by Ann McMan
Why do I have to dramatize everything like this? It only makes me feel worse.
It had to be all the hours she’d just spent, consumed by the marathon grading of all those damn Beowulf papers. It was hard to yank her head back from its sojourn through the swirling fog of myth, where legendary heroes waged epic battles against monstrous foes—and the bleak hopelessness of winter was an enduring state of mind.
It all seemed to mesh perfectly with the somberness of her sentiments about today.
Grendel was nowhere in sight when she reached the cabin. That seemed odd. And it looked like the grass had just been cut. That seemed odder—unless Karen had already hired someone to keep the place spiffed-up and ready to show potential buyers.
But there was something else off-kilter, too. The door was open.
Grace felt a little surge of panic. Surely, she hadn’t been so distracted the last time she was out here that she forgot to lock up?
Unlikely—even with her level of preoccupation over Abbie.
But if she had managed to forget, there was no telling what family of wildlife squatters might have taken up residence inside the house.
Only one way to find out . . .
She was halfway up the steps when she heard the music.
Joni Mitchell?
Yeah. She listened for a few seconds. It was Joni, all right—softly crooning jazz lyrics in her signature dulcet tones.
“The more I’m with you pretty baby . . .”
Joni was slowly unreeling the Lambert, Hendricks and Ross classic, “Centerpiece.”
What the hell?
She took a tentative step inside. Still no Grendel in sight. And not only was there music playing, something smelled terrific—like sautéed leeks and fresh thyme.
Grace looked around the room to be sure that, in her distraction, she hadn’t stumbled into the wrong cabin. All she needed was to have Edward or Mrs. Simpson bust a cap in her ass for breaking and entering.
And it wouldn’t be her first offense, either . . .
Nope. This was the right place, all right. There was the same sofa, the same rug, the same table and chairs. The front windows were all open and a glorious breeze was blowing in off the lake. The music was playing from Grady’s stereo—which meant someone had fired up the bank of batteries. The wonderful smells were coming in from the kitchen. Grace took a few quiet steps closer to try and peer past the doorway without being seen. That’s when she saw it. It stopped her dead in her tracks.
Ochre.
There she was, in all her irreverent glory—full-sized and beautifully framed—dominating the back wall of the cabin.
Grace stood staring at her for so long she failed to notice that Grendel had rejoined her. She looked down at the excited dog and realized she was no longer wearing her life vest.
“What happened to your donut, girl?” she asked.
“I took it off,” a voice from the kitchen answered. Abbie appeared in the doorway, holding the orange vest. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Grace dumbly shook her head.
“I felt she was pretty safe from drowning up here,” Abbie continued. “Unless we get another tsunami like last time.”
Tsunami? Yeah, that seemed entirely possible . . .
Grace finally stopped gaping at Abbie like an imbecile and found her voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Right now? Making a quiche. Are you hungry?”
“Am I . . .” Grace was tempted to pinch herself. “Is Rod Serling here, too?”
“Of course he is,” Abbie laughed. “He’s my sous chef.”
“That figures.” Grace dropped her load of boxes and gear and sat down on the arm of the sofa. “I’m gonna need a minute to process. How the hell did you pull this off?”
Abbie folded her long arms. “Pull what off?”
Grace waved an arm to encompass their surroundings. “This. All of this.” She pointed at Ochre, who posed confidently against the far wall, staring back at them with amusement. “That. How’d you do that?”
Abbie shrugged. “Amazon Prime?”
Grace rolled her eyes. “I doubt it.”
“Okay. I had a bit of help. CK had a contact on the board at the Arizona Museum of Art.”
“Of course, she did.” Grace shook her head in wonder and pointed at the reproduction. “She’s beautiful.” She looked at Abbie. “You’re beautiful. Have I ever told you that before?”
Abbie didn’t reply. Grace thought she detected a slight blush spreading across her neck.
“I’ll never make that mistake again,” Grace said. “I plan to tell you every day.”
“I don’t know about all that,” Abbie said. “But I do know that I like the promise of every day.”
“You do?” The simple declaration thrilled Grace.
Abbie nodded.
“So, I guess that means you know about my tenure decision?”
“I do,” Abbie replied. “But only because I read the minutes from that part of the meeting last night.”
Grace was confused. “You didn’t attend?”
Abbie shook her head. “Remember the other day when we had our texting bonanza?”
“Sure.”
“That’s when the tenure committee was presenting its recommendations. I excused myself and went into the main meeting room until they concluded.”
“And you never asked about the results?”
“Not right then, no.”
“I was going to quit.” She met Abbie’s eyes. “I tried to quit—but they wouldn’t let me.”
“Thank god.”
“That’s when Eddie told me about what you’d done—the morning after they announced your appointment.” Grace shook her head. “I couldn’t believe it. He said you offered to resign if recusal wasn’t good enough. Why’d you do something so crazy?”
“It wasn’t any crazier than your offer to quit, Grace.”
There it was again—that infernal coin with faces on both sides. Janus—their talisman. The god of beginnings and endings.
“I guess that’s true,” Grace agreed. “Why didn’t you tell me? You had to know I was practically digesting my own organs worrying about the likely prospects for you—and for me.”
Abbie crossed the room and perched on the edge of the coffee table, facing Grace.
“I couldn’t tell you, Grace.” Abbie took hold of her hand. “Please understand that. Even hinting at my recusal to you would have been a gross violation of the conflict-of-interest policy. I was honor bound not to discuss any aspect of this with you until the tenure decision was reached, and the dean informed you about the board’s decision—whichever way it went. The outcome for both of us was too important to jeopardize. All I could do was hope and pray that you’d trust me—trust us. You’ll never know how hard it was for me not to say anything to you—not to tell you that you didn’t need to be so worried.”
“I guess that makes sense.” Grace gave Abbie a small smile. “Besides, every time I got too moribund, CK would shove her Birkenstock-clad foot a little more firmly up my ass.”
“I do love that woman,” Abbie said.
“By the way,” Grace gave Abbie’s warm hand a gentle squeeze. “Nice job on that whole endowed chair thing. Your idea?”
Abbie shrugged. “I may have suggested something about it to Mitch.”
Grace chuckled. “Nothing quite like dangling that fat Duke Endowment Rolodex in front of her. Her eyes were pretty much rolling back into her head.”
“Really?” Abbie seemed excited. “You talked with her?”
Grace nodded. “Last night. I think she’s gonna do it.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“She said some pretty nice things about you, too. I think she wants to hang around St. Allie’s for a while—see how things shake out.”
“That certainly makes two of us,” Abbie agreed.
“Three of us.”
Abbie smiled and leaned forward. Grace met her in the middle.
&nb
sp; The whole damn thing was bliss. The cabin. The painting. The soft jazz. The warm breeze blowing in from the water. The aroma of Abbie’s quiche. Even the paranoid little dog, nosing about their feet to demand her share of the action.
Grace didn’t want any of it to end—not today. Not ever.
“I love you,” she whispered against Abbie’s fragrant hair.
“You’d better,” Abbie said, before kissing Grace’s ear. “Otherwise, I just made a serious error in judgment.”
Before Grace could ask her to explain, a timer in the kitchen went off.
“That’s breakfast.” Abbie gave Grace a last quick kiss before getting to her feet. “Come and open the cava for me?”
“I’d love to.” Grace stood up and followed her into the kitchen.
# # #
Abbie’s quiche tasted as wonderful as it smelled. Every bite was like a little explosion of flavor.
“What all is in this?” Grace asked.
“Eggs. Cream,” Abbie replied. “The usual.”
“Nuh uh.” Grace lifted another forkful to her mouth. “There’s nothing usual about this delightful panoply of edible contradictions.”
“Panoply?” Abbie asked. “Have you been binge-watching Iron Chef reruns?”
“Not lately. I’ve been too busy writing my own epitaph.”
Abbie reached across the small table and patted her hand. “Mon pauvre bébé.”
Grace smiled at her shyly. “You’re gonna have to cool it with the French . . . every time you unreel one of those damn phrases, I turn into Gomez Addams.”
Abbie looked at her with feigned innocence. “Is that a problem?”
“Maybe not for you. But keep it up, and I’m gonna have to start sitting on a towel.”
She’d never seen Abbie cut loose and laugh like that. The waves of mirth rolled on and on—more like outright guffaws than laughter. Grace was captivated by it—and she resolved to find ways to ensure it would happen again. Often.
“Okay, come on.” Grace tried to calm her down. “Give. What all is in this wonderful thing? It’s amazing.”
Abbie made a concerted effort to compose herself.
“It’s a recipe from my grand-mére,” she explained. “She would modify it with anything in season. Her base was simple. Cold butter and lard for the short crust. Crème fraiche. Eggs. A single grate of nutmeg.” She shrugged. “After that? Add whatever herbs or cheeses strike your fancy. Today, I used leeks, fresh thyme, sundried tomatoes and gruyère. Simple.”
Grace disagreed. “Simple—not. I had no idea you could cook.”
“You mean you thought my only culinary skill was ordering pizza?”
“The thought did occur to me.” Grace took another glorious bite. “I’m going to have to renew my Planet Fitness membership.”
“Don’t worry. Today is special. We’re celebrating.”
“You’ll get no arguments from me on that.”
Grace took a sip of her cava. It was cold, dry and perfect. It tasted like summer strawberries.
Abbie’s music was still playing—Carmen McRae, now. “The Very Thought of You.”
“So, you like jazz?” Grace asked. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“No? Why not?”
“It seems so . . . provincial for you.”
Abbie smiled. “If by ‘provincial,’ you mean American—you’d be right. I started listening to it as a teenager, precisely because it annoyed my mother. She hated anything that smacked too much of American culture.”
“So, you did your best to provoke her?”
Abbie nodded energetically. “Of course, I did. And I was a great success, too. But, probably, based on my mother’s sterling performance at dinner last weekend, you figured that much out.”
“It’s fair to say I had an inkling.”
“Her behavior was outrageous. I can’t think of it without mortification.”
“Yeah. About that . . .” Grace took care to phrase her next question carefully. “Eddie hinted at something your mother may have said when she returned to the dining room after discovering us in . . . an unguarded moment.”
“Unguarded?” Abbie laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Well? How would you describe it?”
“I’d probably say authentic—because, for me, it certainly was. I’d never actually said anything directly to my parents about my sexual identity—although I’m certain they suspected the truth about it. Especially after I married Harlan.”
“Why then?” Grace asked.
“Harlan was a fine man—many years older than me. Old enough to arouse my mother’s latent suspicion that I was marrying him to avoid the possibility of having children.”
“Were you?”
She nodded. “But that wasn’t the only reason. I genuinely cared for him. We were more like best friends than lovers.”
“How did you meet? And I hope it’s okay for me to ask these questions about him,” Grace added. “I don’t want to pry if you’d prefer not to talk about it.”
“Of course it’s okay for you to ask about my marriage to Harlan. I have no desire to conceal anything from you.”
“Thanks,” Grace said. “Really.”
“He was a trustee at Princeton while I was teaching there. I first met him because he’d done his undergraduate work in classics and was involved in some of our departmental initiatives. I found him to be charming and erudite. He was a colorful figure, too—rumpled, gray and irreverent. An archetypal Southern gentleman with a penchant for Faulkner and Belle Meade bourbon. Of course, my mother disdained what she called his folksy, affected airs, his colloquial speech and his humble origins. Harlan was the eldest son of low-country tobacco farmers in the Pee Dee region of South Carolina. He attended Duke on an American Tobacco Company scholarship, then got his JD at Princeton.”
“He was an attorney?” Grace asked.
“Judge,” Abbie replied. “Fourth Circuit. For the first two years after we married, we commuted between Princeton and Richmond. But we moved to Harlan’s home in South Carolina together, after he became ill and retired from the bench. In Greenville, Harlan introduced me to longtime colleagues of his who were trustees of the foundation—which is headquartered nearby, in Charlotte. You pretty much know the rest.”
Grace was moved by Abbie’s simple story of her marriage, and the fondness with which she spoke of her late husband. “He sounds like quite a man,” she said. “I know you were heartbroken to lose him.”
“I was,” Abbie agreed. “You’d have liked him. He had so much innate goodness. And he was always so kind and deferential to me—to everyone, really. He never allowed my mother’s churlish behavior to ruffle him or get under his skin.” She looked at Grace intently. “I hope you won’t, either.”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “You think I’ll get another opportunity to find out?”
“Count on it.”
“At least your father seemed to tolerate me.” Grace smiled. “He sought me out after the inauguration.”
“He did?” Abbie sounded surprised.
“Yeah. He kind of spoke in riddles—which I’m beginning to learn is an Abbot family characteristic.”
Abbie laughed. “They do tend to cherish obfuscation.”
“When he said goodbye, he shook my hand and delivered what felt like a benediction . . . in French, of course—another charming proclivity of your family.”
“What did he say?”
“Love each other.”
Abbie didn’t comment, but she slowly raised a hand to her mouth. It was clear she was surprised by the content of her father’s charge.
“I hope it’s okay with you if I plan to hold up my end of bargain?” Grace asked.
“Oh, yes. More than okay.”
“Good.” Grace cleared her throat. “Because there’s one other piece of shocking news I need to share with you.”
“Shocking?” Abbie narrowed her eyes. “How shocking?”
“It concerns our fr
iend here.” Grace pointed at the framed print of Woman Ochre. “It seems that during one of her afternoon trysts with my Cro-Magnon brother—in the guestroom at my house—CK decided to liberate some hundred-odd pages of my manuscript. She then took it upon herself to ship them off to a literary agent in New York. The long and the short of it is that I got a publication offer from Algonquin in Chapel Hill.”
Abbie’s eyes grew wide. “Grace . . .”
Grace tried hard not to smile. “Yeah. They’re going to publish it—and they even gave me an option on a second book.”
“Oh, my god.” Abbie jumped up from her chair and rounded the table to grab hold of Grace so she could haul her to her feet and fling her arms around her neck. “I’m so proud of you, I’m so proud of you,” she gushed. “This is wonderful news. Wonderful.” She hugged her even tighter. “I knew this would happen. It had to—the book is so damn good.”
Grace hugged her back. “I’m glad you think so. I wanted to kill CK when she told me about it.”
Abbie drew back. “Why on earth would you do that?”
Grace shrugged. “I just didn’t think the book was ready—that the time was right for the story. But now? Now that they’ve finally discovered her and know where she’s been hiding for the last thirty-three years? Well. I suppose now the time is right to share some magical tales of what might have been.”
“Oh, honey, this is such wonderful, happy news.”
Abbie kissed her—which in turn led to Grace kissing her back. Which in turn led to Grace getting the same old idea she always got whenever Abbie was this close.
“Wanna mess around?” she whispered.
Abbie didn’t reply right away, and after what felt to Grace like a ridiculous interval, she concluded that Abbie was taking entirely too long to consider her proposition.
“Hey?” Grace gently shook her tall frame. “Yea or nay, lady—we only have the use of this joint for another forty-eight hours. Then it’s back to our late-night frolics with your satanic garden trellis.”