by Lisa Cach
Grace didn’t think anyone would believe it. Sophia was blade thin, with barely enough fat to keep her from looking skeletal.
“I suppose I should have told you that I’d invited her, Andrew, but I didn’t want to see you feeling smug. Her presence is an admission that I have to have that damned surgery.”
Grace caught Andrew looking at her. He dropped his eyes and poked his fork at a wedge of melon. “The sooner you do it, the easier your recovery will be.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Do you hear him, Grace? That will be one of your first duties, keeping Andrew from treating me like a child who doesn’t know well enough to take her hand out of the fire.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Declan said. “She needs scolding. One might almost say she invites it.”
“He will be your second duty,” Sophia said. “He’s worse than Andrew. I didn’t reach this age by being obtuse about my own well-being.”
The two men gazed with doting eyes upon Sophia, but Grace thought she had caught a thread of real annoyance in her aunt’s tone. What she didn’t know was whether the men’s patronizing was justified, and Sophia’s annoyance merely the petulance of a child who must be told no. “I promise to silence all unnecessary admonishments.”
Sophia lifted an eyebrow, her eyes meeting Grace’s with appreciation. “Carefully said, my dear.”
The woman didn’t miss a beat.
“I’ve met Grace only once before,” Sophia said, addressing the men. “Although she is in part named after me. Grace Sophia, correct?”
Grace nodded, and felt Catherine looking at her. “I didn’t know that,” Catherine said, offense in her tone at not being privy to all the details of Grace’s life.
Grace shrugged. Her maternal grandmother had suggested her middle name, even though Grace’s mother had known little of Sophia beyond family tales of her independent—some said willfully rebellious—spirit.
Sophia went on, “She was a child then, and I had nearly forgotten about her when this past Christmas she sent me one of those strange personal newsletters people are so fond of composing these days.”
Grace squirmed in her seat. That newsletter had been a whim, inspired by a bout of depression in the gray winter of Seattle, her usual optimism and academic energy lost beneath a blanket of clouds and loneliness. She’d wanted to connect with family, any family. Her mother had sent her a list of the addresses of relatives and family friends, and she’d sent the embarrassing missive to them all. It had been full of false cheer and tiresome personal anecdotes desperately embroidered to make her life sound more interesting than it was. She’d included a photo of herself on the observation deck of the Space Needle, wind blowing her hair against a backdrop of heavy clouds.
“Inviting her to Pebble Beach for the summer seemed a way to fulfill both our needs. Grace is getting her Ph.D. in—what was it, dear?”
Grace’s shoulders slumped, dreading what was to come. No male reacted well to mention of her field, and mentioning it all but guaranteed a nasty discussion of its faults and dubious merits. “Women’s Studies,” she said, and she felt the shift in atmosphere immediately. Andrew’s expression turned uncertain, while the line of Declan’s lips betrayed distaste. He took a sip from his glass as if to clean “Women’s Studies” from his mouth.
She knew what they were thinking: she must be either a lesbian or a ballbuster. In either case, no one worth pursuing romantically. She’d had five years of defending her choice to potential dating partners, and had learned to accept romantic defeat before she began. Even math majors got more action than she did. “I hope to get most of my dissertation written while I’m here.”
“What’s your thesis?” Declan asked, with the same tone used to ask if one knew what the mold-furred blob in the back of the fridge might be.
Grace squished a little lower into her chair. “The working title is ‘The Belle of the Ball Cries Alone: How Beauty Brings Unhappy Endings in the Emotional Lives of Women.’”
Silence settled upon the tea party. A breeze soughed through the trees. A bird chirped and then flew away.
“Oh, dear,” Sophia said faintly.
“Her work is brilliant,” Catherine said, leaning forward and looking around the table. “Most of the beauty debate we hear about in the media is where the ideals come from: are they innate, or are they the product of advertising and the ubiquitous images of movie and pop stars? Do women improve their appearance for themselves, for men, or for other women?
“Gracie is taking a different slant, looking at the emotional result for women who, for whatever reason, are perceived as beautiful. And the results ain’t pretty. Gracie is proving that to be beautiful is to invite misery into your life.”
“What a perfectly depressing thought,” Sophia said.
“Here, here,” Declan agreed, raising his whiskey glass. “Give those miserable beauties to me, and don’t you worry about them.”
“That’s exactly the type of statement that causes pain for women,” Grace said, anger straightening her spine. “You don’t give a damn about their inner lives, it’s what you see that matters.”
“He’s not serious,” Andrew said, looking embarrassed for the other man. “He’s giving you a hard time.”
“Like hell I am! Of course what a woman looks like matters. You’re lying if you say anything else, Andrew. You’re no more of a saint than the rest of us.”
“I’ll agree that there’s an evolutionary bias toward beauty, but for most human males, in the end the conversation we have across the dinner table matters more to us than the view.”
Declan turned sideways in his chair and leaned back as if trying to get a better view of the creature next to him. “What planet are you from?”
Andrew’s soft gray eyes met Grace’s and she told him across a platter of cucumber and salmon sandwiches, “If I can make my ideas the basis for a national discussion with young women,” Grace said earnestly, “we might be able to save a whole generation of women from valuing themselves on appearance alone. If they can see that the beautiful girls are the ones with the most unhappiness in store for them, they can be better judges of the worth of beauty in their own lives. Right now, all they see is that women like Scarlett Johansson and Angelina Jolie get all the attention. They don’t see the failed marriages and personal instability. They don’t see the misery that their beauty has brought them.”
“Grace, darling, you relieve my mind,” Sophia said.
“Do I?” Grace asked, surprised.
“Yes, dear. I had thought you dressed the way you do from a lack of taste. I see now that your boxy T-shirt—with, what does it say? UN-DAM THE SALMON?—is an expression of your sexual politics, as are those unflattering capri pants and running shoes. You believe that if you were to make better use of the physical gifts God has granted you, you would be setting yourself up for unhappiness.”
Grace blinked down at the salmon spread across her breasts. “But I like this shirt.”
“Darling, no one can like that shirt. The last thing you should be encouraging a man to think of when he looks at you is the smell of fish.”
Declan choked on his drink. Andrew turned scarlet. Grace gaped at her aunt.
“Grace is beautiful no matter what she wears!” Catherine said. She put her hand over Grace’s.
“If you were any friend of hers and of her thesis, you wouldn’t say such things,” Sophia said gently. “Do you want her to have a miserable life?”
“I wish her every happiness! As would you, if you knew her.”
“I do wish it for her, even without knowing her. Now, Catherine, what are you yourself studying?” Sophia asked, all innocent mildness.
Declan emptied his glass, ice cubes clinking. “Christ,” he muttered, and nudged Andrew. “Want one?”
Andrew shook his head.
Grace wished Declan would ask her the same question.
“My area is power differentials in same-sex relationships,” Catherine explained. “Specifically, ho
w that manifests in domestic violence between women.”
“Ah. Indeed. And I take it that you are, yourself, a lesbian?”
Grace went rigid and flashed a look at Sophia.
“Don’t worry, Grace, I’m not going to fall over in shock. Homosexuality is nothing new.”
“No, it’s not,” Catherine said. “And yes, I am a lesbian.”
“So what was it that turned you into one?”
Grace whimpered. Declan topped up his glass. Andrew looked longingly at the decanter, apparently having second thoughts.
“I beg your pardon?” Catherine asked.
“There was some trauma in your young life, no doubt. Some abuse at the hands of a male?”
“It’s very kind of you to be interested, Aunt Sophia,” Grace broke in, trying to deflect her. “Cat has done a lot of work with women’s shelters, both in Seattle and her hometown of San Diego. I think she—”
“Did your father beat your mother? Did a cousin rape you? I haven’t yet met a lesbian who didn’t have a trauma in her past.”
“Sophia,” Declan warned.
“I can answer for myself,” Catherine barked, and Grace could feel the anger vibrating off her. “Shall I educate you, ma’am, on the origins of homosexuality?”
“By all means,” Sophia said, and wove her fingers together into a bridge, resting her chin upon them like a child prepared to hear a bedtime story.
“People are born homosexual. Events do not turn them, no more than any amount of preaching can turn a gay person straight. It’s as natural as the grass and the trees, and is found in all of nature. Even some animals are gay, and you can’t pretend that trauma turned them so.”
“So a straight person cannot be turned gay?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why, my dear, did you try to sleep with my niece?”
Andrew dropped his cup. Declan hit his knee on the underside of the table, making the dishes jump. Cat gasped and turned furious eyes on Grace.
“I never said a word to anyone! I swear it! Sophia took a shot in the dark.”
Catherine snarled. “This is why you don’t want to spend the summer with me, isn’t it? You’re afraid I’ll make another pass at you. Or were you afraid that you might give in and enjoy it this time?”
Grace said nothing, unable to deny it. She had been looking forward to being away from Catherine for a few months.
“There’s no need to blame Grace for spilling your secret,” Sophia said. “It was clear for anyone with eyes to see. You’re in love with her, but she won’t have you.”
Catherine’s lower lip began to tremble.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Sophia soothed. “Grace is beautiful. She can’t help it if the thought of touching you makes her stomach turn.”
“What do you know of love, you sadistic old bitch?” Catherine spit. “I don’t see anyone here who loves you!” Catherine shoved back her chair and ran for the house, her sobs carrying on the breeze.
“Cat!” Grace called, shoving back her own chair.
“Don’t bother, darling. She’ll be fine. You’ll only encourage her if you chase after her. It’s what she wants.”
Grace shook her head. “You deliberately humiliated her.”
“She humiliated herself by mooning over someone who had rejected her. She’ll be better off for facing the truth.” Sophia took a sip of tea. “Don’t go after her.”
“No matter what she feels, she’s my friend.” Grace turned on her heel and followed Catherine.
CHAPTER
3
Declan felt Sophia’s grip on his arm tighten and knew she was in pain. “This is far enough, isn’t it? Shall we go back inside?”
“No. Andrew said to walk as much as I could bear, and I can bear this. Besides, I’ve always loved the gardens at twilight. It’s enough to make me forget a twinge of discomfort now and then.”
Declan knew it was more than a twinge. Andrew had shot steroids and lubricants directly into Sophia’s hip socket today in hopes of alleviating some of her pain. The more she moved, the better off she’d be, but Declan had a hard time watching the ripples of pain under the mask of placidity she wore on her stunning face. He looked instead to the sunset, glowing orange through the black silhouettes of trees. The cool garden paths wound across a private rocky headland of three acres, a piece of land that was now worth tens of millions but that Sophia had sworn she’d never sell.
And why would she? Only a fool would sell a heaven on earth.
“I’m trying to figure out why you treated your grandniece and her friend so badly,” he said when they’d walked a bit farther. “Grace will probably leave in the morning, if she hasn’t already.”
“What have you decided my motives were?”
“I’m not sure I should say. None of them are flattering.”
“Then I’m sure they’re all wrong. Come, tell me what nefarious purpose I had in mind.”
He sighed. “At first I thought you were chasing her away because if she left, in your mind it meant you wouldn’t have to have the surgery.”
“That would have been both illogical and cowardly.”
“I know. So I moved on. I decided you were striking back for what you took to be an attack on yourself. Grace’s thesis is a slap in the face for someone like you.”
Sophia laughed. “Her thoughts on beauty are those of an insecure child. They say much more about her than they do about me. Besides, you know me better than to think I would sink to giving tit for tat.”
“No, you’re of the ‘dish served cold’ variety of vengeance takers.”
“Pshh. I’m above it all.”
Declan laughed at the blatant lie, and they walked on to a view at the edge of the cliff. A wooden staircase was bolted into the rock, twisting down several stories to a narrow strip of beach. A fisherman stood on one of the rocks at the water’s edge, casting into the sea. It was probably Ernesto, Lali’s grandfather. “Do you think he catches anything?” Declan asked.
“I don’t think that’s his goal; he’s more Buddhist monk than Hemingway. Catching a fish would disrupt the Zen.”
They watched Ernesto for several minutes, the motions of his rod as hypnotic in their regularity as the rolling of the waves. “Stubborn old bastard,” Sophia murmured.
They turned away. “Grace looks like you,” Declan said. “It’s hard to see at first because of the weight, but it’s there.”
“I know.”
“Is that what it was? Were you angry with her for looking like you and being so young?”
“I’m angry at her for looking like me and wasting it!” Sophia snapped, suddenly vehement. “Women’s Studies! Good Lord, can you think of a more useless way to spend her time?”
“Yeah, but not a less appealing one. Would you rather she ran off to Hollywood to be an actress, like you did?”
“At least I was out in the world. I wasn’t moldering in a library, trying to convince myself that anyone prettier than me was unhappy. What type of life philosophy is that? The girl is a coward.”
“That’s why you were so hard on her?”
“I had to see how deep it ran.”
“What was your answer?”
Sophia smiled. “We’ll see in the morning, won’t we? But I’ll bet you a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue that she stays.”
Declan thought about it for a minute. “I always lose my bets with you, but you’re on.”
They turned back toward the house, retracing their steps. It was dark now under the trees, small landscape lights along the path guiding their way. Strategically aimed uplights limned the branches of the older, wind-twisted cypresses. A glimpse of the house showed a warm orange rectangle of light spilling from the Garden Room, and the flicker of a shadow as someone passed in front of the window. So she hadn’t left yet. Declan felt a moment of pleasure despite the threat to his Johnnie Walker Blue and his uneasiness with the situation.
He’d only ever heard Sophia make vague, dispara
ging remarks about her extended family, and he couldn’t fathom why she had invited Grace to spend the summer. No other relatives had ever come to visit, and his impression had been that she preferred keeping it that way.
Nor had he ever seen her be so unpleasant upon first acquaintance.
It wasn’t unusual for Sophia to take a young person under her wing—witness his own history with her—but he had the feeling that there was something different about her interest in Grace. Something unhealthy, even, and possibly harmful. Maybe those drugs Andrew was giving her were interfering with her thinking.
He couldn’t trust his own take on the situation, though, given how much Grace’s appearance unnerved him. It was disturbing to see the ghost of Sophia’s features in a young, overripe woman who so obviously needed a good workout between the sheets. When he’d first met Grace on the stairs, he’d assessed her as “doable,” and in that moment when their eyes had met he’d known he could have her if he wanted. But she was Sophia’s grandniece, and even worse, she was getting a Ph.D. in Women’s Studies. He’d downgraded her to “only if I was drunk,” although the lesbian subtext with Catherine had briefly revived his interest.
“How is your love life?” Sophia asked, with uncanny timing. “Are you still dating the corporate attorney?”
“Her, and a few others.”
“Anyone special?”
“One or two who want to be special, but no, no one serious.”
“I’m beginning to worry, Declan. You’re thirty-four. If you don’t feel even the faintest urge to settle down …”
“Then what?”
“I hope you’re not one of those men who has to come to it the hard way.”
“Shotgun wedding? They don’t do those anymore. It’s all paternity suits and child-support payments.”
She shook her head. “I hope you’re not one of those who have to suffer a great personal loss before he can find the space in his heart to love a woman.”
“I’ve been in love!”
“Not since you were twenty. It’s not the same.”
“But I love you. Surely that puts me in the safe zone?”
She patted his arm.