Saving Grace (Madison Falls)

by Lesley Ann McDaniel

  “Coffee?” the girl chirped. “First cup’s on the house.”

  Relief swept through Grace. Coffee would do the trick. “Sure. Coffee. And a bagel with lox please.”

  A delighted clucking erupted behind her and she turned to face her spectators. Laughter in the wrong place had always been a sign of an off performance.

  “Where do you think you are Miss, New York City?” A jovial looking older man in grubby overalls seemed to take great joy in her awkwardness.

  Warmth washed her cheeks as she looked at the counter girl again. “No bagels?”

  The girl shook her head, as if she’d never been asked for such a thing and had no appropriate comeback prepared.

  Grace glanced down at the case and pointed at nothing in particular. “One of those then.”

  “Oh, a bear claw.” The girl brightened. “Those are fresh out of the oven.” She beamed with some sort of yeast-induced pride as she brandished a pair of tongs.

  Grace released a lungful of air. She had pleased a local and today that felt like hitting a high C.

  “Here you go.” The girl presented a chipped, pastry-adorned plate. “Have a seat and I’ll bring your coffee out. I’m just brewing a fresh pot.”

  Heartened by the promise of nourishment, Grace accepted the plate and scanned the room. Her recent victory faded. All the tables were taken.

  Clutching her claw, she made eye contact with a woman who also dined solo but had evidently arrived early enough to commandeer a table. The empty chair across from her opened its arms wide and Grace nodded toward it with her best non-threatening expression. The woman smiled, and Grace took a step toward her, stumbling over an uneven floorboard. Gasps erupted from the audience as she fumbled with her free hand to prevent her bear claw from attacking an innocent bystander.

  Just as gravity threatened to get the better of her, someone gripped her upper arms from behind. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She let out a relieved breath, realizing that she’d been saved from toppling headlong into the half-devoured cinnamon roll of the man in the grubby overalls.

  She pulled her arms free, whirled around and looked up into a pair of eyes the color of a dark chocolate mocha.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” The possessor of the eyes took a step back. “I just hate to see a lady in distress.”

  She clasped her plate with both hands and surreptitiously assessed her rescuer. He was about her age—twenty-five or so—clad in what was probably typical local garb, faded Levis and a light blue work shirt. A faint hint of stubble shadowed his strong-jawed face, and his dark hair needed a cut. He reminded her of the stagehands back home. The ones who looked for any opportunity to slip a hand around her waist or stand a little too close in the wings. Distress? Just who did this guy think he was?

  “You could sit here, if you’d like.” He gestured toward his table.

  He expected her to sit with him? A diffident sound escaped her throat as her eyes darted around. “I…I really…”

  “What I meant was,” his voice sounded smooth, like a cappuccino. “I was just leaving and you look like you need a table.” He picked up a mug and a crumb-covered plate, setting them on the counter behind him.

  In spite of her desire to appear aloof, her eyes locked onto his. Dark chocolate had always been her weakness.

  “Thank you.”

  She set her plate down and took a seat as the stagehand wannabe nodded toward the counter girl and hurried out of the bakery. Feeling like a reluctant Lois Lane, Grace let her eyes linger on the screen door after it had banged shut. A murmur rumbled through the room. What was with these people? Didn’t they have cable?

  Remembering her empty stomach, she glanced down at her plate. Mouth watering, she lifted the sticky concoction to her lips and took an eager bite. Her eyes closed as her head tipped back slightly. It tasted like heaven with extra icing.

  “Good, isn’t it?” The young girl arrived with a large mug of welcome brew.

  Grace smiled and took the handle. She hadn’t had a decent cup of coffee in days, what with the throng of details she’d had to attend to. Now, as she inhaled the wonderful rich smell and put the cup to her lips, she felt for the first time in months that life would be good again. She drew the liquid into her mouth and wanted to cry.

  That was the worst coffee she’d ever tasted.

  Chapter 3

  Though still caffeine-deprived, Grace’s hunger had at least been satisfied. Now she could focus on the next item on her To Do list—finding a safe place to stash her life savings.

  As the bell on the bakery door jingled behind her, she gave her money belt a reassuring pat. She’d made a habit for months of keeping important documents and cash safely nestled at her waist. The stack of bills currently crammed into the pouch represented nearly all she had in the world, and she cringed at the thought of anything happening to it. She wouldn’t be able to relax until it was safely stowed away in a bank—under her assumed name, of course.

  She started down Main Street, which was more far-reaching than she’d realized. The businesses spanned two full blocks, but she couldn’t spot a bank in either direction.

  A familiar sensation breezed through her like a whispered warning. Adrenaline flooded her system. She hated this feeling so much she had flown clear across the country in the hope of shedding it. Slowing her steps, her eyes darted from one side to the other. A few people milled about, but would anyone help her if she screamed?

  Panic rose in her throat as it became obvious that someone was following her.

  She had to act quickly, and with nowhere to run she decided to take a chance. She whirled around with a rush of anger-fueled bravado, ready to unleash the wrath that had been brewing in her for the past two years.

  She froze. There, just a few yards in front of her, stood her tracker, looking up at her with deep brown eyes. His long scraggly tail wagged tentatively.

  Grace laughed as relief cleansed her veins. “You again?” She put her hands on her hips, not wanting to encourage him. “That’s twice now you’ve nearly scared me to death.”

  The dog sat and held up a paw, by way of gentlemanly introduction.

  “Small town hospitality, huh?” She folded her arms and smiled in spite of her unsteadiness. “Well, do yourself a favor and shoo.” She took a step away, then looked back. “Oh, but before you go, can you point me in the direction of a bank?”

  He cocked his head, then looked across the street and barked.

  She followed his gaze. “You’re kidding me.”

  There up the street stood a beautiful old brick structure with a sign over the massive doors that read “Banque”.

  As she looked back at her obedient guide, he offered a cheerful wag. She waved him off and darted across the street.

  She climbed the hefty stairs to the imposing double doors. How old was this place, anyway? It looked like something out of an old Gary Cooper western. Her heart jumped to her throat as she heaved one of the doors open. Showtime.

  A rush of cool air ricocheted off the gray marble floor as she stepped inside and scanned the room. It looked bigger than it had from the outside. A soothing sigh slipped from her throat as she noted that not one customer or clerk seemed to notice her. Feeling safer now, she moved toward a desk marked ‘New Accounts.’ The man plunking at a computer keyboard didn’t even look up.

  “Excuse me.” She spoke sotto voce, so as not to attract unnecessary attention.

  “Yes?” His eyes grew wide under his round spectacles, as if he wasn’t used to interruptions. “May I help you?”

  “I hope so.” She took a seat opposite the desk. “I’d like to open a checking account.”

  “You would? Oh, well then…” He dug through some papers on his desk, finally pulling one from the stack. “You must be new here. Name?”

  She floundered. “Grace. Grace Addison.”

  “Middle name?”

  “Oh…no middle name.”

  He shot her an inquisitive glance. Why hadn’
t she thought of a middle name? Didn’t everyone have one? Now she had raised a red flag with a banker, and that wasn’t good.

  “Middle name, none.” He scribbled on the paper. “Address?”

  “1827 Pine Vista Avenue.”

  His head snapped up again. “Oh, of course. The Miller place.” His face relaxed into a smile as he extended his hand across the desk. “Welcome to Madison Falls.”

  “Thank you.” She accepted his welcome and nodded at the paper. “Is there much more?”

  “Let’s see…” He scanned the document. “Not much. It’s been so long since I’ve done a new account. We don’t get a lot of people moving into the area.”

  “It’s a small town.” As if he wasn’t aware of that.

  “Yes, and we like it that way.” He looked beyond her, his brow lifting. “Joanne, come meet the gal who bought the Miller place.”

  Suddenly surrounded by outstretched hands, it felt like her dressing room on opening night. Several customers lingered on the outskirts looking at her the way fans sometimes did when they were too timid to ask for an autograph. She drew in an impatient breath. If she had wanted to stay center stage, she’d still be in New York.

  “Where did you move from, honey?” The woman named Joanne seemed genuinely friendly.

  “Um…Seattle.” Her throat clenched at the sound of the lie.

  “Beautiful city.” Another woman—Tina, according to her nametag—nodded. “I went there once for high school choir. Why would you leave such a great place?”

  Grace had chosen Seattle as her fictitious hometown because she’d spent enough time working there to be able to fake a familiarity. She forced her fists to unclench. She was an actress, after all. It wasn’t lying so much as role-playing.

  “I needed a slower pace, I guess.” She hoped she sounded earnest.

  Heads bobbed on all sides of her.

  “That’s what you’ll find here,” Joanne said. “Our pace is so slow you could take a nap for a year and pretty much not miss a beat.”

  Grace coerced a smile. Sounds exciting.

  “You know,” Joanne’s intent look had become disconcerting. “You remind me of someone.”

  Grace’s heart galloped but she forced her expression to remain dispassionate. “Oh really?”

  Joanne snapped her fingers. “I know. Anne Hathaway. In that movie Rachel Getting Married, where she had the short cut.”

  Grace let out a tiny titter and touched her hair. Warm Cinnamon from a box would not have been her first choice. She shifted in her seat, anxious to pick up the pace on that paperwork. A couple strolled past on their way to the door, stealing a quick look at her.

  Joanne leaned in. “Don’t mind us, Miss Addison,” she said with a hint of candor. “We’re just not used to seeing such fancy attire around here.”

  Grace glanced down at her favorite spring green linen pants and matching silk short-sleeve sweater. The heels of her white sandals were only two inches high. Flat-out casual.

  She quickly assessed the costume-plot of the scene in which she seemed to be starring. The customers all wore shorts or jeans, and the bank employees looked as if they’d extended casual Friday to include Monday through Thursday. The men weren’t even wearing ties.

  Great. If she had any hope of blending in, she’d have to learn to dress the part.

  Chapter 4

  An hour later, Grace wrote her first check from her new account made out to ‘Sylvia’s Closet.’

  She exited the store, laden down with several bags full of jeans, T-shirts, socks and sneakers. She drew in a satisfied breath. Small town life at least weighed in on the plus side of the comfort scale.

  Her heart lightened as she toted her new wardrobe down the street. She’d only been able to bring one suitcase. She needed new clothes anyway, so that justified the expense.

  Casting a look at the vibrant blue overhead, a spark of homesickness jolted through her. She pinched back a tear. If she was home right now, she’d more than likely be on her way to her voice lesson, glancing up at the same sky, albeit a narrower strip of it.

  She looked around, noticing for the first time that nobody seemed to be in much of a hurry. She slowed her pace, mimicking that of the dozen or so people who meandered along Main Street. Of course they weren’t in a hurry. Where did they have to go? She smiled lightly. Walking at her usual rate, she’d have run out of sidewalk and stumbled into that park up ahead as if she were running a race. That was no way to blend in.

  The eclectic display in an upcoming store window brought to mind another item on her list. She tipped her head back to read the sign over the door. Roberts and Son Hardware. Surely someone here could instruct her. Struggling, she got hold of the door handle in spite of her bulky bags.

  The place looked surprisingly tidy considering the crammed-full shelves lining its aisles. Having no idea where to even begin looking, she started on one end, taking care not to knock anything over with her shopping bags.

  Suddenly, her breath caught in her throat. Blinking back threatening tears, she set down her bags, freeing her hands to pick up a water globe from its place on a top shelf. Its smooth coolness mesmerized her as she rolled it over in her hands. It felt heavy, not some cheap souvenir. Its base was real wood, and the simple treble clef inside looked like brass. She held it close to her face, as if she might melt into its magical world.

  Her fingers found the key protruding from the back of the base. She hesitated only a moment before turning it. Eyes closed, she released the key.

  At once the music swept her away, washing her with vivid memory. The tinny tune played a full symphony to her heart.

  “Sounds like opera.” A voice jarred her back to reality, and her eyes snapped open.

  The warbled features of a man’s face projected through the glass globe in front of her. She lowered the orb as her stomach jumped to her throat. It was him—the stagehand wannabe.

  “Nice.” He nodded at the globe, flashing a dimpled smile. “If you like that sort of thing.”

  “That ‘sort of thing’ is called music.” Her words dripped icicles.

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard.” He ran a hand across his dark, tousled hair. “Can I help you find anything, or are you just here for the concert?”

  So, the guy worked here. Irritation boiling in her veins, she put the globe back on the shelf. Was that any way to talk to a customer?

  “Yes,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. “I seem to have a small problem.”

  “Most people do. That’s what keeps us in business.” He winked, his roguish brown eyes drilling into her. “What can I do to help you?”

  She wavered. Her rush of emotion had thrown her off-balance, and now this man had muddied her thinking. Resolving not to play along with his familiar bantering, she firmed her mouth. “It’s my kitchen floor.”

  He nodded, placing one hand on his hip and the other on a shelf edge. “I’m going to need a little more detail.”

  Her annoyance brewed. “It’s squishy.” She felt ridiculous, like one of those women who didn’t know a wrench from a pair of pliers.

  “I see—”

  “Just in one spot. Under a tile. Two tiles. Anyway, I need something to pull them up with so I can put in some kind of support.” She smiled, satisfied that she’d sounded like a knowledgeable homeowner.

  “Okay.” His head bobbed agreeably. “Or you could actually fix it.”

  Her jaw tightened. Once again this guy had brought to mind those stagehands who always tried to impress the ‘little ladies’ with their knowledge of construction. Their technique might be more effective if they’d bother with a close shave and clean shirt.

  “Fine.” She dipped down, reaching for her bags. “If you don’t think you can help me, I’ll—”

  “No…sorry.” He held both palms up in surrender. “Spritz called me a little while ago.” His face softened as he offered his hand. “I’m Sam.”

  Teeth clenched, she allowed his hand to hover for
a moment before lowering her bags and accepting his handshake. “Grace Addison.”

  “Grace…” His eyes latched onto hers a little too intensely. “Miss Addison.” He let go of her hand. “About your floor—”

  “I can fix it myself,” she said. “I just need a crowbar.”

  He looked like he wanted to either argue or laugh, then held up a just-a-second finger. “I’ll meet you at the counter.”

  She moved to the front of the store, still stewing, and waited while an older man helped a customer at the till.

  “Did Sam take care of you, Miss?”

  She looked up to see that the older man had finished his transaction.

  “Yes, I…” Her voice seized up with unexpected emotion. It was like looking at a ghost. She forced a steady tone. “He’s getting me a crowbar.” She looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

  “Oh, well you’re out of luck then.” His soft voice revealed a caring spirit. “I sold the last one this morning, and I’m not sure when our shipment’s coming in. You might want to borrow one from a neighbor.”

  Tears stung her eyes, and her throat threatened to close. “I see. Well, thank you.” She hurried out the door, anxious to get away before her emotions overtook her again.

  When she was well out of view of the store, she set down her bags and brought her hands to her face. This would have to happen to her now, on top of everything else.

  What was it about the older man that had jarred her memory and jolted her heart? A quality in his voice, or the gentleness in his eyes? Whatever it was, it had caught her completely off guard. She hadn’t expected to be reminded of her father.

  “Excuse me…Miss?”

  A deep male voice brought her sharply around, alarmed by its propinquity. Only when she saw Sam standing in front of the hardware store holding up the water globe did it register that she’d heard the bell over the door signal his exit.

  Her face flushed. Giving her eyes a casual dab with the back of her hand, she forced the emotion from her voice. “Yes?”

  “Did you want this?” He spoke haltingly. “I forgot to mention it’s on clearance.”