by Loraine, Kim
“Gracie? Gracie, are you up there?” her mother called.
Grace lay perfectly still, trying to decide if it was worth it to try and ignore her.
“Grace Annabelle McConnell . . . you’d better answer me!”
She whipped the covers off and got up, throwing on a robe and slippers. “Mom, I’m here. I’m coming.”
She trudged down the stairs loudly, her night of self-pity had taken its toll on her social graces.
“Goodness, what happened to you?” her mother exclaimed when she caught sight of her.
“I was sleeping.”
“You look like a homeless person.” She sniffed. “You smell like one, too.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom. It’s good to see you, too,” Grace said, the sarcasm thick in her voice. “Is there coffee?”
“I just put some on, Gracie Belle.” Her dad patted her on the shoulder.
She walked to the coffee maker and pulled a mug from the cupboard. Without waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, she pulled the carafe out and held her mug under the filter, collecting the coffee fresh from the drip.
“Grace, I wish you wouldn’t do that. It leaves a mess on the hot plate,” her mother said, a slight note of exasperation in her voice.
“Sorry.”
She grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat at the kitchen table with her parents.
“How was your trip?” she asked between bites.
“Lovely. Your Aunt Martha’s doing well and was asking about you. Your cousin Breanne is pregnant! She broke the news at dinner yesterday. It’s about time. She’s already past thirty-five.”
“Wow . . . good for her,” Grace said half-heartedly, hearing the unspoken statement on her own age.
“So, big meeting with Bidwell tomorrow?” her dad asked.
Her stomach dropped in anticipation. “Yep.”
“You ready?”
“I guess so.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. This is just temporary, honey.”
“Dad, someone died on my crew. I was responsible for him.”
Her dad shook his head. “No, the foreman was responsible. He’s the one who makes the calls and staffs the jobs.”
She was embarrassed to feel tears prick the corners of her eyes. “I hope you’re right. Even still, I can’t help but feel responsible. He had a wife and three little kids.”
He reached his hand out and placed it over hers. “I know. You probably always will. I can’t help you with that.”
She took a deep breath and held it for a moment. Nodding her head, she finished her cereal and stood. “Well, I’d better check my messages and get my data in order for tomorrow. Thanks for letting me stay here on such short notice.”
“Honey, you never have to ask. That’s why you’ve still got a key.” Her mom sent a smile her way.
“I’m going to go for a run on the beach in a bit. Can I take one of your cars?”
Her dad nodded. “Take the truck.”
He pulled the keys out of his pocket and threw them to her.
“Thanks.”
The old truck sputtered to life, died, then came back twice before Grace was able to pull it out of the driveway. She hadn’t driven it in at least ten years and the feel of its huge steering wheel and overly springy seats made her nostalgic.
She had so many memories of riding to the beach for picnics in this old monster, smelling of bug spray and sunscreen. She would usually fall asleep on the way home, her energy zapped by hours in the sun and sand, lulled by the rumbling of the truck’s diesel engine. Her dad had taught her to drive in this beast. The clutch was touchy and there was no power steering, but because she’d learned in it, she could back around a corner and parallel park in any car thrown at her.
She drove the ten minutes to her favorite running spot, along the beach where she and John used to race. Parking was easy this time of year. Only the most dedicated runners would be seen on the beach in the middle of winter. As she tightened her shoelaces, she let her mind drift back to one of her favorite memories of John.
They’d been running on the beach in early summer and the tide was beginning to rush in on them. Instead of running away from the water, John had taken her hand and pulled her into the surf, soaking her entirely. Her initial reaction was one of frustrated anger at being soaking wet with no change of clothes. As they stood waist deep in the blue-green beauty of the ocean, she’d looked into his eyes, laughing in the sunlight, and found herself without a care for anything but him.
The water was gray this morning, reflecting the overcast clouds full of potential snow. She ran slowly at first, building a solid rhythm and steadying her breathing. The sandy beach was long and seemed never-ending. As her feet sank into the sand, she tried to start her usual process of working things out and thinking through her problems, but she couldn’t get herself to focus. All she could think about was Drew. She wanted to see him come around the bend on the beach, or feel him brush against her as he passed by.
Her legs were tired by the time she finished and was walking back to the truck. She wasn’t used to running in the sand anymore and the changes in her gait made the run more challenging.
Her mother’s silhouette darkened the window of the living room as she pulled the truck into the driveway. She sighed inwardly and opened the door, bracing herself for the interrogation.
Chapter 18
Take leave. Sick, vacation, unpaid. These were Grace’s only options until the investigation was over and the project was either reinstated to the firm or given to a different architect. Bidwell told her that because of the fatality, there would be a longer delay while the investigation ran. In order to show that the firm was cooperative, she had to be placed on leave. Her heart almost stopped when she heard the time frame: two to three months.
She only had a few weeks of vacation saved up and about the same for sick leave. That meant at best one month unpaid, but probably two. At least she was rent-free at her parents’ house for as long as she needed.
Over the next two weeks, her mood went from bad to worse. Tendrils of depression began taking hold almost without her awareness. It started with excessive sleeping, then graduated to long days of TV and junk food in her pajamas. Her company-issued international phone was disconnected and without contact to the outside world, she rapidly became a hermit.
Back to a regular stateside phone plan, she and Drew kept in contact using Skype and social media, but it just wasn’t the same as being able to touch him, feel the scratch of his stubble on her skin, or run her fingers through his hair.
“Mark, I’m telling you, something isn’t right.” She overheard her parents whispering in the kitchen.
“Of course something’s wrong, Abby. She just lost the biggest project of her career.”
“No, this is different. It’s worse than when John died. She’s practically comatose.”
“Leave her alone. She’ll come out of it.”
“I don’t know. I think there’s more going on here.”
Lifting herself from the couch, she walked to the kitchen for a glass of water. As her parents caught sight of her, they immediately clammed up and focused on arbitrary chores.
“I’m going to shower and go to the store. What do you want for dinner?” she asked pointedly.
“Um . . . Well, honey, I guess whatever you want,” her mom said.
“I’ll figure something out. Lasagna, maybe.”
Her shower was quick and she was back downstairs, grabbing the keys to the old truck in fifteen minutes flat. As she picked up her purse, her mom rushed into the room, purse and keys already in hand.
“Come on, I’m driving.”
Grace rolled her eyes.
“I’m not taking no for an answer, Grace.”
Feeling like a petulant child, she trudged along behind her mother. They didn’t head to the store as she’d planned; her mom drove them to a small bistro called The Lighthouse for lunch.
“I haven’t been here in years,” Grace said as she looked around the familiar sea-inspired decor.
Fishing nets were artfully displayed, along with bulbs from old lighthouses. The bistro was warm with the fireplace blazing and the windows closed. Her mother led them to the same cozy and worn leather chairs they always sat in and immediately ordered a glass of wine, an antipasto plate, and a chicken salad for each of them.
“Mother, it’s only a little after noon.”
“It’s five o’clock somewhere, darling, and we’re going to be here for a while. I’ve got to pull you out of whatever this is.” She motioned in Grace’s direction.
“I’m fine.”
Her mother leveled her eyes on her. “Bull-shit.”
“Mom!” Grace coughed on her water.
“Well, it is. Something big is bothering you and it’s not work.”
The waitress arrived with their wine and antipasto. She gingerly set the items on the coffee table in front of them. They ate and drank in silence, Grace picking at her food and her mom casting concerned glances in her direction.
“All right. Who is he?”
Grace took a deep breath. She wondered how to tell her mom about Drew without sounding like a complete crazy person.
“His name is Drew.”
Her mom nodded and settled in for the story.
“Mom, there’s something about him that makes this all very . . . different.”
“Was he formerly a woman?”
“No! No, nothing like that. It’s just, well . . .” She fished her phone out of her purse and pulled up a picture. “Here.”
“Grace? This is John. Oh, honey.” She had a look of pity and worry on her face.
“No, Mom. That is Drew. They’re identical. I . . . I think they might be twins.”
“Really?” She took a drink of her wine and frowned. “But I never heard John was adopted and I can’t imagine Marianne ever giving up a child.”
“Drew was adopted at two months old. They’ve also got the same birthday.”
Her mom chewed on a torn cuticle. “Have you talked to Marianne?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. I think I will soon, though.”
“Are you in love with him?”
“I am.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Oh, Mom, what is wrong with me? Why can’t I move on?”
“Why do you love him?”
“What?”
“Tell me why? Is it because he looks like John?”
“No. I mean, it started that way. That’s why I noticed him.” She took a shuddering breath. “Drew’s so different, though. He cares about me, what happens to me, the things I like. He wants me to be part of his whole life. He’s open and honest. He doesn’t need to be everyone’s hero.”
Before long, she’d told her mom all about Drew, his family, his mother’s death, the grocery deliveries, and the trip to Edinburgh.
“All right, then. I’m pretty sure you have moved on, Gracie.”
Grace started crying, her face contorting into an ugly mask.
“Honey?”
“I’m . . . I didn’t tell him.”
“What?”
“About John. That they’re the same.”
“I see.” Her mom looked down at the floor. “Honey, that’s a big secret to keep from someone.”
“I know. I kept telling myself I needed to wait until I was sure . . . sure they were related. But I think I was really just afraid he’d reject me.”
“Well, that’s sort of the point. Honesty is scary, but if you really love someone, you have to take the risk. What were you going to do? Avoid all of us forever?”
“I don’t know, Mom.” She put her head in her hands. “Maybe.”
“Honey, you’ve got to tell him. If you love him, you can’t build a life with something as big as this looming.”
Grace raised watery eyes to her mother’s face. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Finish up and let’s go.” She smiled and patted her gently. “It’ll be all right.”
After lunch with her mom, she felt better—physically and mentally. As the weeks passed, she set a routine for herself; running, reading, and planning her next move at the firm. She decided to continue her preliminary plans for the church in Braley. She wanted to be prepared with good work to present when Bidwell put her back on the project. The idea that she might not return to Braley wasn’t acceptable and every time she thought about it a sense of anxiety took hold.
She and Valerie were making a habit of having casual lunch meetings. Valerie was still working, having been assigned to another architect at the firm, so her availability was slim. Most days consisted of research and chit-chat over lunch, occasionally Valerie mentioned Drew.
“Thank you.”
Valerie raised her eyes from her lunch. “For what?”
“Everything. This . . .” Grace motioned to the work they were doing. “Drew and John . . . you’re always there to pick me up when I need it.”
“I don’t know why you still haven’t told him.”
“I’m working on that. I just need a little more time.”
Grace’s fingers itched as she picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number for the Oliver household. It rang once before Marianne’s voice came over the line, still authoritative and demanding.
“Oliver residence, can I help you?”
“Mari? It’s Grace.”
“Gracie? Oh, my. I can’t believe it’s you! How are you? How’s London?”
“Actually, I’m home for a while. There was an accident at the site and we had to shut down for a few months.”
“Well, why are you calling me? You should have just stopped by.”
“Can I? I’ve got some questions for you.”
“Of course. I’m just staying around here for the day. Come when you’re ready.” Grace could hear the excitement in the woman’s voice and immediately felt guilty, knowing she would be treading on sensitive ground.
Dressed in a pair of comfy old jeans and a light purple sweater, she headed out to the Oliver’s house. Her hair was loose and flowing down her back, but without Drew there to tangle his fingers in it or tell her how much he loved it, the fierce wind only made her wish for a haircut. John’s parents lived three short blocks away from her own family home, but the cold weather made her think she should have driven. She was shivering in her heavy coat by the time she rang their bell.
The door opened to reveal Marianne looking healthier and happier than she had in the last year and a half.
“Gracie!” She enveloped her in a bone-crushing hug and pulled her into the living room. “Sit, sit. I’ve made tea, although I’m sure it’s not up to par with what you’re used to.”
Grace eyed the tea tray placed just so on the coffee table and smiled.
“That was sweet of you, Mari,” she said as she lowered herself onto one of the overstuffed chairs.
“So, tell me, what’s been going on? I didn’t know you were back.”
Grace reached to pour some tea and noticed the distinctive pattern of roses and thistle. “Where did you get this teapot?”
“Oh, I think I must have had this for over thirty years now. We lived in Scotland when the boys were little.”
“Really? Was John born there?”
Marianne took a sip of her tea and nodded. “Mm-hm. He lived there for just a few months before we came back to the States. We were there for two years before he was born.”
“Mari, was John adopted?”
Marianne coughed and spluttered on her tea. “Wh
. . . Who . . . Why would you ask that?”
“Something I came across while I was gone.”
“We never told him or the boys.” Her face was ashen. “I couldn’t have any more babies after Michael. I think Alex remembers when John came home but he . . . he was only four at the time and Michael was practically a baby himself.”
Grace’s heart flipped in both excitement and terror. “He never said anything to me about it. I don’t think he suspected.”
“Oh, we went through those times. Every kid thinks they might be adopted at one point or another in their lives. We decided to lie rather than deal with his questions. Worst mistake of my life.”
Grace reached out her hand. “He loved you. You did what you thought was right.”
Marianne nodded and stood, gathering the tea tray. “I hope he thought so. Please don’t tell the boys.”
Grace shook her head. “It’s not my story to tell.”
Marianne looked at her watch uncomfortably and Grace took that as a cue to leave.
“Well, I suppose I’ve taken up enough of your time,” she said, reaching to help her with the tea tray. “I want to do some digging about John’s ancestry. Would I be able to see his birth certificate or at least know his surname at birth?”
“I . . . I only have the birth certificate that lists his adopted name. The original is sealed and can’t be accessed without a court order. I do remember his name at birth was Baby Boy McDonald, in Edinburgh.”