Right. Condom. The warm bulk behind her disappeared, leaving the shower and all its cascading water to her. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the steady drumming. Her skin was extra sensitized by her orgasm, and the rhythmic fall of water droplets added another layer of sensation.
God, she was doomed. Twenty-three years old, and she’d lost her heart to a man she would never stop loving. Her intuition told her that, without a doubt. Even if they didn’t stay together, even if they parted ways and never spoke again, even if she married someone else—she would always love Mark. He held a spot in her heart that no one else could ever claim.
He was back, his hands running down her body, shaping her curves, fondling her super-aroused skin. “Go on,” she murmured. “I’m starting to prune.”
With a laugh, he braced one hand over her, the other coming between her legs. Her eyes drifted shut under his exquisite caresses.
“You just relax and let me do my thing.”
His phrasing reminded her of a Fleetwood Mac song. “Won’t you lay me down in tall grass and let me do my stuff,” she sang softly. She felt the thick head of his erection at her opening and arched her back to make it easier for him. He came inside, sliding so smoothly it felt as if they’d been created specifically for each other. “That’s a song. I love that song. Makes me think of summer when the wildflowers grow in the meadows and the grass tussocks grow tall and— Oh my God!”
Something occurred to her in that moment. A memory. Just a flash, but enough to make her go stiff against Mark.
“You okay?” he gasped, pausing in his thrusts.
“Yes. Go on. Don’t stop.”
Just like that, the memory faded. She tried to get it back—her mother was in it, she knew that. She and Amanda were walking in the meadow where the tall grass grew, but it was winter, and the grass poked through a billowing blanket of snow. And they’d run into someone.
Who?
She snapped back to awareness—right, she was currently making love in a shower stall in a hotel just outside of Los Angeles.
Mark went rigid behind her, groaning his orgasm into her ear. The sound made a slow climax roll through her as well, or maybe it was more of an aftershock of her earlier orgasm. She moaned softly under the weight of Mark’s body, which felt almost like part of hers.
He finished and gently turned her around, his form blocking the shower water. “You okay? What happened? You went somewhere, I could feel it.”
“Nothing. A weird little memory, that’s all. I don’t know what it was, or what it means.”
He studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Hungry yet?”
“Famished.”
They sorted through the collection of delivery menus offered by the hotel, debating things like delivery speed, which country they most wanted to visit, and which language was the most beautiful.
Finally, they ordered from a Chinese restaurant nearby. Gracie spent the time explaining to Mark that fortune cookies weren’t a Chinese tradition at all.
“It was a Japanese thing. They came from a little village in Japan. The Chinese connection came when so many Japanese were put into camps during World War Two. With no Japanese bakers around to make fortune cookies, the Chinese filled the gap.”
“How do you know all that?” Mark propped his back on pillows piled against the headboard and stretched out his legs.
“I read a book about it. You would be amazed at the random things I know about other countries. Especially because I’ve never been anywhere. I got a passport when I turned twenty-one, but I’ve never used it.”
“Were you disappointed when it turned out to be boring old Southern California?”
She cocked her head at him. “Disappointed? By the hunk with the fishing boots and the attitude? Not at all.”
“Sorry I gave you such a hard time.” He bent his knee so it brushed against her thigh. Even that light touch made her nerve endings take notice. “If you’d told me who you were at the beginning…”
“You would have fired me on the spot,” she teased. “Instead of threatening to a million times.”
After the food arrived, they scanned through all the movie offerings, looking for anything with Laine Thibodeau. Amazingly, they found one, a horror movie about a group of marine biologists searching for a mysterious sea creature spooking the locals on an island off Thailand.
Laine played one of the scientists and was mostly shown looking through a microscope at samples while wearing a bikini. The wardrobe people gave her thick, black-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down her nose.
Mark and Gracie watched between mouthfuls of chow mein, listing points of resemblance between Laine and Gracie.
Even though Gracie made light of it—Laine’s bone structure was so much more glamorous—it was surreal watching a stranger on the screen, a person who might be her mother, someone playing a part. My potential mother is not a scientist, she kept reminding herself. She’s an actress wearing fake glasses and a lab coat over a bikini.
They slept curled up together like kittens. Mark seemed almost afraid to lose contact with her, as if she might ditch him again. He kept a hand draped over her hip, or cupped over her shoulder, or even interlaced with hers.
It was sweet but completely unnecessary. She wasn’t going to skip out on him again. Honestly, the damage had been done. She’d fallen for him, and there was no going back. And right now, she needed him. She needed his irreverent comments about Laine Thibodeau’s lab outfits and how she and Gracie at least had bikinis in common. She needed his solid presence next to her in the bed, his snuffling snores, his warm hand comforting her, keeping her grounded.
And the next morning, she especially needed him to drive.
“Oh. My. God,” she said when they joined the long, snaking chain of vehicles making their way into Los Angeles. “This is insane. It was late at night the first time I drove through LA. I had no idea.”
“Don’t you worry your dainty head about it. I got this. You just sit back and relax and bow down to your hunky chauffeur.”
She squeezed her eyes shut as someone zoomed past her in a BMW convertible. “Can I go back to Rocky Peak yet?”
“Coward,” he teased. “You faced down a pack of dogs. This is nothing. Just traffic.”
“We’re all going to die!” she shrieked as someone else cut right in front of them. Mark banged on the horn and shot him a nasty gesture. “Don’t do that! They might get mad and shoot you.”
“Would you relax? This is a rush. Like a racetrack.” He slammed on the brakes as they hurtled toward a backup of traffic. He brought the Jetta to a stop just in time, and they craned their necks to see how long the endless line of cars stretched. “Okay, not so much anymore,” he admitted.
With the car at a standstill, there was nothing to distract Gracie from her anxiety. “Do you think I should call ahead and explain who I am? What if I give her a heart attack when I show up out of the blue?”
“You could do that, but I wouldn’t. If you wait until you meet her, you can decide in the moment how much you want to tell her.”
“You mean if I don’t like her, I can say I’m just a random person selling time shares or something?”
“Exactly. Wait and see how much you trust her.”
“Why wouldn’t I trust her?”
He glanced over at her with an odd smile. “You’re very trusting in general, aren’t you?”
She shrugged and looked out the window at the river of cars surrounding them. “Probably.”
“Well, I’m not. I make it a policy not to trust anyone until I know that I can.”
“You probably don’t trust me at all, do you? After I disappeared on you twice?”
He reached over and touched her hair, curling one lock around his finger. “I trust you. I trust you to turn my life upside down. I trust you to make my head spin. I trust you to make me smile. I trust you to be Gracie.”
His sweet words touched her deep inside, deeper than she wanted him t
o know. So she said, lightly, “Yes, but Gracie Rockwell or Gracie Thibodeau or Gracie something-else-entirely?”
“All of the above.”
27
Mark knew perfectly well that Gracie was nervous. He was so attuned to her by now that he could judge her mood by the way the color came and went in her cheeks. He plugged his iPod into the sound system and sang along to every goofy tune he could find. They played a few more rounds of twenty questions, until they knew every teensy fact about each other, all the way down to their biggest celebrity crushes and their favorite midnight snacks.
By mid-afternoon, when they finally reached the Malibu bungalow where Laine Thibodeau lived, at least Gracie didn’t look like she was going to explode from sheer nerves. He considered that a personal triumph.
“How do I look?” she asked as they made their way down the terracotta steps that led past thick bougainvillea in mauve and vibrant royal purple. The security gate had been disarmed. They’d pressed the button anyway, then decided to proceed since it didn’t seem to be functioning. The house itself was a one-story masterpiece of salmon-pink stucco. Though it was barely visible from the road, as they got closer, they saw that it was in fact a spectacular feat of engineering that jutted over a slope, its foundation supported by cantilevered beams cemented into the hillside.
“You look perfect,” Mark told her. “Perfectly Gracie.”
And she did, in Bermuda shorts spangled with sparkly daisies and a saffron-yellow top that bared a strip of the tender skin of her tummy. She also wore three necklaces, each with a different pendant, at least five bracelets, and the single feather and crystal earring that she’d found in Amanda’s armchair. She’d spent a lot of time in the car messing around with her hair, taming it into careful waves rather than the wild flyaway wisps she usually sported. A peacock feather clip held it away from her face.
“I don’t want to start off on a wrong note, pretending to be someone I’m not,” she said seriously. “It’s not like I’m an actress.”
“Good strategy,” he said, equally serious. God, she was so adorable, and so anxious, and his heart ached for her. They reached the front door, which was set into an arched doorway, like a hobbit hole. Next to it was a buzzer, with a security camera aimed at them.
He took her hand. “Ready when you are.”
She heaved in a long breath and pushed the buzzer. She tilted her face to the camera so it could get a full view of her.
The door clicked open after a few moments.
They exchanged one more glance, into which he tried to pour every ounce of support he could muster, then she squared her shoulders and pushed open the door.
His first impression was of light. Sunshine poured in from the ocean side of the house and glanced off every creamy upholstered surface in the place. He blinked, wishing he hadn’t left his sunglasses in the car. He’d gotten used to the less-glaring light of the Cascades since he’d been away from SoCal.
A woman wandered toward them, barely distinguishable from the background in her ivory embroidered caftan and white-blond hair.
Same color as Gracie’s.
Against her creamy color scheme, the only thing that stood out was her sunglasses. And the glass in her hand, which was filled with juice the color of oranges dipped in blood.
“And beauty walks through the door,” she greeted them. Mark noticed a tiny trace of an accent but couldn’t identify it. “Youth and beauty are always welcome everywhere, but I don’t recall inviting any. Shoes off, please.”
Gracie shot Mark a look that echoed exactly what he was thinking. Was she high? Stoned? Or just weird? They both toed off their shoes, which left Gracie barefoot since she’d lost track of her socks at some point in their journey.
“Are you Laine Thibodeau?” Gracie asked, even though clearly she was. Even with her sunglasses hiding much of her face, he recognized her from that terrible movie they’d just watched. “We’re looking for Laine Thibodeau.”
“Youth, beauty, and excellent navigational skills. Well done, you’ve reached your destination.” She lifted her glass of juice and toasted them with it. “I’ll have a Beeting Heart in your honor.”
“Excuse me?”
“A Beeting Heart. Beetroot, tangerine juice, and a touch of ginger, along with various mystery ingredients. It’s supposed to keep you young. I’m at that age, you know, or so they keep telling me.”
Okay then. Mark wondered if any of those mystery ingredients were hallucinogens. She didn’t seem to notice that Gracie looked like her. Was it because of her sunglasses? Or because she lived in her own world disconnected from reality? She gave the impression of floating in her own private bubble.
But Gracie didn’t seem to mind. She was staring at Laine in riveted fascination. “I’m hoping that you won’t mind if I ask you a question.”
“I adore questions. They’re so…ego-licious.”
Gracie startled. “Did you invent that word? I like it.”
“Thank you, young beauty.”
“I used to invent words, too.” Gracie’s eagerness to find a connection to this odd woman nearly broke Mark’s heart. He didn’t trust her for a second. And that was the difference between the two of them, right there in a nutshell.
“And your delightful wardrobe. Is that your doing?” Laine waved her juice glass at Gracie’s outfit. She must be on something besides the Beeting Heart. She just didn’t seem…all there.
“Do you mean do I pick out my own clothes? Yes. I’m not an actress or anything.”
Laine had already moved on, shifting her attention to Mark. “And this handsome creature?”
Mark’s muscles tensed. He didn’t like being assessed in that way, like some kind of male model.
“This is Mark,” Gracie was saying. “He runs a marina near San Diego.” She stopped with a yelp as he squeezed her hand. He didn’t want to tell this weird woman anything more than necessary.
A young Hispanic man walked into the room at that point with a glass plate piled with cut fruit—honeydew and strawberries and pineapple.
“This is my personal chef, Diego,” said Laine, taking the plate and handing him her juice glass. “He’s responsible for keeping me young, and on certain days, alive. Diego, these are a couple of winsome strangers who have wandered into my life. Make them whatever they want.”
Mark stole another look at Gracie. Was she picking up on the weird vibes here? Why wasn’t Laine more curious about two strangers showing up at her door? She hadn’t even asked for their names.
But none of it seemed to bother Gracie. She aimed a big smile at Diego.
The chef stopped in his tracks a few feet away from them, staring at Gracie. “Dios. You look like—”
Laine lowered her sunglasses and squinted at Gracie, blinking against the brightness. Her dazzling aqua eyes took Mark’s breath away. Their color was so close to Gracie’s, which were a few shades closer to blue. “Who, Diego? Who does she look like?”
“You don’t see it, señora? The hair. The eyes.”
Laine leaned forward and stared at Gracie. Something flinched across her face, the barest millisecond of recognition. But maybe Mark had imagined that, because she laughed and waved her hand at Diego. “I need mushrooms, I’m feeling a bit ungrounded. Root vegetables, perhaps. Go.” She tapped her sunglasses back into place.
Diego hesitated, still staring at Gracie.
“See, that’s why I’m here,” Gracie said. “I think there’s a chance I might be your—”
Laine dropped the plate of fruit on the floor. The glass shattered, and Diego jumped backward.
Mark watched shards of glass skitter across the polished floor of the foyer. Somehow it was the perfect metaphor for his life since Gracie had entered it.
The next stretch of time was pure chaos. Laine shrieked as pieces of glass and fruit flew against her caftan. Diego skidded on a chunk of honeydew melon and cartwheeled his arms to keep from falling—and dropping the juice glass Laine had given him.
In the midst of the confusion, Mark kept yelling things like “nobody move” and “where’s the broom?”
Diego finally managed to stabilize himself. “Kitchen,” he told Mark, who tiptoed through the minefield of shards in the direction Diego indicated.
Gracie hovered in place, afraid to move, afraid to do what she wanted and finish her damn sentence. I think there’s a chance I might be your daughter. What if Laine didn’t want a daughter? What if she actually had abandoned her?
This whole thing was a massive mistake.
Mark reappeared with a broom and dustpan. Laine gestured for him to give it to Diego, who carefully swept up the glass and fruit.
“Root vegetables, my dear Diego,” she said faintly. “Carrots, rutabaga, definitely a parsnip or two. Earth energy.”
“Si, señora.”
Showing no expression, he took the dustpan away. Laine beckoned Gracie and Mark toward the living room, where she sank onto a daybed piled with ivory satin cushions.
“Mark—that’s your name?—be an angel and stand just over there. Tell me when Diego is on his way back.”
Gracie noticed that she seemed a lot less spacey now. Maybe the crashing of the glass had woken her up. Mark took a few steps back toward the kitchen, while Laine patted the seat next to her.
Gingerly, she lowered herself next to the intimidating, unpredictable woman who might be her birth mother.
“You never mentioned your name,” Laine said very softly. From behind her sunglasses, she was studying Gracie intently. It felt like the time she’d modeled for her sketching group.
“Gracie Rockwell.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.” It occurred to her that she didn’t—technically—know that for sure. “I think.”
“You think?”
“Well…” She drew in a breath. This was the moment of truth, right now. “I was found in the woods when I was a baby, so I guess I don’t really know for sure.”
The Runaway Page 21