by Beth Ciotta
He grinned. “Can’t wait.”
“We can’t practice until tomorrow morning. The wing’s still drying. Maybe we should put off the exhibition until—”
“No.” His smile faltered. “The sooner we impress those reporters, the sooner you’ll have your good name back. Don’t worry about me,” he said with a wink. “I’m a regular daredevil.”
She smiled then, her heart in her throat. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to pin him against the kitchen wall, have her way with him, show him the stars. But she needed a clear conscience, so she backed out the door. “I’m going.”
“Will it make you feel better about my moving in?”
“Yes.”
“Then go.”
Chapter Nineteen
LIFE WAS UNPREDICTABLE. Love was unpredictable. Izzy knew these things. She’d been in and out of love so many times it made her dizzy. Still, Mick’s revelation and his unprecedented drunkenness had shaken her to her roots. After a few more belts of whiskey, she’d stumbled out of the speak in a haze of shock and betrayal. When Roy opened the car door for her, he hadn’t blinked at her slurred apology for making him wait, nor had he argued when she’d asked him to take her home. Instead of lecturing her when she’d staggered to her doorstep, he’d simply held her upright and steadied her when she tripped over the threshold. He hadn’t uttered a word when she’d charged up the stairs in search of Rufus.
Only Rufus was gone, his closet door left open, the chest half-empty. He’d moved out without so much as a goodbye. He’d moved in with Grace. She felt it in her bones.
She wasn’t angry with Rufus, Ronald, or whoever the heck he was. It made no sense that he’d chosen Grace over her, but she knew from experience that men couldn’t control their passions, no matter how temporary they were or how wrong the person who evoked those passions was for them. No, it was Grace who’d disappointed her. Grace who’d betrayed her. Her oldest friend.
Depressed, she’d plodded down the staircase in an ever-thickening haze, telling Roy, “I don’t want to be here.”
He’d wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders and brought her back to his beach house. For the past two hours, she’d been trying to warm herself on his deck, soaking up the sun and nursing some fruity concoction he’d whipped up. For two hours, she’d been staring out at the ocean, contemplating life. She’d never been more miserable.
“Grace is here to see you.”
Izzy turned toward the French doors and looked over her tortoiseshell sunglasses at Roy. “I’m not receiving visitors. Send her away.”
He cocked a salt-and-pepper eyebrow, and again she pondered his overnight appeal. “She seems upset, Isadora.”
“She’s upset?”
“Izzy.” Grace walked out from behind him.
Izzy turned away and busied herself with a crossword puzzle. “Grace.”
Roy pointed Grace to an empty seat. “Can I get you something to drink, Grace?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then I’ll leave you ladies alone.” He cocked both eyebrows at Izzy, then made a gentlemanly retreat. Damn him. She didn’t want to be alone with Grace. She didn’t want to be with her, period. Grace had betrayed her, and she’d betrayed Mick. She neither knew nor liked this Grace. She was a horrible, horrible friend.
“I’ve been looking for you for hours,” Grace said.
“Been here all day,” Izzy said, feigning interest in the crossword. “Rufus borrowed my car last night. Hence, I have no transportation.”
“He returned the car today.” Grace cleared her throat. “Speaking of Rufus—”
“What’s a seven-letter word for Benedict Arnold?” she asked, pencil poised over her puzzle. “Starts with a T.”
“I didn’t plan—”
“Traitor!”
“It got out of control. I didn’t mean to—”
“Sleep with Ace? Everyone knows. Really, Grace, a woman should never kiss and tell.”
“You kiss and tell all the time.”
“Yes, but where I’m concerned, people are interested. No one’s interested in you. No one cares about you. Just because Julius—Rufus, Ace, whoever—has bad taste . . .”
She watched Grace grip the arms of the chair, holding on to her control.
“I know you’re mad at me, Izzy. I know that’s why you’re saying mean things—”
“I’m being mean?”
“I thought our friendship was stronger than this.”
Izzy hardened her heart against the hitch in Grace’s voice. “So I hear you and Rufus are giving an aerial exhibition tomorrow.” She scrunched up her nose and crammed “selfish slut” into five boxes. “Shouldn’t you be practicing or something? Tomorrow could change your life.”
Grace sighed. “Yes, but I really . . . I wanted . . . I’m sorry, Izzy.”
She swallowed hard, then waved a casual hand. “For what? Distracting me from my puzzle? Forget it.” She held her breath as Grace held her ground. Grace wanted to talk about her new love, and Izzy wanted to hear it. Sickeningly, she even wanted to hear about Rufus’s superior sexual techniques. She didn’t doubt for a moment he was the eel’s hips. If it had been any other woman . . . but it wasn’t.
“Don’t get knocked up,” she said. “He won’t be around long.”
Grace stood, casting a long shadow over Izzy. Her voice was low, uncertain. “It only takes once.”
Izzy gnashed her teeth. This wasn’t happening. Grace had rarely ever come to her for anything, and here she was, her so-called friend, needing her, wanting to talk about her confusion, wanting her approval. She couldn’t give it. Worse, Grace’s sounding uncertain made her own world seem as though the hot sun might melt it into an unrecognizable puddle. “Good luck tomorrow.”
“You’ll be there, won’t you?”
She scrawled “fiasco” into the crossword, ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
GRACE STOOD ON her rickety front porch, not really seeing as she twisted her goggles in her cold hands. Her heart pounded against her chest, on the verge of beating itself into a stupor.
She’d raced the Ford through the countryside for over an hour, trying to hold an inner storm at bay. In one day, she’d gained a lover and lost two friends. A lover who could be gone tomorrow. Friends who’d stood by her for years.
Her head throbbed from too much sun and confusion. A cyclone of conflicting emotions—joy, uncertainty, bone-deep sadness—wreaked havoc on her insides. She didn’t know what to do. Intense emotional highs and lows had always been the problem of other girls—women—like high heels. She’d plowed through life steady as a compass. Single-minded, focused. For the first time in her twenty-three years, she doubted her ability to recover from what felt like a spiraling nosedive.
For the first time in her life, she felt like a mere woman, Amazing no longer a name that applied to her.
She didn’t want Rufus to see her like this. She should have driven around for another hour, but it was dark, and she was exhausted. Her eyes burned, and her palms hurt from gripping the steering wheel too tightly. If she slipped inside and crept up the stairs, she could climb into bed, wrap herself in a comforting cocoon of sheets, and sleep off this day. With their exhibition tomorrow, he probably wouldn’t disturb her.
She hated that she had to sneak into her own house. Hated that she was about to pull an Izzy by avoiding confrontation. But she knew no other way. Rufus wanted to have sex again. He’d made that clear with his stop at the pharmacy. She didn’t have the strength to turn him away, yet she couldn’t imagine repeating last night’s incredible act. She didn’t want to feel any more than she was already feeling. She was afraid she might just explode.
With her heart racing and head pounding, she eased open the front door, cursing the creak that she’d welcom
ed the night before. She was greeted with the mouthwatering aroma of baking chicken and hot biscuits and the sight of Rufus standing in the kitchen wearing Pop Pop’s special fish-frying apron. She clenched her teeth against a rising tide of emotion.
“You’re home,” he said, his eyes dark with concern.
“You’re cooking,” she said.
He nodded, wiped his hands on the hem of the blue-and-white-checkered apron, and took a step toward her. “I thought you’d be hungry. You only ate half your sandwich earlier, and . . .” He stopped, took a deep breath, and eyed her. “I’ve been worried sick, Grace. You’ve been gone for hours. You could have called, at least.” He blinked. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do that. I sound like my mother.”
“Must be nice to have a family that cares about you.” Her voice sounded rusty, and her nerves were stretched tighter than her Jenny’s wires.
His eyes narrowed, and she felt the discomfort of his looking straight through her to her soul. “Izzy didn’t understand,” he guessed, closing the space between them. “What a surprise.”
She was suddenly conscious of the doorknob jabbing her in the small of her back. She bristled at herself for retreating, for trembling with confusion and hurt. She simply wanted to collapse in his arms, to seek comfort and strength and some sort of damned peace. It was childish and pathetic to think he could cradle and kiss her and make everything all right, yet she felt herself leaning into him when he grasped her shoulders.
“You’re shaking.” He rubbed her arms gently, then took her hand and led her through the living room to the candlelit kitchen. He hooked his foot under a rung and pulled out a chair. “Sit down. I’ll pour you something to drink.”
She stared at the white-linen-draped table. Two place settings, two candles, Pop Pop’s bottle of table wine. Music—Ellington—played from the living room. She hadn’t noticed he’d cranked up the Victrola. He’d not only cooked, but he’d also set the scene for the communion of two lovers. Just like Mick had, only Rufus’s attempt weakened her knees.
She felt another guilty pang. Mick. Her best friend. She’d pushed him away like a beggar on the street. She’d tossed aside his concern, his passion. Now that she knew how love felt, she repented. She wondered if he was suffering about her the same way she was suffering about Rufus . . . wanting something so badly but having no idea how to make it work, or how to keep it.
Her composure slipped further.
“Sip this,” Rufus said, handing her a glass of wine.
She sipped, then gulped.
“We both know Izzy isn’t comfortable with uncomfortable situations. I can’t imagine her starting a cat fight or wanting a long, drawn-out argument.” He touched her windblown hair. “I bet you’ve been driving around, pedal to the floor, trying to clear your head.”
She took another gulp of wine, wondering how much she’d need to consume to feel numb. “I pushed the car faster and faster, hoping to make my outside crazier than my inside. That’s when I can think. Inside I have no brake. No control stick. No gauges.”
“But you couldn’t outrun yourself this time.” He squatted in front of her, clasped her free hand between his, and rubbed. “It’s hot outside, yet you’re freezing.”
“She hates me.”
“No, she’s upset.”
She stared off into nothingness, barely aware of his touch. No tingle. No zap. She was on her way to numb. She gulped the rest of her wine.
He took away the glass and set it aside. “Grace . . .”
“I betrayed her. I betrayed Mick. My best friends. My only friends.”
“Sweetheart, you’re being too hard on yourself. Life isn’t always as simple as we—”
“It is simple! My friends were my family. All I had left.”
“Neither of us had any control over what happened. Believe me. Maybe I should tell you—”
“I wish this had never happened.”
“Grace—”
She stood and tried to leave, but he blocked her way. Her lower lip trembled. She forced herself to look him in the eye. “I wish I’d never met you.”
“You don’t mean that—”
“I do.” She turned away, braced both hands on the counter, and breathed deeply. “And I don’t.”
“You have me, Grace. Me. You’re not alone.”
“For how long? You don’t even own your own life.”
“I’m working on it. Very, very hard. I promise you, I won’t leave by my own two feet.”
“Pop Pop would be so disappointed . . . I’m so disappointed.” Her eyes stung, and she knew she’d reached her limit. “Don’t.” She pushed past him, shrugging off his touch, and raced up the stairs.
RUFUS WAITED TO collect his thoughts, to allow her some privacy, but he found that three minutes was all he could stand. He needed to touch her, hold her, reassure her. He’d never felt such a driving need to comfort someone. It was frightening, but not as frightening as failing to do so. He rolled back his shoulders and climbed the stairs.
He found her in the last of the three bedrooms, curled up on the right side of a neatly made bed. Pop Pop’s side, no doubt. He’d had time to familiarize himself with the house that afternoon, and this room had been of particular interest. He didn’t need to be Sam Spade to deduce it had belonged to her grandfather. Of course she’d seek solace here.
He stood on the threshold, paralyzed for a moment, as the woman he loved sobbed her heart out. He’d never thought to hear such sounds from Grace. So tough in the beginning, and now . . .
He sat down next to her and stroked her hair. “Grace.”
“Don’t touch me.”
He continued to stroke. The light from the hallway illuminated a small framed photo on the nightstand. He’d stared at it for some time today, fascinated by the sight of Grace, about twelve years old, with her first plane. She was so tiny next to the giant propellers, and she had the biggest grin on her face as Pop Pop held her up. She was touching the top propeller point with one finger. Grace on top of the world. She knew who she was in her plane.
Here on earth she’d become unsure, confused, and ashamed. And he’d contributed to her misery.
“Pop Pop is not disappointed,” he said. “Someone maligned your name, and you’re working to set it straight. Along the way, you fell in love. Instead of running from it, you faced it. Where’s the disappointment in that?”
“I fell in love. Like a stupid sap.”
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Yeah, me, too.”
She rolled over. Her face was red, tears rolling down her cheeks. No makeup to smear, just skin kissed by the sun. His heart ached. “You finally admit it,” he said.
“It feels strange.” She dragged her arm across her face. “Everything feels strange.”
He snorted. “Tell me about it.”
“I figured you’d be used to this kind of thing.”
“I’ve never been in love.”
“But it seems to come so naturally to you. You always act as if you know just what you’re doing.”
He tweaked her nose. “Look who’s talking.”
She sighed. “Guess we’re a lot alike.”
“Don’t sound so happy about it.”
“I’m not happy.”
He had never imagined himself in love, but if he had thought about one day, he was sure he’d never have imagined his woman being so miserable from the get-go. It seemed as though misery would at least take some time to set in, like decay. But then, Grace was no ordinary woman. She lived her whole life in the moment. “You really are amazing.”
“You’re blinded by my death dive.”
“No,” he said, lying next to her and taking her in his arms, tucking her head beneath his chin. “You’re one of the most complete people I know. You can fly a stunt
plane with the big boys and put most of them to shame. You’ve probably kicked up your clodhopping boots with those same boys and smoked cigars and cursed through lots of a chilly nights on the road. Your skin is softer than a silk sheet, you look incredible in men’s khaki pants, and you saved yourself for the right man and showed him so much heart and passion that he’s nearly drowning.”
She didn’t say anything. Her breathing grew shallow. Had she fallen asleep during his speech? He looked down and found her wide awake. Tears fell silently down her face.
“I can’t stop,” she croaked.
He squeezed her tightly. “You probably haven’t cried since Pop Pop passed.”
“In this very spot. I miss him, Rufus.”
“Let it out, sweetheart. Just let it out.”
“If he were here—”
“This wouldn’t have happened.”
“I could ask him what to do. I can’t talk to Izzy. Certainly not to Mick.”
“You have me.”
“Stop saying that.”
“No one can control fate, Grace. I could die tomorrow walking across the street. Anyone can—”
“Sounds like you’re saying goodbye.”
“No. I told you, I won’t leave of my own accord.”
“You make it sound as though someone else might take you away.”
“Let me finish,” he said. “I’ll always be with you, Grace. In your heart.” He tapped her chest. “And you’ll be in mine. Always.”
“This . . . love . . . is stronger than either of us.”
“More than you know.”
“It would have happened regardless of Pop Pop.”
“His shotgun might have been an obstacle. But not for long.”
“I have to make this up to Izzy . . . and to Mick.”
“We’ll figure out something.”
“We,” she said, closing her eyes. “I miss that. We used to be me and Pop Pop.”
He looked up through the ceiling, straight to heaven, and said a prayer. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d said an honest, heartfelt prayer. Somewhere along the way he’d lost his faith. He wasn’t sure when or why, but one thing was suddenly, brilliantly clear. Whereas Bookman believed in anything and everything, he himself had considered nothing beyond his own senses. If he couldn’t see, smell, hear, taste, or touch it, it wasn’t real. Which meant he’d discounted a helluva lot of things without giving them a single serious thought: Eternal love. Driving passion. Blind faith.