone several hours.
Was this how people felt when their partner spent the evening out without providing details or a return time, as though they had no responsibility to the other party? Not that Grace had to answer to him because she sure as hell didn’t, but common courtesy said she should.
Didn’t it?
The back door opened and closed, and seconds later, Grace’s shoes click-clacked from the kitchen to the living room. High heels? He’d heard enough to know the sound. He concentrated on his email, finished it up and hit Send. On to the next email, this one with a subject heading material shortage.
“Max?”
He scrubbed the emotion from his face, glanced up. Yup, high heels and a long-sleeved dress, black belt, shiny buttons. What was that color called? Magenta? Whatever it was, it enhanced her hair, pulled out the auburn highlights. “Hey,” he said.
She licked her lips like she expected him to say more, and when he didn’t, she took another step toward him. “Did you have a nice night?”
Oh, so they were going to play the let-me-be-nice-to-you-so-we-can-forget-what-I-said game. Well, he wasn’t playing. Max shrugged. “What’s not to like about popcorn, beer, and a football game?”
Another step closer. “Did you find something for dinner?”
So, she was worried about him? He’d been feeding himself for a long time and didn’t need someone checking up on him. “Yup.”
“Did you see the grilled chicken in the fridge? And I think there was—”
“I ate. I’m fine.” She nodded, fingers clutching the wide belt, like she had more to say and needed the damn belt to get the words out. Well, she wasn’t getting any help from him.
Grace stepped around the coffee table, slid into the overstuffed chair next to the sofa. “I’m sorry for the way I lashed out at you.” She clasped her hands in her lap, her voice soft. “I had no right to talk to you that way…” When he didn’t answer, she slid him a look and said, “I really am sorry, Max. Can you forgive me?”
He toyed with the remote control. “I don’t like being accused of things I didn’t do. From the second you walked back into my life, that’s all you’ve done. You think I’m like your dead husband, but I’m nothing like that guy.” He rubbed his jaw, studied her. “Tell me, do you distrust all men, or is it just me?”
She looked away, blinked hard. “I do have trust issues.”
“No kidding? With me, in particular? Or with all men?” Talk about messed up. He expected her to snarl and tell him to go to hell, but she didn’t. Nope. She inched her gaze to his, clasped her hands tighter.
“You. Men. Everyone. Marriage has a way of changing a person, changing their expectations, their hopes. You start out all bright-eyed, full of dreams and plans, and somewhere along the way, you renegotiate those expectations.” Pause, followed by a wistful, “Not with the other person, because you’re afraid to admit what’s happening. So, you renegotiate with yourself; what you’ll accept, what you’ll tolerate, what you won’t.” Her eyes filled with too much sadness. “It’s nothing like you thought because you never pictured yourself settling. But you’re stuck, and there’s no way out.” Her voice cracked, dripped pain. “When you think it can’t get any worse, it does, and you almost break, but you don’t. Oh, no, because you’re a fixer, and you’re going to fix this marriage. Except you can’t, but you won’t know that until it’s too late; until you’ve been used up and there’s nothing left of you.”
More pain dripped from her words. “One day, you’ll wake up and you won’t even recognize yourself anymore, but it doesn’t matter. None of it does except keeping the family together, because now there are children… So, you do what you have to do…you smile…you act like you’re the perfect couple…because isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” She swiped at a tear, sniffed. “And you just keep renegotiating and compromising, and in the end, none of that matters.” Another tear, another sniff. “You’re just not enough...”
Max stared at her, tried to process what she’d just admitted, mesh it with what she hadn’t said. All these years, he’d thought she’d been happy, living the life she’d always wanted…
He tried to speak, but emotion clogged his throat. He tried again, forced out the words. “Grace. What did he do to you?”
“I…I…” she stumbled, swiped at more tears.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m broken, Max. Can’t you see that?” Her lips pulled into a sad smile. “All the lists in the world can’t put me back together or make me dream again. Or find hope.”
She couldn’t mean that. He wouldn’t let her mean that. Max eased off the sofa, knelt beside her chair. “Grace, listen to me. Don’t let whatever that bastard did to you define who you are or what your life can be. Fight for your right, or he’s won.” He leaned toward her, inches from touching her. “You deserve to be happy. Don’t give up, and don’t let him win.” She offered another smile, this one sadder than the last, and a shake of her beautiful head.
Max didn’t know about children, but if he were a parent, he knew what he’d want for them. “You’re a role model for your daughters, Grace. Do you want them to see how beaten you are? Can’t you show them what it means to fight back, to stand strong, get the life you want? Because you’re worth it?” He cupped her chin with his fingers, held her gaze. “And you are so worth it, Grace, I promise you that.”
The tears started again, streamed down her face, to her chin, slipped onto her dress. Max stood, pulled her into his arms, and held her as she cried. He’d never believed he’d provide comfort to the woman who’d scorned him, but he’d never believed anyone would hurt Grace. Her tears soaked his T-shirt, seeped through to his heart, settled in his soul. He stroked her back, murmured soft reassurances, as the cries and shoulder-shaking dwindled.
Eventually, she pulled away, mascara streaking her cheeks, eyes swollen, nose red. A perfect mess of beauty, desire, and vulnerability.
He smiled down at her, swiped at a tear with the pad of his thumb. “Better?” She nodded. His smile spread. “Good.”
“Max?”
“Yeah?” He could get lost in those eyes…
“I didn’t want you to see me like this. Most times I can handle things, but being around you reminds me of all the dreams…”
“No need to explain.” He settled his hands on her shoulders, reluctant to let her go. “I’m a good listener.” Her eyes grew wide as if he’d said the opposite of what she’d hoped he would. “What? Should I have said I’m a bad listener?”
She shook her head. “No, but I wish you hadn’t seen me fall apart. I really just wanted to apologize. I don’t suppose you can forget what I said?” When he raised a brow, she said, “Fair enough, but can you let it go?”
“You mean pretend you didn’t cry and tell me you lost your dreams and compromised so much you didn’t recognize who you’d become? That part?”
“Right.”
“Uh…no, I can’t do that.” He touched her cheek, traced her jaw. “Because you’re hurting, whether you want to talk about it or not. I will promise to back off and give you time, but I’m not pretending and I’m not forgetting.” Max paused, said in a gentle voice, “I’m here for you, Grace. Don’t shut me out.”
15
The next afternoon, Grace waited until she was sure Max was gone before she crept into the garage and made her way to the taped-up box in the far corner. He’d moved it and stacked two storage containers on top of it. Was that an attempt to keep prying eyes away? Hers, to be exact? What was in the box that he didn’t want her to see? He sure knew a lot more about her than she did about him, and maybe there were answers in that box. Was it so wrong if she peeked inside? Of course, it was, but that wasn’t going to stop her, not when there might be clues to the real Max Ruhland inside. That made snooping worthwhile.
Grace moved the first storage container to the floor, then lifted the second. Darn, but this one was heavy. She eased it on top of the other container, turned back to the cardboard box. He hadn’t labeled this one, as if he didn’t want anyone to know what was inside, or maybe the contents were so significant, he didn’t need a label reminder. Grace picked at the tape, peeling it back, careful not to rip the cardboard. She’d have to do a solid retaping job when she finished or Max would know someone had been snooping, and it wouldn’t take much to figure out that someone was her. She pulled at the last of the tape, opened the box, and peered inside. There were several thin binders, large envelopes with the name G-Race Technologies on the front. She dug further, encountered stacks of papers, and a manila envelope with Max handwritten on the front. Grace removed the envelope, opened the clasp, and slid out the contents. Clippings from newspapers and magazines spilled out.
* * *
G-Race Technologies agrees to sell its performance auto parts to retail customers on their new website.
* * *
An interview with G-Race Technologies’ President, Max Ruhland. How did you grow from a shade-tree mechanic to President and CEO of one of the fastest growing companies in the industry?
* * *
GRT President, Max Ruhland, donates machines to local vocational school, hopes to recruit more students into the trade.
* * *
Max was the President and CEO of a performance auto parts company? Max Ruhland? She grabbed another article, this one from a racing magazine. What car does G-Race Technologies President Max Ruhland drive for fun? The fourth article contained a picture of Max with longish hair, a beard, T-shirt and jeans, shaking hands with the president of a racing team. Grace found the stool Max used the other day, eased onto it, and unfolded another article. After four more clippings, she understood why Leanne, the ex-fiancée had talked about him as though he had money and power.
Because he did.
She found another picture of him; this one appeared to be when he was in his late twenties: tanned, smiling, in a tuxedo, a beautiful brunette clutching his arm. There were several more of Max over the years, some solo shots, others with persons of importance, occasionally, a glamorous woman at his side.
Grace sifted through the clippings, reading every line, trying to discern truth from embellishment. Was he really the successful entrepreneur they all said he was?
Maybe?
Probably?
Absolutely?
When she finished the articles, she slid them inside the manila envelope, and attached the clasp. She left out the article that had a picture of Max with longish hair and a beard, studied it, traced his lips…
Who was Max Ruhland?
The binders came next. They were G-Race Technologies financials, and while she didn’t understand what a balance sheet or an income statement was, she did know what a big number was, what an asset meant, and Max Ruhland’s company had a lot of assets; cash, property, inventory, accounts receivables. Grace dug through to the bottom of the box, and the more she discovered, the more she realized how little she knew about the man. There were original sketches with labels for fuel injector, intake manifold, exhaust manifold, and piston. More papers with handwritten formulas and calculations.
An hour and a half later, she started to repack the box. She had no idea when Max might be back, but he’d said Nate Desantro needed his help for a few hours and she didn’t want to risk getting caught. She’d just stacked the last container on top of the other, brushed off her jeans, and prepared to leave when the garage door opened.
Darn it! Grace eased to the side to let Max pull the Chevelle in the garage. What to tell him? She hadn’t anticipated the need to conjure up a story, but from the cold expression and the grim set of his lips, she’d need one, and it better sound convincing.
“What are you doing in here?” He glanced at the box in the corner, his gaze narrowing.
“I was looking for the tape to mask off the hallway trim.” She forced a laugh. “I know we used it the other day, but I couldn’t find it. I thought you might have brought it back to the garage. Have you seen it?” Slow down, or you’ll sound as guilty as you are.
“Huh.” He shoved his keys in his pocket, moved toward her…past her…heading for the secret box.
Grace dar
ted a gaze toward the box. What was he looking at? She’d put everything back, everything…except…
“You’re a terrible liar.” Max bent down, scooped something from the floor, held it out. “Care to explain how you found this?”
It was the article that contained the picture of him with long hair and a beard! Now he knew she’d searched the box. “Not really.”
“Of course not.” He set the article on top of the container, eyed her. “Now what?”
Now what? Was that all he had to say? Grace clasped her hands together, tried to assimilate what she’d read with the man standing three feet from her wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt. “You…you…have a penthouse?” Max nodded. “I don’t suppose you’re just renting it?”
“No, I own it.”
“Oh. Of course. And a place in Chicago?” Another nod. “And an apartment in New York?”
He held her gaze, those blue eyes narrowed on her, unreadable. “That, too.”
How could this be true? All along she’d thought he was the same Max…older, of course, more seasoned… But still the same. And now, she’d learned he wasn’t the same man at all, but someone she didn’t recognize. A stranger. “So, you’re—” she stared at him, tried to match meaning to words “—rich?”
He shrugged. “What’s that really mean? Do I own a company that makes enough money for me to live anywhere I want? Sure. Do I drive fancy cars? Yes. Can I afford to flit across the country or the globe if I want to?” Another shrug. “Yeah, I guess if you’re judging by those standards, then I’m rich. But —” that gaze burned into her, glittered “— if you’re talking about intangible things, like relationships and people? Then, not so much.”