by Lea Santos
Madeira took her hand and shook it, but didn’t let go right away, allowing her thumb to caress Gracie’s silky skin. “Someday you should meet my sister Torien and her partner, Iris. You’d like them.”
“Someday I just might,” Grace said. “Actually, I’d love to.”
“How come none of my teachers were as beautiful as you, Gracie?” Her half-mast gaze damn near rendered Grace speechless.
She willed a casual tone into her voice. “They probably saw you coming.”
Madeira dropped her hand, grinning. “You may be right. Torien claims I’ve been incorrigible since elementary school.”
Grace gave a little sarcastic snort. “My guess is you were an incorrigible infant.” She managed to walk calmly to her desk to palm her keys, then joined Madeira again at the door. “Let’s go. All I need is to make you late to the assembly. There’s enough gossip going around about us already.”
“Sounds interesting,” Madeira mused.
Grace tossed her a droll, silent stare and led the way to the auditorium.
Twenty-five minutes later, Madeira and Simon had finished their presentation. Madeira had absolutely charmed the audience—big surprise—and Simon’s wealth of knowledge and his ability to convey it in simple terminology the children could understand was admirable. Gracie glanced around and noticed that the other teachers and the hundred or so parents who’d shown up seemed mesmerized, too. Partway through, Eula had leaned forward and whispered, “Grrrrl, lock that one up, otherwise back off and give me a crack at her. Mmm-mmm-mmm.”
Grace shook her head with amusement and shushed her friend. Eula had flawless skin the color of a perfectly mixed latte and eyes the cerulean blue of the water around her birthplace—Jamaica. The last thing Grace planned to do was introduce this island beauty to Madeira. If only Grace could lock Madeira up, she would. Yeah, right. That would be like caging a lion. Some wild animals were meant to be free, she realized, a pang of respect-tempered sadness striking inside her.
Simon smoothed his palms together. “All righty then, ladies and germs”—the kids laughed—“are there any other questions before we head out to take a quick look at the ambulance?”
A dozen hands shot up. More.
Simon acknowledged one of the fifth-grade girls.
“I have a question for her,” she said shyly, pointing a stubby, sparkle-polished fingernail toward Madeira.
Madeira moved forward and smiled. “Go ahead.”
The girl giggled behind her hand for a minute until her friends started to elbow jab her from both sides. “Are you gonna, like, marry Ms. Obregon, or whatever?”
Grace went rigid, and Eula’s hand came forward to squeeze her shoulder. Madeira, she noted, looked similarly stricken. Her gaze sought and found Grace’s, like an S.O.S. She managed a subtle, useless shrug. The only bright spot in the whole thing was the fact Madeira was on the spot instead of Grace, which wasn’t a very nice notion for her to entertain, but there it was.
The little Disney star clone went on. “Because my mom said that stuff in the paper about you guys was the most romantic thing she’d ever seen since Luke and Laura’s wedding on General Hospital, like, a zillion years ago. I don’t know what that means, but anyway, my friends think so, too, even though none of us have a clue who Luke and Laura are ’cuz, I guess, we were babies then. Or maybe not even born.”
Several of the teachers and many of the parents laughed.
Madeira managed a nervous heh-heh-heh as a prelude to her big hem-haw. “Well, now, a lot goes into a relationship before it gets to the, um…happily ever after question, little one.” Stammer stammer. She cleared her throat. “But how about a question or two on the topic of accident prevention or safety or…yes?” She acknowledged a boy off to the left, the relief clear on her gorgeous features.
“How come you kept Ms. Obregon’s bear if you thought she was dead?”
God almighty. Grace closed her eyes to stave off the wave of nausea and knocked off a few desperate Hail Marys in her head. The entire assembly went downhill from there. Despite repeated attempts by Simon and Madeira to keep the kids on topic, the questions ranged from “Did you fall in love at first sight when you crawled under the car?” and “How are you and Ms. Obregon going to have kids since you’re both girls?” to “Could you see the bone sticking out of Ms. Obregon’s leg when it was broken? Was it cool?”
They should have anticipated that the children would be more interested in the sensational aspects of the situation. Live and learn. Oddly enough, none of the teachers or parents made attempts to rein in the questions, and Gracie spent the rest of the Q&A period sweating beneath her blazer and avoiding the million or so pairs of eyes that kept settling on her. Everyone wanted the skinny on her life, it seemed.
Finally, Simon stopped the interminable questions and led the long, snaking line of children out the side door of the auditorium for a quick walk through the rig. Grace limped dutifully alongside her class, holding shy little Mona’s hand, but frankly she wanted to perish on the spot. When her class made it to the front and began entering the business end of the boxy ambulance in groups of five, she stood to the side. Madeira spoke in an animated voice to the children, but Grace could feel her awareness like hot rays of the sun.
No sunscreen.
So, naturally, Layton chose that moment to approach, because Grace’s life just sucked that way these days. “Hi, Grace.” She looked nice in a pair of khaki pants and a loose-fitting shirt, untucked, and she carried her jacket and briefcase.
Grace wouldn’t cower. She didn’t have anything to hide. “Hi, Layton. Heading out?” Since art was considered a “specials” class, Layton didn’t have regular students.
“I am.” She ran her hand over her curly light brown hair. “Say, I just wanted to make sure we’re still on for dinner tomorrow night.”
In her peripheral vision, she saw Madeira’s full attention snap to their conversation. Perspiration began to bead on Grace’s upper lip. She whisked it away. “Of course. Seven, right?”
Layton cleared her throat. “Yes…well, because after the assembly, I got to thinking about not wanting to step on anyone’s toes again, and—”
“You won’t,” Grace insisted, her tone more firm than she’d intended. She tried to soften it with a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. I’m looking forward to it.”
Layton’s face spread into a relieved smile. “As am I.”
After Layton had ambled off toward the faculty parking lot, Grace eased out a sigh and pressed two fingers to the stress point between her brows. She closed her eyes, wanting desperately for this evil day to end.
“Need an aspirin?” Madeira whispered, her breath warm as an angel’s caress on Grace’s cheek.
Startled, Grace jerked her hand away from her face. She offered a weak smile, gauging Madeira for any jealousy and finding none. She didn’t quite know how to feel about that, but she appreciated the effort nonetheless. “Screw aspirin, I need a drink.”
Madeira nodded her agreement. “So…who was that?”
Uh-oh. Here it came. Grace chose to answer the question Madeira had asked, rather than those she hadn’t. “Layton Fair. She teaches art.”
“You going out with her?”
Grace met her gaze levelly. “I am,” she said, her tone intentionally breezy. “To dinner. Tomorrow night.”
Madeira’s throat tightened on a carefully controlled swallow, but she did manage a mildly disinterested smile. “That’s great. She seemed like an all-right woman to me.”
“Well, thanks for your approval.”
Madeira ignored that, gazing off toward the faculty lot. “I hope you have a good time.”
Grace couldn’t have been more stunned. Well, what did you want her to do, nitwit? Pound her chest and demand you cancel?
No.
Maybe.
Oh, shut the hell up, she ordered her conscience.
She felt oddly deflated in spite of herself and took a long gulp of air be
fore answering. “T-thanks. I hope so, too. It’s just dinner.”
“Mmm.”
Noncommittal.
Silence yawned between them, growing more uncomfortable by the moment. Grace didn’t want the day to end on that note, so she touched Madeira’s arm “Thank you, Maddee. I really mean that.”
Madeira gave her a devastating, dimple-pulling smile, but her eyes were unreadable. “No sweat, Gracie. What are friends for?”
Chapter Eleven
Las penas con pan son menos.
With bread, all grief is lessened.
“You do realize you just inhaled my entire fifty-dollar box of Godiva truffles, right?” Lola asked, glaring at Grace’s reflection in the beauty station mirror. Grace had stopped by to drop off the stack of flyers for the bachelor auction Madeira and Simon had given her. Lola guilt-tripped her into a trim by claiming the sight of Grace’s dry ends made her physically ill.
“Fifty bucks of Godiva isn’t that much chocolate.”
“Yeah, right! If you were a dog, you’d be dead right now.”
Grace stole a shamefaced glance at her sis. “You offered.”
“I offered one.”
“I don’t recall negotiating a specific limit.”
“What are you now, a lawyer?” Lola took a threatening stance. “Don’t cross a woman who has your hair in one hand and shears in the other.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “You don’t scare me. Your reputation is too important for you to give me a heinous cut.”
Lola didn’t deny it, but she continued to pout over the half-pound of chocolate working its way into full bloat mode in Grace’s stomach. “Do you have any idea how many fat grams you just threw down your gullet?”
“As if I care. Look, I’ll pay you back when we get home, if you’re going to be a big, stingy whore about it,” Grace mumbled as she sucked the decadent brown nectar of the gods off her fingers. “I needed a fix. You know how I am when it comes to chocolate.”
“Hmph.” Lola gave new meaning to the word “snippy” with her stiff-backed clipping of Grace’s locks. “Next time, satisfy your cravings with Hershey’s, okay? And buy it yourself.”
“Fine, Jesus. Some loving sister you are, hoarding chocolate in my time of need.” Grace waved her sticky fingers. Truth? She loved bantering with Lola, even though it drove DoDo absolutely nuts. Lola thrived on their snark wars, too, and neither of them ever meant true harm. DoDo paid no mind to that. She just thought arguing was unseemly, especially for women.
Which made Grace want to do it more.
Evil granddaughter! Thwack! Thwack!
“Just cut, will you? I have math papers to grade.” Her least favorite task.
“Quit cracking the whip, or I will pull a Britney-freaking-out-on-the-paparazzi-with-an-umbrella on your head. Trust me, I wouldn’t be the first stylist who yearned to shave an annoying client’s head.”
“You would not shave my head.”
“Risk it, then, if you think you’re woman enough.” Lola’s perfectly arched brow raised in cool challenge. “I’d become a hero among my peers and you’d become a hat lover, PDQ.”
Grace studied her reflection and pondered how she might look bald. Not great, she decided, not with these ears. She laid off the nagging, settling back to sluggishly metabolize some truffles. Really, she trusted Lola implicitly to do the right thing with her hair, but she liked keeping baby sis on her toes.
“What’s up with you and the chocolate anyway? PMS?” Lola’s scissors snip-snip-snipped away at Grace’s split ends.
“Close. FWS,” Grace said. “Frustrating Woman Syndrome.”
Lola drew up long strands of Grace’s hair until just the uneven ends showed between her fingers, then sliced them off with the very shiny, very expensive scissors she kept in a locked safe when the shop was closed. “I thought you said you and Madeira were getting along better? Hell, the woman gave her blessing for this travesty of a date you’re going on, what more do you want?”
A lot more, answered Fickle Grace, the evil twin who lived inside Sensible Grace just to make life more difficult. “How do you know I’m even referring to Madeira?”
Lola paused mid-trim for an exaggerated “puh-lease” look.
“And anyway, it’s not a travesty of a date.” Grace sniffed. “Layton is an awesome woman.”
“I’m sure she is.” Lola paused for effect. “That doesn’t mean she’s the right woman for you.”
“How do you know she isn’t?”
“Because Madeira is, dipshit, and women aren’t like truffles—eventually, you have to pick just one.”
Grace smirked. “Clever. Point-maker.”
Lola grinned, then grew serious again. “Come on. You saw the sign as clearly as DoDo and I did. She called you Gracie,” Lo stage-whispered. She set her shears on the station and pulled her fingers through the sides of Grace’s hair and down to her collarbones, checking that the lengths matched. “You’re just too stubborn to admit what that truly means.”
Grace stared at the little wet hair clots spotting the cape that covered her, trying not to wish too fervently that Madeira’s use of the revered nickname had been a sign. “All it means is that she was being sweet to me, trying to make me feel better under that car. Nothing more than that.”
“Maybe. But why would a stranger call you Gracie when you told her your name was Grace? Did you ever stop to wonder who sent her underneath that car?” She caught Grace’s gaze in the mirror and waited until realization began to dawn before adding, “We both know Mama is our guardian angel.”
Oh my God. An eerie recognition skittered up Grace’s spine, and she shivered violently.
Lola lifted up Grace’s hair and checked her nape for goose bumps, glancing back up with an incredulous expression. “You hadn’t thought of that, had you?”
“Actually…no. So what?”
Lola did a little “I rule” dance in back of the chair, then wrapped Grace in an awkward hug from behind. “Grace, Mama’s always with us. It totally makes sense.”
“Matchmaker from beyond the grave,” Grace snapped. “Yeah. That only makes sense if you read the National Enquirer.”
“Admit how uncanny it is that Madeira happened to show up at that pivotal moment in your life.”
Grace clamped her bottom lip in between her teeth.
Lola went on. “You think angels in heaven don’t have to enlist the aid of angels on earth now and then?”
Ugh! It sounded so impossibly possible. Grace covered her ears with her hands, singing, “La la la la, I don’t hear you,” but Lola wrestled them off.
Hands entwined, they engaged in a little isometric struggle while Lola continued pleading her point. “Listen to me. Mama always did want to give you your Ms. Right. Hence the bear. But once Madeira came along…well, maybe this was Mama’s way.”
Grace had to admit, it made a freakish kind of daytime-talk-show sense. She stopped resisting, and they released each other’s hands.
Lola pulled open the Velcro closure on the plastic cape and whisked it from Grace’s shoulders with flourish. “The only problem is, Mama forgot to give you the brains to recognize a good sign when it shows up.”
“Would you stop?” Grace rasped, feeling off-kilter and tingly and wishing with her whole heart that Mama could pop in and either confirm or deny the hypothesis. She glanced around as though someone might overhear, even though the salon had emptied an hour earlier. “Maybe it is a sign. Maybe not. But I have a date tonight and it’s not with Madeira. I can’t have this on my mind. It’s not fair to Layton.” She glanced frantically around the cutting station, lifting brushes and shoving aside bottles and tubes, opening and closing drawers.
“Okay, but think about it after the date. Promise me.”
“I promise.” A paddle brush spun off the edge of the counter and hit the floor with a crack.
Lola frowned. “What are you looking for?”
“Something else to eat,” Grace muttered. “I’m suddenly
in desperate need of a therapeutic binge.”
*
As she’d suspected, Grace had a perfectly fine time on her date with Layton, despite being a tiny bit uncomfortable due to an unusually tight waistband—go figure. But Layton had been kind and attentive, and the small Italian restaurant she’d suggested provided ambience, great food and service, and just enough seclusion to make it perfect for a first date. She’d even refrained from comment when Grace had asked the waitress for a third basket of garlic knots.
They had teaching in common, and the conversation was easy. Layton listened to her, really heard her, even laughed at the correct moments. Conclusion: Layton Fair was a nice woman. In the world of New Grace, Layton was perfect on paper.
So…why did it feel as if something was missing?
Layton pulled her Honda Accord up to the curb in front of Grace’s house and slipped the transmission into park, pulling Grace out of her bleak thoughts. Layton smiled in the darkness. “Home safe and before the witching hour. You seem tired, Grace.”
Grace glanced at the clock on the dash, really truly wanting to adore this woman, because it would make things so easy. Eleven o’clock. She wasn’t tired, she was brooding. Layton didn’t deserve that. “It is early, and I’m really not all that tired.” She smiled. “Please come in for coffee. I’d like that.”
Layton twisted the key in the ignition. “I’d love coffee.”
As they traversed the walk, Layton settled her palm at the small of Grace’s back, much like Madeira had done. Grace waited for the electricity to heat her skin, but felt nothing. She bit her lip, consumed with remorse. She had initiated this date, and she owed it to Layton not to continually compare her with Madeira. It made no sense—Layton and Madeira were two vastly different women and this wasn’t a competition.
This whole thing was Lola’s fault for filling her head with thoughts of divine intervention just before she had to prepare for her date. On the porch, she paused to fish her keys from her pocket. Tossing back her hair, she regarded Layton in the gold glow of the outside light. “I’m sorry if I’ve been distracted. It was a beast of a week for me.”