They leaned into the center island and looked at each other.
Grace’s eyes told Harper what her lips yet hadn’t—she was scared. Harper imagined Grace earlier that day on Sebastian, her thoroughbred, rerunning the morning’s horror. Like Harper’s own instrument of destruction, Cilla’s words were an intricate razorblade trying to sever the connection between them, getting deep into the tissue, underneath the muscle of Grace and Harper’s union. All day, Harper feared they’d succeeded. The fact Grace had shown up proved they hadn’t.
Harper hadn’t confessed what she was burning; when Grace asked, Harper told her it was wrapping paper.
Even without asking, Harper knew Grace’s journal and
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all the other letters she’d given her were at school, safe from her mother’s eyes. Harper saw Grace pack them up when she was moving out of the President’s suite. Along with the rest of her stuff, they were taped inside a box in the Gamma Kappa basement.
“How was church?” Harper asked.
“Okay. How was your night?”
“All right,” Harper said, lying, warming her hands with the mug. “I saw you at the club.”
“You did?”
“You were leaving with your parents.” Out the window, the twinkling Christmas lights faded into the darkness, automatically shutting off for the night. “Where was Dean?”
“He left this morning, I guess,” Grace said, reaching across the island, touching the poesy ring she’d given Harper for Christmas. “When I got back from my lesson, he was gone.”
Harper slid off the band and put it on Grace’s finger. “Where did he go?”
“Mexico.”
“Already?”
Grace shrugged.
“There was a note on my bed saying he was sorry he left without saying goodbye. When I asked Mum why he split, she just rolled her eyes and made a snarky comment. I guess they had a fight or something.”
It was at that moment that everything made sense. Dean had seen Cilla pull out her gun and take a shot at Harper at the ball.
From a few feet away, he’d watched the whole thing go down.
Maybe she’d even vented to Dean beforehand or after, ranting about Harper being a terrible influence, a lesbian. Even though he was Cilla’s little brother, Harper was sure Dean defended her. “Have you talked to your mom,”—Harper stood up straight—
“you know, about everything?”
Grace sighed and handed Harper her ring. “A little bit.
She tried to get into it in the car, but Dad cut her off. It was a screaming match.”
Grace followed Harper into the living room, an intimate
space with ornate art from all over the world. Harper grabbed a pillow and sat near the fireplace, burning with pinion wood.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Grace kick off her shoes and jump on the couch next to Harper. Grace rolled onto her back before resting her head in Harper’s lap. Looking down, she spread Grace’s long hair out on her sweatpants.
There was so much they needed to discuss. Where to go from here. There was no next move, no escape route, no backup plan.
Grace turned onto her side and pulled a bison blanket over them as the movie started. It was the same film they’d watched every year: A Christmas Story.
For the next two hours, Harper tried to focus on Ralphie, once again pining for the Red Ryder BB gun, but all she could see was Cilla’s glare across the ballroom, her scathing words penetrating her skin… A lesbian.
“Hold On”
Sarah McLachlan
Harper split town two days later. Nonna and Papa set sail on a cruise and her folks were headed to Bruges on the 27th—off on another assignment—so there was no reason to stick around Phoenix. Besides, she’d been banished from the Dunlop house and, so it seemed, from seeing Grace at all.
At the market, Harper was careful to get in and get out, terrified she’d see Cilla. And, her detestation for the Weasle family at a new high, she worried about seeing them too.
The day after Christmas, the most depressing day of the year, Grace had sneaked out again while Cilla was sleeping. By the lake in an old sand trap grown over by grass, they lay on their backs and watched for falling stars.
“Don’t worry,” Grace kept saying, each of them in a puffy winter coat. “Everything will be fine once we get back to school.
It will all be back to normal.”
At the last minute, Harper signed up for an elective during winter session, a concentrated art class—intermediate ceramics with a wheelthrowing lab—which met four days a week. It would
be a good distraction, she thought, and help her pass the time until Grace returned.
Her professor, Ruthie, an old feminist with long gray hair, reminded Harper of her mother when Ruthie first walked into the room—her flowing beaded skirt, linen top rolled to the elbows and worn espadrilles. Ana was more conservative, in dress and in moral code, so it seemed, but they could’ve been friends, sisters even, she and Ruthie. Their spirits echoed their clothing, free and loose, and each was undeniably sexy.
Beyond Ruthie, the subject matter of the class also sparked Harper’s interest. It was always something she’d wanted to learn, ever since sitting on Ana’s lap as a youngster when she threw pots.Grace and Harper planned on living together for their final semester because their posts at the sorority house were finally over. Under Grace, Harper had served as secretary. At the end of the fall semester, they’d picked out the perfect apartment, a Spanish Colonial building right off campus. They chose a two-bedroom, of course, as to not fuel any slow-burning fires, but they’d sleep in Harper’s queen-size bed. Grace’s twin would be there for show, a silly rigmarole to which they’d become accustomed. They’d mess it up each morning just in case anyone stopped by.
The whole fiasco with Cilla, however, had shifted plans dramatically. After Christmas, Cilla called the rental manager and arranged a separate apartment for Grace in a different building.
“We can be close,” Grace had said, playfully mimicking her mother on the phone, “but not too close.” As she unpacked boxes in her new apartment, Harper didn’t see the humor. She knew she was only hearing half of what had really been said.
“I’ll still be at your place every night,” Grace promised, reassuring Harper. “Don’t worry.”
While Grace and Harper were apart, instead of obsessing about Cilla, Harper focused during the day on throwing the perfect pot and at night about what they’d do after graduation.
They hadn’t yet come up with a plan, so Harper wrote down the details.
They would run away after graduation, this she knew for sure, it was something they’d agreed upon in the grassy sand trap before Harper left. But where would they go? Would they join Dean in Mexico? That was Harper’s top choice. Or would they go cross-country and put roots down on the East Coast?
Somewhere no one knew them.
At dinner the first night Grace got back—a long overdue date—Harper shared her plan along with a timeline she’d fleshed out on several pieces of paper. Harper laid them on the table at the Moroccan restaurant.
“Boston?” Grace asked, leaning back in her chair sipping mint tea. “New York? Mexico? What are we going to do in Mexico? Get a flat on the beach and drink margaritas all day with Dean?”
“Yes!” Harper cheered. “Yes!”
“Apparently,” Grace said, “great minds think alike.” She pulled a small note pad from her purse. Her plan was written in a different format than Harper’s, much like their disparate personalities, budding professionals that they were. The pre-law major, Grace’s notes were written in succinct bullet points with pros and cons. Italy. Dublin. Vancouver. All international. With illustrations, Harper’s were organized like the artist she’d always been, with excessive musings about what it would be like, their new life together.
“I don’t care where we go, Bella,” Grace said, feeding Harper a curried potato across the table, “as long as we�
��re together.”
Harper couldn’t have agreed more. Despite all the outside pressure, the supposed gossip, everything was going to be fine and they’d make it through.
“Mummy’s calmed a bit, too,” Grace said, the candlelight flashing in her eyes.
“She has?”
“I think The Bitch made up the photo rumor thing,” Grace said decisively. “It was just a coincidence. And then after my mom found the letter”—she chewed her bite—“she just went bonkers.”
They spent the night in Grace’s new apartment, even though it was disheveled and loaded with unopened boxes.
“Christening a new pad didn’t require a bedframe,” Grace said, lowering Harper to the mattress, planted firmly on the ground. It had almost been two weeks since they’d made love and they’d both cried about it over dinner, their tears having little to do with unsatisfied libidos.
That night was significant, Harper decided. If they could make it through Scottsdale rumors, they could make it through anything.
Anything, Harper thought.
“Gone Too Soon”
Babyface
Grace’s scream woke Harper the next morning. It tore through the drywall like a bullet.
Seconds later, Harper found Grace nude in the kitchen surrounded by packing peanuts. Through the phone’s receiver, Harper heard a panicked voice, a man saying Grace needed to come home.
Harper knelt next to her. “What happened?”
Grace didn’t respond; it was like she didn’t even know Harper was there.
Then suddenly, Grace smashed the handset against the tile, breaking it into pieces. Plastic flew across the room. A battery rolled under the fridge. Harper bit her lip. Whatever it was, it was bad.
As Grace wailed against the kitchen floor, Harper did what she could to console her. She put her hand on Grace’s bare back, got her a glass of water, then tissue. Finally, Grace sat up.
“It’s Dean,” she gasped, hyperventilating. “He’s dead.”
“What!” Harper gasped.
In its own shock and panic, Harper’s body lay down next to Grace. Somehow Harper kept breathing, her heart continued
pumping. In the nude, they wept together until Grace was able to tell Harper more.
The Mexican authorities figured Dean was killed instantly in the head-on collision. Even without skid marks on the beaten road, they believed the driver crossed the centerline before smashing into his car. There wasn’t much left of his Avanti, nor was there much left of him or the dogs. One of the first people on the scene stole his wallet so it had taken them several days to identify his body. Once they got the car cut open, they found papers in the buckled glove box.
Matthew Dean Dunlop. United States citizen. Los Angeles, California.
Harper held Grace’s listless body until she said she had to go, and then helped Grace gather her things.
Harper took over packing after Grace, unable to find her rosary beads, threw a vase against the wall.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come? I could drive you and then turn around? Or I could stay at my parents so I’m close by if you need me?” Harper was desperate.
“I’m sure,” Grace said. “I’ll let you know the arrangements once they’re made.”
They both knew why Harper wasn’t welcome.
Dean was dead. Dean was dead. Harper said it over and over, but couldn’t believe it. She stayed on the same couch all day staring at the TV’s black screen, teetering between disbelief and unmanageable distress. How could he be gone?
Much of the day lapsed before Harper tried Grace’s cell phone. Even though it was agonizing to keep her distance, Harper knew Grace needed it. Around six, Harper made her first call. At seven, the second. Right before ten, the third.
Grace never answered.
Once she finally fell asleep, Harper dreamt of Dean that night.
He was running on the beach, playing with Geisha and Boris in the foamy Mexican surf. His laughs were loud and stretched into the ocean. In her dream, they didn’t speak—Dean just winked at Harper before diving into a breaking wave, splashing bright sparks of innocence into the air.
Hundreds of people jammed into Saint Augustine’s for the funeral; they spilled into the entry room and out the propped doors. Guests fanned themselves with the program, which was filled with biblical verses and photos of Dean.
In a fog, Harper walked down the aisle toward the casket. It was hard to imagine Dean inside the mahogany box dressed in his favorite khakis and polo; her mind kept straying, imagining his bloody body, crushed and mangled in the wreckage. Harper wondered if Dean saw the truck coming, if he was more concerned about the dogs than himself. If he knew he was going to die.
She kept her eyes lowered and sat a few rows behind the Dunlops, just out of sight. From the back, she could see Grace’s head, her blond curls still wet.
A friend sang “Ave Maria” as the family approached the pulpit. After communion, Grace stayed on her knees longer than anyone else in the church. Desperately, Harper wanted to run to Grace and wrap her arms around her shrinking body. The pain was so acute Harper hadn’t eaten in days.
The priest called the morning a blessed event. “Dean is with us today, not in body, but in spirit,” the Father said during Mass.
“He’s with us in the same way Jesus is. They’re watching us from Heaven.”
Sitting by herself, Harper studied the way the morning light scored the stained-glass, a soldered mosaic in the likeness of Mary, wondering if Dean was actually seeing it all unfold, the memorial of his life.
When Harper had wakened that morning, her closet door was ajar. She’d closed it before going to bed, as she always did, but something opened it in the night. She wondered now, sitting in
the historic Catholic Church, if Dean had come through it as she slept, pushing it open with the air conditioning. In early daylight, in the stillness of Harper’s bedroom, she imagined Dean in his tuxedo—his jacket unbuttoned and bowtie loosened—leaning against the dresser waiting for her to rise.
“Hurry up.” Dean clapped. “It won’t be complete without you there.”
Harper was one of the first to arrive at the reception; caterers were lined up alongside the Dunlop house, in the same spot she used to park when she sneaked through Grace’s window in the old days. Harper watched them carry scrambled eggs, fresh fruit and silver bullets of coffee through the garage.
Afraid to go inside, she waited for others to fill the house before paying her respects. Harper knew it would be awkward, so it would be a stealth mission, and she’d only stay a short time.
In the foyer, Harper stood against the wall with a cold Pellegrino as a man played Spanish guitar in the corner. Swirling through the voices in the room, freesia filled the air with a sugary scent, combined with fresh croissant and candle wax.
From that spot, she watched the Dunlop lawyer, Jack Stowe, and his wife come through the front door. As they both kissed Cilla on the cheek, Stowe’s polished bolo tie reflected the sun coming through the skylight. Sharp blades of light and destruction sliced the room like a laser as he worked the room.
Harper moved deeper into the house. Grace was near the wet bar. She was talking to a neighbor and excused herself when Harper got close.
“I saw you at the cemetery,” Grace said, withdrawing quickly from their embrace. When they caught eyes after the graveside prayer, Grace offered a small smile, one that was difficult to understand. Grace’s features were dark and sunken. “I wanted to come over and say hi.”
Standing before Grace, Harper missed her even more than she’d realized. “I’ve so looked forward to this moment,” Harper whispered. She slid her hands into her pant pockets and they
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both looked around for Cilla. “How are you?” she asked, focusing again on Grace.
She shook her head. There were no words. Neither of them could believe Dean was gone.
“It’s almost been three weeks,” Grace said, running the edge
of her sandal along the marble crease on the floor. Her toenail polish was chipped. “A very long three weeks.” Because of legalities, it had taken forever to get Dean’s body back to the states.
A big Irish woman interrupted; she lifted Grace off the ground when they hugged. Harper stepped aside and brought the bottle of water to her lips.
Through the crowd, Harper saw Cilla in the kitchen.
It was time to go.
After a quick, clumsy goodbye, Harper left through the back.
It was quiet in the garden, only the distant sound of car doors shutting, Chopin’s “Nocturne” coming from the living room.
On her way out, Harper passed Duke’s grave, partially hidden behind a row of bougainvilleas. It seemed like only yesterday when Harper and Grace found Duke, their family dog, floating in the pool. Even though it had been years, Harper could still smell and feel the golden retriever’s wet fur against her lips from when she tried to give mouth to mouth. Harper and Dean had dug his grave, taking turns with the shovel for nearly an hour.
As Harper stood by the small tree they’d planted in Duke’s honor—it was now twenty feet tall—she saw Mrs. Weasle leaning against the hot tub smoking a long Virginia Slims in her sober tweed suit. “How are things?” she hollered.
It was all Harper could do to be polite. “Things are fine,” she said, heading in the opposite direction toward the car.
“What are you up to these days?” Mrs. Weasle tapped her cigarette ash into the planter.
Harper stopped, looked at her exit, a wood gate several yards away. “Not much,” she said. “Just finishing school.”
“That’s great, dear. When are you done?” Propped up on her stomach roll, The Bitch’s arm supported her smoking hand.
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