by Ann McMan
Grace sat back and crossed her arms. This kept getting better and better. For the first time, she thought maybe there was more to Lorrie than her glittering Phi Beta Kappa key.
“It’s not Bryce James,” Bryce said with exaggerated patience. “It’s Bryce Oliver-James. The last name is hyphenated.”
“Do tell? I went to Radcliffe with a hyphen—Hester fforbes-Morgan. That’s ‘fforbes’ with two small f’s. An extremely mousy girl, as I recall—with an oddly Welsh name.” Lorrie beamed at Bryce. “Did you know her?”
“Why, no.” Bryce seemed surprised by the suggestion. “But then, I don’t share kinship with any fforbeses.”
“Or hyphens, I daresay.” Lorrie reeled off another one of her practiced stage laughs.
Bryce cleared his throat again.
Lorrie ignored the chair that Bryce had drawn out for her and plopped down on one beside Grace.
“This is all very exciting,” she gushed. “I’ve never been in an actual editorial meeting before. What do we do first?”
“Um. Well.” Grace handed Lorrie her copy of Bryce’s agenda. “We make a valiant effort to hack our way through this terribly aspirational agenda.”
“Oh, my.” Lorrie flipped through the pages. “We may be here all night.” She bumped shoulders with Grace. “Wouldn’t that be a lark?”
Yeah, Grace thought. We could brush each other’s hair and take turns huffing cans of chocolate Reddi-wip . . .
“I hope it won’t come to that,” she said instead. “We’ll do our best to have you on your way by three o’clock.”
“Party-pooper.” Lorrie pouted. “I was actually looking forward to trying some takeout from Thai House. I heard the curries are to die for—especially if you like things . . . hot.”
“Why don’t we get started?” Grace suggested. “Is Brittney joining us, Bryce?” She looked at Lorrie. “Brittney McDaniel is our student intern.”
“I don’t think she will be joining us,” Bryce replied. “She called before you arrived and said she was under the weather.”
Grace was beginning to grow concerned. This would be the second appointment Brittney had missed today. It wasn’t like her. She thought about checking in on her after the meeting, just to be sure she was really okay.
“All right. Well, I suppose we should just soldier on. Bryce, do you want to review the new submissions we’ve received since we met last week?”
“Of course.” Bryce opened an accordion file folder that had colorful labels attached to each of its tabs. He withdrew several stapled sets of pages. “The first is an essay on global terrorism by Don DeLillo. We also received a new short story by Dorothy Allison, and two poems by Isobel Van Dyk.”
Lorrie perked up. “Izzy Van Dyk submitted something?”
“Two somethings, to be precise.” He passed the pages across the table. “Her note said The New Yorker rejected these, so she sent them on to us.”
Lorrie rolled her eyes. “That sounds like her.” She proceeded to read the poems.
Grace’s interest was piqued. “What do you think of them, Bryce?”
“I like them. They’re gutsy. Raw. Very cutting edge.”
Lorrie snorted and thrust the sheets of paper at Grace. “They’re crap. She’s a has-been who drinks her own Kool-Aid.”
Bryce blinked. “I disagree.”
“Oh, give me a break, Blake. She writes like Annie Dillard on a testosterone patch.”
Grace laughed. Maybe ole Lorrie hasn’t lost her mojo after all . . .
“Very well.” Bryce chose to ignore Lorrie’s faux pas. “How about we set these submissions aside for now, and take another look later on?”
“Fine,” Grace agreed. “What’s next?”
“It’s been suggested that we ask our new president to write an introduction to the fall issue. Not only is it a courtesy, she’s a scholar of some repute in her own right, and I think having her name on the masthead as a contributor would be a good boost for the academic cred of the journal.”
“I wouldn’t disagree with that.” Lorrie looked at Grace. “It wouldn’t hurt circulation to run her photo, either. I met her last week at one of those insufferable common hour coffees.” Lorrie fanned herself. “She’s a hot commodity in more than one way.”
“I, um. Well . . .” Grace fidgeted with her pencil.
“Would you approach Dr. Williams about writing the intro, Grace?”
Grace stared at Bryce. “I’m sure she’s very busy. I don’t think I could get an appointment with her between now and the inauguration.”
“Sure you can.” Lorrie dug into her bag and withdrew a thick embossed card. “We’ll both be attending a dinner with her next Thursday. You can ask her about it then.”
Dinner? With Abbie?
Grace took the card from Lorrie. “What dinner?”
“It’s a pre-inauguration soirée. We’re both invited to represent the English department. I know because I asked Lucretia Fletcher to show me the entire guest list.” She looked at Bryce. “I wanted to see it before I committed . . . you know how incredibly dull these things can be.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said coldly.
Grace’s heart was pounding. Dinner with Abbie? Next week? At her fucking mansion—with half the damn faculty and trustees in attendance? Who the hell thought this was a good idea?
Kill me now . . .
She wondered if Abbie knew about the guest list yet?
Lorrie was staring at her with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You look unwell.”
“I think it’s lunch. Something in those nachos . . .” She got to her feet. “I’m sorry Bryce. I think I need to go lie down. We’ll have to reschedule.”
Bryce was squinting at her with suspicion. She figured he probably knew she was lying—but he didn’t say anything. He just nodded curtly and began collecting his papers.
Grace grabbed her messenger bag and headed for the door.
“Take care of yourself, Grace,” Lorrie called after her. “I’ll check in on you later on.”
Grace didn’t bother replying. She just waved a hand and headed for the nearest exit.
# # #
The first thing Grace discovered when she got home was that she was totally out of wine.
The second thing was that Grendel, who’d spent the day in her fenced backyard, had decided to amuse herself by digging holes . . . a lot of them. In fact, Grace’s yard looked exactly like photos she’d seen from some of the joint excavation sites in Milton, undertaken by anthropology students from St. Allie’s and UVM.
“Oh, good god,” she yelled from her back porch. “What the hell?”
Even though she was pissed at the destruction, she couldn’t help but be impressed by the dog’s industry. Grendel’s efforts were remarkable. And empirical evidence suggested that her dig had yielded more findings than all of the student digs at the Civil War-era Stannard House site, combined.
“What the fuck are these?” Grace walked outside and randomly kicked at one of about six barrel-shaped, hard plastic bins.
It didn’t budge.
Grendel had done a credible job unearthing the things, which were spread out across the lawn in a figure eight pattern—almost like there had been some method to how they’d been buried.
She began to get a sinking feeling. Something about the containers looked familiar. Something she recalled seeing once in a Cabela’s catalog.
At Dean’s.
It had to be.
She knelt beside one of the bins. Dear god, don’t let this be what I think it is. Let it just be pick hits from his porn collection . . .
She forced the mini-barrel free from the ground and used both of her hands to twist off its thick, black lid. Inside the drum was another, smaller container. That one opened more easily.
Yep. There it was. Ammo. Enough of it to start a small range war—or fend off the feds when they finally came to take your guns.
That asshole . . .
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She had no doubt that the other bins contained similar caches of ammunition.
Grendel sat nearby and stared over at her like she was waiting to be flogged.
Grace sighed and got to her feet. She patted her thigh.
“Come on, girl. Let’s go find something alcoholic. Then we’ll sit on the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings.”
Grendel happily followed Grace inside.
“Too bad I don’t have any more of that pear vodka.”
Grace rummaged in a cupboard until she found what was left of the bottle of Rémy she’d shared with Abbie. It was only about a third full—but she was pretty sure it would get the job done.
She carried it and a glass to her study—one of the only rooms in her house that wasn’t completely torn up or under tarp—and dropped into an old leather chair that sat beside an oak table loaded with ungraded papers. Grendel curled up on a faded rug at her feet with a new rawhide bone from a pack Grace had purchased on Tuesday.
She concentrated on getting at least one full drink down before she picked up the phone to call Dean.
He answered on the second ring.
“Warner Restoration,” he barked. It sounded like he was driving someplace.
“Yeah,” she began. “I’m calling about some defective shrubs I bought at your Plattsburgh store. I planted them in my backyard and now the fucking things are covered with 9mm spores. Any advice?”
The line hissed for a moment.
“Grace?” Dean finally asked. “Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me, you big jerk. What the fuck did you think you were doing, burying all those damn ammo caches in my backyard?”
He chuckled. “Lemme guess. Your new dog found ’em?”
“Bingo, asshole. Why’d you stash it all over here?”
“Because you’re such a big lib, nobody would ever look for it at your place.”
“Nice try, Dean. If you don’t come get this shit outta here by tomorrow—and bring along a crew of your minions to fix my damn yard—I’m gonna turn it all over to the state police. I mean it.”
“Oh, come on, Grace. Don’t get your panties in a wad. It’s not that big a deal.”
“Seriously?” Grace poured herself another shot of cognac. “If it’s not a big deal, then why didn’t you bury this crap in your own damn yard?”
“Hey—I have an underground sprinkler system.”
“Yeah. I can see that maintaining proper lawn irrigation trumps your need to defend your Second Amendment rights. I always wondered what that pecking order was.”
“All right, already. I’ll come get the shit tomorrow.”
“And you’ll fix my lawn, too. I’m not kidding, Dean.”
“Okay, okay. Jesus. What climbed up your ass?”
She sighed. “It’s just been a bad day.” She paused. “One of many.”
“Anything you wanna talk about?”
He sounded so sincere that Grace nearly relented and spilled the beans—about Abbie, about Lorrie, about Bryce and Brittney—about everything. But she didn’t. Not yet. She wasn’t drunk or desperate enough.
“No,” she said. “I’ll be okay. Thanks for asking, bro.”
“You know you can call me any time, right?”
Grace smiled. “Yeah. I know. Ditto. And, Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m still not putting Mum up for a week.”
She hung up.
Fuckwad. Even though he drove her crazy, he really was a good guy. And it wasn’t like she was faring any better in the relationship derby. She just didn’t marry them all like Dean did. And she had a healthier respect for other letters in the alphabet.
She laughed bitterly. “This evening of domestic bliss is brought to you by the letter A . . .”
She drained her glass.
Dean really was a good guy. It’s too bad he voted for that asshole, Trump.
She shook her head in an attempt to clear it.
“Here’s to genetics. Somewhere, somebody is getting their rocks off on this mixed-up mess.” She raised her tumbler toward heaven—then noticed that it was empty. Again.
“At this rate, I’ll be drunk by five-thirty.”
She thought about heading to her kitchen to cobble something together to eat, but she wasn’t really very hungry. At her feet, Grendel stopped chewing on her rawhide and looked up at Grace with a worried expression.
Grace bent down and scratched her head. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you some dinner even if I don’t partake.”
But, apparently, it wasn’t food Grendel was concerned about. A second later, she cocked her head, then scrambled to her feet and took off for the back door.
“Oh, great.” Grace got up to follow her. “What now? Vermont militia in search of their missing ordinance?”
But Grendel wasn’t barking, so Grace surmised that the implied threat must not be a major one. She was only beginning to get a handle on Grendel’s hierarchy of DEFCON codes.
What she discovered when she reached the open interior door that led to her porch made her rethink her conclusion. A tall woman, who looked a helluva lot like Abbie, was standing outside the door, cooing and waving at the happily dancing dog. Her visitor was wearing faded jeans and a distressed-looking red polo shirt that bore a McGill shield with a pair of crossed lacrosse sticks.
Grace blinked her eyes a few times and tried to clear her head. She hadn’t had that much to drink. Not yet, anyway. She took a closer look—and this time, the woman who was or wasn’t Abbie saw her standing in the doorway, and gave her a tentative little smile.
Holy shit. It was Abbie.
What is she doing back so soon? And why the hell is she here?
Grace walked over and opened the screened door.
“Surprise,” Abbie said. It sounded more like a question than a statement.
“I’ll say.” Grace stepped back so Abbie could step inside.
Grendel was beside herself with excitement. Her tail was spinning like a helicopter rotor. Grace half expected the little dog to lift off from the down draft.
Abbie stood there patting Grendel and shooting glances at Grace without saying anything. Grace finally broke their stalemate.
“So, I guess you came back early?”
Abbie nodded. “I did. It was absurd. I was wandering around the house like a zombie, unable to concentrate on anything. After two days, I realized how ridiculous it was. So I gave up and hired packers.” She shrugged. “Most of my personal stuff is going into storage, anyway. I just pulled together the clothes I’d need for the next few weeks, and left North Carolina yesterday.” She smiled. “The folks at the City House in Harrisburg were surprised to see me again so soon.”
“So you’re here for the duration, now?”
“Guess so.”
Grace didn’t know why she was continuing to stand there like a totem pole when all she wanted to do was wrap Abbie up in a giant bear hug.
What the hell . . .
She crossed the room and pulled Abbie into her arms. Abbie reciprocated immediately.
“I know it was crazy to come over here,” she muttered into Grace’s shoulder, “but I really needed to see you.”
“It’s certifiable,” Grace said. “Thank god.”
“I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” Grace closed her eyes. She could feel Grendel struggling to insinuate herself between them. She loosened her death grip on Abbie and stepped back. “She also missed you.”
Abbie smiled. “You know, I think she did.” She stroked the happy mutt’s head. “I’m glad.” She met Grace’s eyes. “And I’m especially glad that you missed me, too.”
“Wanna come inside and let me count the ways?”
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
“Hey? In for a penny, in for a pound.”
Abbie laughed. “The only reason I managed to pull this off is because Lucretia doesn’t know I’m back. I basically dropped my bags at the house and heade
d straight over here. I guess I figured I’d be safe. I don’t think I’m recognizable around here quite yet—especially dressed like this.”
In your dreams, sister.
Abbie was apparently clueless how entirely recognizable she was in this small community. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t count on that,” Grace said. Your photos have pretty much been plastered on every available surface around here since the big reveal. I’d say your gorgeous mug is just about the most recognizable thing at St. Allie’s right now—except for maybe the faces of the four knuckle-dragging SAE brothers who just got bounced for hazing.”
Abbie rolled her eyes. “That’s one horse race I’m happy to lose.”
Grace led the way to her kitchen. “Well, as I recall, our agreement was to make sure you lost the I got axed in the St. Allie’s derby.”
“Is that what we agreed? I forget.”
“You seem determined to forget a lot of sensible things.”
“I know.” Abbie leaned against the kitchen counter. She shook her head. “I’m going to suck at this, Grace. It’s delusional to pretend I won’t. And before you think I’m incapable of traveling a straight line, I need to assure you that this level of . . . suckage . . . is not common for me.”
“Suckage?” Grace asked.
Abbie shrugged. “Got a better word for it?”
Grace thought about it. “No. I think ‘suckage’ pretty much covers it—for both of us.”
Abbie sighed. “Well that’s a relief. I thought maybe I was the only one slouching toward misery.”
“Nope. I’m pretty much a write-off, too. This week has gone from ridiculous to impossible at, like, warp six.”
“Is warp six fast?”
“I’d say so. It’s when manned space ships travel six times the speed of light.”
Abbie looked dubious. “Is that actually possible?”
“Well,” Grace clarified. “It is in all the Star Trek movies.”
“Of course, it is. How silly of me. I’ve never been much of a fan of sci-fi epics.”
“You might want to rethink that—especially since you’re now living in one.”
Abbie laughed.
“I’d offer you a drink,” Grace began, “but all I’ve got on hand are trace elements of cognac and half a bottle of red wine vinegar.”