She insisted on being home by six on Saturday, still wary he might try to extend the day into dinner. He didn’t, and she felt rather foolish, especially since her deadline meant she had to cut short her exploration of James Monroe’s law office. She’d gotten into conversation with a guide who’d been perfectly happy to show her several items too fragile for general display. Because of her deadline, though, they had to leave before she’d gotten to see all there was to see. Talk about hoist on her own petard!
Then she spent the evening at home, restlessly alone.
So Sunday, after they’d toured the spare loveliness of George Mason’s home, with an on-site expert showing them renovation research, then enjoyed the peace of sitting above the Potomac amid two-hundred-year-old boxwoods and a resurrected flower garden, she suggested they stop for dinner in Old Town Alexandria.
If it was a test, he passed with flying colors. They ate in a casual seafood restaurant near the water in an area that predated the capital across the river, as easy in conversation or silence as two friends could be.
Still, she’d felt a disinclination earlier that day to have him come up to her apartment, so she’d met him at the street door.
But this Saturday morning, that wasn’t to be.
The phone rang as she was stowing a guidebook to Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, into her bag. She considered letting the machine take it, but it might be Grady saying something had come up and the trip was off.
Instead, it was Grandma Beatrice—not a woman to be cut short when she had something to say. And she had a good deal to say.
She buzzed the door open when she heard Grady’s voice. By grace of a long cord, she opened the door to his knock and waved him in. She gestured to the phone, shrugged and signaled an invitation to sit.
“I agree,” she said into the phone. “It’s a bad situation all ’round. And I hate to see it. I had hoped that visit would help, but there wasn’t a sign that it—”
Grady straddled a chair, his arms rested on the back, his chin on top of his arms and his eyes on her.
Leslie listened to her grandmother describe signs of improvement in April after her trip to D.C.—faint, perhaps, and not long lasting, but there nonetheless—but every other sense was attuned to Grady. His gaze never wandered.
“In that case, I’ll invite her back...I know I don’t have to do it. I want to.” She heard the familiar lecture about having her own life to attend to and sidestepped it with the ease of practice. “I know that, too. But I want to do it. I’ll check on dates, and call Melly—no, I think I’ll call April directly. It should be her decision.”
She wrapped up the conversation then, promising to keep her grandmother updated on the possible visit.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Grady.” She gathered her tote bag and sweater, adding, by way of explanation, “My grandmother.”
“The one you talk about? Grandma Beatrice?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to meet her.”
Looking up from locking the door, she surveyed him, but his expression remained bland. "Not right now you wouldn’t. She’s on the warpath.”
“With you?”
Had she imagined he sounded as if he’d take issue with anyone on the warpath with her? “No, not with me. With my cousin, Melly, and her daughter, April.”
“What’s their problem?”
She sketched Melly and April’s history as they walked down to the street door. “So I’d say April’s problem is a case of teenitis drastically compounded by her father’s death and the fact that her mother doesn’t stay put for more than three weeks at a time.”
“That can be tough on a kid.”
His voice was almost too bland. As he opened the car door for her, she got a better look at his face, but it told her nothing, except his eyes had that protective veneer.
“Yes, it can.”
“Nice of you to try to help out.” He paused before closing the door. “Letting the kid decide if she wants to come or not is smart. Shows you understand she’s a person.”
She wondered if he’d seen only one side of the issue. But he’d shut the door, so she waited until he was in the driver’s seat to address the other side.
“I do see that April’s a person, and that she has some cause to be unhappy. But I can understand Melly, too. She’s always craved adventure and excitement. And April is so sullen. She’s not very easy to be around. All she wants to do is sit around all day and watch television.” Grady swung his head away from her, as if checking for oncoming traffic, but he didn’t pull out of the parking spot. “It’s like she tries to be a black cloud, blocking out the sun. And it’s such a waste. She’s really bright—”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes adults don’t want kids around who see too much.”
Leslie thought about her reaction to April’s uncomfortably acute observations when the gourmet basket arrived. The teenager had recognized—and voiced—some issues Leslie hadn’t wanted to hear, or to see for herself. Yes, Grady definitely had a point.
“And that kind of kid would be bright enough to pick up on the adults’ reactions,” she said, thinking out loud.
“Stands to reason.”
“So where does that leave them?”
“It probably leaves them two choices. Either the kid stops seeing, or at least stops letting the adults know about it. Or else the kid does let the adults know, and that probably makes the adults real uncomfortable.”
Leslie shifted the conversation then by saying how much she was looking forward to seeing Harpers Ferry. It didn’t seem fair to take up the whole afternoon with her family’s problems.
Grady cooperated, teasing, “You might not have seen it before, but I bet you know all about it.”
“As a matter of fact,” she answered deadpan, “did you know that Harpers Ferry is where the Potomac and Shenandoah rivers come together, and where the states of West Virginia, Maryland and Virginia come together.”
He laughed, and April, Melly and their problems were mentioned no more.
But Leslie wondered about that insight to April, and about the man who’d provided it.
* * * *
After a sumptuous lunch the next afternoon at the Red Fox Inn in Middleburg, Virginia, renowned as the heart of hunt country, Grady went along with Leslie’s demand to walk through an area that retained vestiges of an eighteenth century village. It was the “brisk” part he objected to.
“Too hot.”
“It’s not that hot. It’s not even out of the mid-nineties.”
“That’s plenty hot enough to melt this boy from the shores of Lake Michigan, my dear Southern belle.”
She kept her mouth straight, but her eyes glinted. It was a very appealing expression, especially with a faint breeze ruffling the wisps that had escaped from the loose way she’d pinned her hair up. The reactions he’d kept a firm clamp on for longer than he cared to think about stirred stubbornly.
“In that case, you can set your own pace,” she allowed, “but I intend to leave you in the dust.”
“No dust.” He shook his head. “If I try to move fast, wherever I go there’ll be mud from all the sweat.”
Laughing, she walked ahead, leaving him to his more leisurely pace. And to a very lovely view as the pale green skirt of her sundress gently swayed with her movements. The stirring deepened, and he grimly turned away.
He caught a glimpse of something that made him stop, then back up.
There, perfectly framed between not-quite-straight brick exterior walls of two shops, was a building of the same vintage, on the next street. But this building had a split personality—the left side painted in sparkling yellow with every speck of trim highlighted in bright blue, the right side in staid tan with white shutters.
Leslie would love it.
He opened his mouth to call to her and raised his arm to wave her back.
But his arm dropped to his sid
e unwaved and his mouth closed without speaking her name.
He’d made it his business, or at least his pleasure, to know what women would love. Women loved flowers, perfume, jewelry and other indulgent gifts.
Oh, yes, he knew what women, in general, loved. But a specific woman’s specific tastes? Never.
Until now.
But he did know Leslie’s. He knew exactly what her reaction would be if he showed her this vignette. He knew the expression of her pleasure, in detail and color.
He knew what made her happy. He knew what made her sad. He knew she liked to eat the inside of cake first, saving the frosting for last. He knew she fingered the links of her bracelet watch when she was worried. He knew she sipped her coffee until it was nearly cool, then drank it down. He knew she was loyal and caring. He knew she listened and counseled, but didn’t unburden herself to others. He knew how much she gave to others, and how little she allowed them to give back.
He knew she was like no other woman he’d ever known before. No, not “known,” because he hadn’t really known those women. He’d merely encountered them in brief and intense explosions of interest that left only a rubble of memories. But Leslie he truly knew.
That certainly brought a reaction as varied as the colors that made up her hazel eyes. Besides many he couldn’t identify, he recognized a few. A kind of satisfaction—he’d set out to get to know Leslie Craig, and he was succeeding. A warmth he’d always reserved for the small circle that included Paul, his parents and sister, Michael, Tris and more recently Bette. And a restless kind of confusion he didn’t like at all.
Because what he didn’t know was what to do with his knowledge of Leslie Craig.
He couldn’t use it to—what? His mind boggled at filling in a word. Seduce, Tris’s term, held a sharpness he didn’t like. Woo? An old-fashioned word, and bottom-line, what he meant was as old-fashioned as humanity. But woo included a tangle of implications. Win? That made Leslie sound like a trophy, and at his worst he’d never felt that way about any woman, much less her.
There wasn’t a word; there was just a feeling. But even if he could describe it, he couldn’t pursue it because he’d promised Leslie.
Use his knowledge of her to deepen their friendship. Sure, but what about the sensations when he looked at her? The recurrent urge to touch her? The dreams he woke from knowing she had visited them—and not as a friend?
He suddenly realized he’d stared at the half-and-half building long enough to draw the attention of passersby. He headed after Leslie, walking fast.
But not fast enough to outstrip the persistent, edgy question in his head: So where was this going? Or the answer: He didn’t have a damn clue.
Chapter Seven
Grady grew uncharacteristically quiet as the afternoon waned. Now, sitting in Sunday-evening returning-to-the-city traffic stopped dead by an accident, Leslie watched him rub a palm across his eyes, then his mouth, as if to wipe away the lines that bracketed them.
The pang she felt should have been guilt; she’d known he was working grueling hours, yet she’d blithely accepted the time he’d devoted to her these past few weeks. But the feeling was softer than guilt, and more disturbing.
“Tired?” She couldn’t keep concern from her voice.
He turned to her, and she held her breath.
“I’ve never worked so hard at making a friend in my life.” He leveled a look at her and added evenly, “Or worked so hard at trying to charm a woman."
Honest words that deserved an honest answer.
“I’ve never been subjected to so much charm in my life.”
That was honest. Though perhaps not the whole answer.
She’d caught herself wondering now and then if he really had given up any thought of being more than friends. And had thoroughly chastised herself.
She’d said friends, and she meant it. That was all she could be to him. It would be too unfair to let him become more than that to her.
He studied her a long time. When he did speak it was slowly and seriously. “Maybe you haven’t let anybody try.”
There it was again, that disconcerting perceptiveness of his. That slanting look that seemed to slice to her soul, that seemed to say he saw things hidden even from her. It made her uneasy to be reminded so sharply how much he hid under the surface of his charm, looks and success.
She couldn’t pretend that she wasn’t sidestepping the implications of what he’d said, but she did it, anyhow.
She tried for wry humor with, “Think you’re going to show off your great powers of perception with me as the case study, huh, Roberts?” and got much more of a response than she’d expected.
“Perception? Me?” Grady laughed. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy in mind. Maybe you’re mixing me up with Michael Dickinson. Dark-haired guy, shorter than me, remember him? That must be who you’re thinking of.”
“No. I mean you.”
“I’m not perceptive, ask my friends. Nuances slide right by me. I don’t pick up on moods or signals. The only way I catch undercurrents is if they start to drown me.”
She looked at him, at his good-natured grin, at his loose-jointed posture, at his open blue eyes, and she realized he truly believed that about himself.
But she didn’t.
She’d seen too many examples of his snagging nuances, moods, signals and undercurrents. Not just with her, but with Michael and Tris and Paul and Bette. Even the first time they met seven months ago. Tris had roped Leslie into having dinner with her and Grady, to act as a buffer to keep the conversation from getting too close to her break with Michael. Tris had done an excellent job of hiding her unhappiness, but she hadn’t fooled Grady. That had been clear to Leslie, even as a stranger to him.
Now she knew him, but she had no idea why he might deny his ability to sense other people’s feelings.
Sometimes adults don’t want kids around who see too much.
His own words provided the clue.
“What about your parents?”
“What about them?”
If she’d had any doubt, it ended with those terse words. His insight to April came from firsthand experience.
“Are they perceptive people?”
“No.” He turned his head to look out the side window, so his next words were muffled. “But then we’re not close, so maybe I don’t know them well enough to say.”
She waited for him to explain, but when he shifted in the seat before facing her again, she knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
He grinned, his eyes veiled. “Besides, how would I know, since I’m not perceptive myself.”
“You say you’re not close, do you see them often?”
“Now? Hardly ever.”
It seemed incredible to her, but his words invited the question. “And when you were growing up?”
“Before I started school, they’d take me along most trips.”
She remembered snuggling in blankets in the back seat with her older brother while her parents drove through the night to family vacation destinations; she didn’t think Grady was talking about the same thing.
“What sort of places?”
“London, Paris, Rome, Hong Kong, Honolulu, the Riviera. The Riviera a lot. They liked it there.”
He hadn’t. “Do they travel for business or pleasure?”
“Both, I guess. My father’s an international business consultant. But I don’t know how seriously he takes it. He and my mother have always liked the travel and glitter. He doesn’t need to take it seriously. My great-grandfather made enough on the patent for a tool prototype they’re still using so none of us have to work.”
But he did work, and he did take it seriously. And she knew without a doubt it wasn’t the travel or the glitter that made him do both.
“What happened when you started school?” She kept her voice quiet, the questions not too interested, aware how close he was to answering no more.
He shrugged. “I stayed home.”
I, not we.
“It must have been an adjustment.”
Another shrug. “Not really. Staying with a nanny in a hotel or staying with a nanny at the house—it wasn’t that different."
Leslie’s hands clenched at her side, in pain and anger. Pain for the little boy Grady had been. And anger for his parents. What was wrong with these people? They’d been given the greatest gift possible, a child to love and cherish. And they hadn’t seen beyond their own selfish pleasures. Not seeing, or not caring, that they were starving their child of love. Not seeing, or not caring, that behind the good looks, easy charm and business success, the man he’d become was lonely and vulnerable.
Carefully she stripped emotion from her voice. “So was that when you met Paul, when you started school?”
“Not right off. Let’s see.” He narrowed his eyes to look into the past, clearly more comfortable with these memories. "I remember Judi being born and Paul’s eleven years older, so we must have been right around eleven.”
“So you’ve known all the Monroes a long time.”
“Yeah. I spent most summers with them, and a lot of vacations.” She heard a lot of things he didn’t say—that his parents came and went in his life, but the Monroes stayed. That what he knew of family life and a family’s love came from the Monroes. His fond smile grew wry, and anger and pain surged through her again. “I used to hope my parents would be away for Christmas so I could be with the Monroes. At that age I preferred Mrs. M.’s cookies to any four-star restaurants at Kitzbühel or St. Moritz.”
She saw his discomfort with the conversation’s seriousness, heard it in his lighter tone.
“Lousy skier, huh?” she tried teasing.
“Damn good, actually—”
“Modest, too—”
"But they frown on night skiing, the parties weren’t for kids and old TV shows dubbed in German weren’t too entertaining.”
With no inclination to tease now, Leslie remembered from their first Smithsonian outing how Grady had spoken of old movies as if they were old friends. Perhaps his first friends. His reaction to her remark about April watching TV also made sense. Was it another area where he’d had special insight into the girl, because he, too, had escaped an unhappy situation as a youngster through that medium?
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