“What about Blue?” Grace asked.
“Dad walked up a few minutes later carrying two Dungeness crabs. He cracked some joke and then quickly realized something was going on.”
“When did you tell him?”
“Later that night. We were making dinner. Mom was in the shower. You know how Dad was always in the kitchen.”
“And you were always his sous chef.”
“I loved cooking with him,” Harper said, drifting for a spell.Grace touched Harper’s face, waiting for her to continue.
“He looked at me and said ‘Baby girl, what’s going on with you’.” Harper recalled. “I told him right then and there. And oddly, I was much more emotional with him.” She shook her head, mystified. “I don’t know why.”
With a serious sigh, Harper sandwiched Grace’s hand with hers. “Tell me more about you.”
Grace thought for a moment. “There were glints of happiness with Jamie, believe it or not. When Abby was born. Even when we first got married. But those were fleeting. No matter what I did, I couldn’t escape the truth, you know? I tried everything.
Therapy. Medication. Nothing worked. If I hadn’t been caught with Suzanne, who knows? I might still be with him, attending company parties, crying behind my sunglasses while Abby plays at the park, just being miserable.”
“I can’t imagine how you did it for so long,” Harper said.
“The year we spent hiding was hard enough.” She was tickling Grace’s arm now, going over her watch and down each finger.
“I just don’t know how I’m going to tell Mummy. Or the whole family,” Grace said. “I wish Dean were here. He’d be easy to tell.”
There was silence, a good bit of it as Harper made her decision.
“Dean knew.”
“Knew what?”
“He knew about us. Right before he died, he confronted me about it. Well kind of. He never actually asked me, but it was clear.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“It was so long ago. I remember he just told me I could trust him and that if we ever needed him, he’d be there.”
“What?” Grace said, staring at Harper, but looking through her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was when all hell broke loose with your mom. Hours before. It was the night of the winter ball. Right before he left
for Mexico. And then when he died…I don’t know. I just never got a chance.”
“Are you sure?” Grace said, her tears now coming from a different place. “I mean, could he have been talking about something else?”
“No,” Harper said, “I’m sure.”
Burying her head into a pillow, Grace lay silent for a while.
And Harper let her be with her private thoughts for as long as she needed.
Since their falling out, she’d wanted Grace to know. Before she let go of what-if’s, she’d wonder if that, too, would have made a difference. When Grace finally came up for air, through a plugged nose, she said, “I can’t believe he knew. God.”
Harper moved closer and held Grace in her arms. Lying on their backs, they were both looking straight ahead when the next bomb dropped.
“There’s something else I haven’t told you,” Grace said.
Harper braced herself. “There’s more?”
Grace took one more long breath and then said, “If I come out of the closet, I lose my inheritance.”
“What?”
“My great-granddaddy was a crazy man, Harp, and wrote some horrible things in his will before he died.”
“He said none of the heirs could be gay?”
“He said no deviant behavior. It’s in black-and-white. A list, taken from some archaic Catholic doctrine, which cites homosexuality as deviant.”
Harper, completely stunned, stared at Grace. This was something she had not known. Sure, she knew the big granddaddy Dunlop was a little off his rocker, but not in a Howard Hughes meets Jerry Falwell kind of way.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me this?” Harper asked.
Grace shrugged.
Harper pulled Grace in even closer, as close as she could get. “Wow. I…” she sighed. There was no immediate response as Harper let Grace’s words sink in.
“I have to protect Abby,” Grace said. “We’ve got our annual family inquiry tomorrow with Stowe.” Harper listened carefully,
0
a scowl on her face. “And I’ll have to swear my life away again.”
They both sat with this for a spell. Music could still be heard, a sax this time. As they both continued processing, Harper searched her soul for courage. She knew what needed to happen.
“What are we gonna do?” Harper finally whispered.
Grace spoke softly back. “I need you to be patient.”
“I’m not sure I can be.”
Grace’s tired eyes widened.
“Please. I’m begging you. Just give me a little more time.”
“I love you more than anything, I really do, but I can’t be your secret again.” She wiped a tear slowly sliding from Grace’s eye. “I just…” she said, gently, “…can’t live a lie.”
“But things are different now.”
“Are they?”
This made Grace cry even harder. Harper was surprised by her strength, unsure where it came from.
“I can’t lose you. I just can’t,” Grace said. “I don’t know what to do. I’m trapped.” She sat up and got manic. “I’m not going to betray you this time, I swear. I swear on my life.”
There was nothing Harper wanted to believe more, but the raised scars on her heart, where the knife had gone in and then come out, were too much a reminder.
The slammed door. The silence. And she knew better than anyone what a person was capable of when they’re in the closet, especially under the hammer of a revocable trust. Shame and fear were shrewd players, and horrible bedfellows.
Grace smothered her face in a pillow again.
Harper didn’t cry, just cracked her knuckles and stared at the clock. It was a little after midnight.
There was too much history. Too much water under the bridge. She knew Grace’s patterns. Grace’s weaknesses. Her own.“I’m sorry,” Harper whispered.
Grace suddenly sat up. “I’ll tell Mummy everything tomorrow.”
“What?” Harper said.
“If that’s what it takes not to lose you, I’ll do it.”
Grace was standing now, pacing the room.
“Don’t do something you’re going to regret,” Harper said, standing too. “Inheritance or no inheritance, you should only come out of the closet for yourself, not for someone else. Not even me. Especially with all that’s at stake.”
Grace began crying again, tormented, totally lost, still walking in circles.
Harper had said all she could say. This was something Grace had to do on her own, a decision that would shape the rest of her life. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” Harper asked as they said goodbye at the door.
“I’ll be all right.”
In the glow of the landscape lighting, Grace looked just like her mother, just like she had when Harper was growing up. Such poise and still so beautiful, even under duress.
“I’m headed back to Portland tomorrow,” Harper said.
Grace clenched her fists, flexed her arms with conviction.
“I’m gonna do it,” she shouted, walking off into the darkness.
“I’m gonna do it!”
“Love Is Everything”
k.d. lang
Grace didn’t show up at the hotel the next day.
And Harper half expected it, even though she’d gotten on her knees the evening before and prayed that Grace would come back before she had to leave. Her luck had run out.
In the front drive, Harper waited at the valet stand, hoping—
with what little faith she had left—that Grace would pull up as she waited for her car. But her prayers weren’t answered this time. Not by a long shot.
Before getting into her rental car, Harper hesitated, looking back at the lobby one last time before shutting the door.
Should she have waited even longer, like she had so many times in college when Grace was late? Should she have taken a later flight, just like she’d put off her life in the past? Or should she let Grace go? It was an ultimatum she’d made with herself the night before. If she was a no-show, it was a no-go. They were over.Harper wanted Grace to come out for herself—she’d insisted again at the door when she left—but part of Harper selfishly wanted nothing more than for Grace to take this brave step for her. For them. They’d never have a normal existence, especially
with Abby involved, until she faced the truth. Even if they were able to skate under Stowe’s radar, play on Abby’s prepubescent innocence for years, Harper’s heart wouldn’t allow it. She couldn’t live that way. Not any longer. There was no going back.
It would be the last time Harper waited for Grace, the last time she hung her happiness on Grace’s next move.
She’d promised herself.
Rain trickled from the gutter to the driveway as Harper arrived home. Carrying groceries—she needed a home-cooked meal—Harper struggled with the keys. She dropped a potato and a tin of peppercorns.
There was a business card wedged into her front door, where Quincy, who’d been looked after by a neighbor, met her at the door scratching to get out. A painter, the card said. The old house could use a paint job; the lead-based green was peeling.
She was surprised once again by the emptiness inside, almost forgetting Alex was gone.
Except for Quincy’s toenails against the hardwood floors, the house was quiet. He was thrilled with the company, and ran laps through the kitchen, down the hall and back through the dining room while Harper swept the floors downstairs. The empty place where the couch used to sit was filthy. Sick how much litter collects in dark, unreachable places.
After prepping a beef shoulder, Harper cut up vegetables for dinner. As she dumped everything into a roasting pan, she thought about the gallery, wondering if Mona had managed without her.
“Things are fine,” Mona said, when Harper called. “We’ve been busy and I’ve been feeling good. A little slow getting around, but all’s well. We’ve had record sales while you’ve been gone. You should go away more often.”
“Oh yeah?” Harper said, thinking about the previous four days.
“Alex stopped by to pick up her ladder.”
“She did? What’d she say?”
“Um,”—Mona was distracted—“she needed it to trim trees.
Or something. I can’t remember.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“Hold on a sec.” Mona talked to a customer in the background.
“Sorry. What do you mean?”
“Never mind.”
Mona paused. “Is everything all right?”
Harper exhaled dramatically. “Not so much. I’ll explain later. I’ll be in tomorrow. First thing.”
Harper had been dreading the cleanup, had thought of it several times on the plane, but was now finally faced with the mess upstairs. She couldn’t avoid it forever. It was, after all, where she slept—the attic door just to the left of her pillow.
Her hope chest hadn’t been organized in years, so she tried to see the unloaded items as a way of cleaning house. Getting rid of unnecessary clutter. It had been hard to latch anyway; too full of all she was running from.
Things were scattered everywhere. Photos fanned on the ground like a peacock tail, a display of memories, some torn to teeny bits.
Most of the stuff left inside the chest had nothing to do with Grace—family photo albums, her debutante dress, her parents’
wedding bands. Alex had known what she was looking for and had carefully exhumed the relevant evidence. All things Grace.
Legs folded beneath her, Harper clutched the dusty sombrero she found in the dumpster. It was from that secret trip across the San Diego border. “Tijuana o busto!” it said, which they were told by a local meant, “Tijuana or bust!” They were sophomores, maybe juniors in high school. Cilla had flown into a rage when they’d returned to the Coronado beach house with tequila on their breath in the wee hours of the morning.
Harper grabbed an empty box nearby and started filling it, its flaps covered in tape and worn from overuse. This was for stuff she didn’t want anymore. Crap. The sombrero went first,
then the mangled ukulele, which Grace had accidentally sat on one morning in the dorm. They’d laughed about it for days.
She started piece by piece, contemplating each item before tossing it into the chest or the box. To keep or not to keep.
Slowly, Harper went through the first pile, lots of photos, dried flowers, and Gamma Kappa memorabilia.
She wondered why she’d held onto the stuff for this long; so much of it was junk. Had lost its meaning. Had seen its day. She couldn’t even remember what some things stood for or where they’d come from.
As she worked though the piles, especially those which had spilled out into the bedroom, she became more and more incensed.
How could Grace think that they could just pick up where they’d left off? Was she really that foolish—to think Harper would just slither back into the closet like that? She had given Grace too much credit back in the day, Harper thought. She’d always considered Grace ahead of her in some way, emotionally and psychologically, although she’d never admitted it. Strange how time changes perspective.
With both arms, Harper scooped up the biggest pile by her ski equipment and let go without even looking.
She was done sorting through the wreckage. It was all garbage, she decided.
The items crashed into a second cardboard box she found in the corner, which used to hold an air conditioning unit. It was in that large box that she got rid of nearly everything from their past. It felt good, like washing the slate clean.
As she dumped another large load into the box, the rusted lightning bug jar slipped from her grip and smashed onto the floor, exploding into a thousand shards. Harper cursed and began picking up the pieces. The mouth of the jar, still mostly intact, fooled Harper as she reached for it. The sharp edge sliced Harper’s pinky finger wide open, splattering blood on to the rough floor panels.
“Shit,” she snapped, quietly to herself.
After Harper doctored her finger with gauze, she continued picking up the pieces. The glass and her shattered history.
There were a few things spared in her massive cleanout—
some random this and that’s, and anything associated with her parents. She couldn’t part with Dean’s Ralph Lauren sweatshirt either. Very, very faintly, it still smelled like his cologne.
Once the mess was cleaned up, she dragged the boxes along the hardwood floors and flumped each one down the stairs. Two large boxes of history, mementos and dusty words which had long since faded. And many of them were no longer true, no longer extensions of herself. Scared sentences and “trigger words,” her therapist called them, which no longer triggered.
Outside, the windstorm had passed, so had the rain. Harper, determined to finish the project before dinner—a roast she’d been cooking all afternoon—pulled the boxes down the damp driveway, the history too heavy to carry upright. The cardboard was loud against the cement. Grating.
She’d save her strength for the final lift into the trashcan, when it would all be gone forever.
The smell of the can, a sour mix of expired cottage cheese and dog food, reminded Harper of her dumpster dive so many years ago. The cards and the journal she’d found that morning were a part of the trash she was purging now, stuff she never should’ve held on to.
Standing at the trashcan, Harper looked at the sky, an ashy gray reflecting the city lights. This was it.
She squatted down and wedged her fingers underneath the first box, lifting it with minimal effort to her knee first, and then to the lip of the can.
Still holding on, she peeked inside. Afte
r a momentary second thought, she let the contents dump into the foul darkness. Water splashed as her things hit the rainwater pooled at the bottom.
The next box, torn on one side, ripped all the way when Harper lifted it up to her thigh. It was even heavier. Bigger. As it started to slip, Harper—thinking she could leverage it—swung it up and over the can, missing the hole completely. The bulk of the weight slammed against the short retaining wall lining the grass. When it landed, the box split open all the way, hurling stuff into the air and onto the lawn.
“Damn,” she said, aggravated by her weakness. She bent over and began collecting the trash.
As she went along, she found a note from Grace the week after their debutante ball and a receipt from the ice chalet at Rockefeller Center with the date highlighted—Grace’s eighteenth birthday. A few feet away, Grace’s half of the best friend charm was lying in the crack of the sidewalk next to a homecoming picture, Jamie’s face scratched out with a ballpoint pen.
Some things never change, Harper thought.
And then one picture, just beyond her reach, teetering on the limb of an Acuba bush caught her attention. It was the one she carried around, the only one, since their falling out.
For years, she’d kept its duplicate taped to the last page of her date book underneath her emergency phone numbers. It was still there. She had looked at that picture at least a million times—
sitting at stoplights, waiting in line at the grocery store—the sunshine bright on Grace’s face, revealing her subtle freckles.
Looking at the image, she finally understood. So much of what she still longed for was the memory of their love. The romance. The innocence, the deep stirrings. Even the pain. No one had hurt Harper since; no one had even come close. She’d done a good job insulating, keeping everyone at a safe distance.
She was certainly still smitten, yes, always would be, and certainly still physically attracted to Grace, but, staring into those young clever eyes—blue like ice, the inside of a glacier—
Jukebox Page 26