I snatch my backpack from the gate and head for the driveway. The snow is at least three feet deep with a hard crust my feet break through and then sink into with each step. My shoes slowly become soaked. A wet chill crawls up my legs. The skin on my cheeks and neck, where the scratches are exposed to frigid air, stings.
Car tracks have gouged the snow recently, but they’re almost gone. I can’t calm my pounding heart. Grace. I’m going to see her.
Up ahead is a one-story brick house with black shutters. The place looks like it belongs in a Thomas Kinkaid painting. A lantern on the porch burns honeyed yellow, but every window is dark. As my body is overcome with wet shivers, I have the fleeting fear that Grace is not home.
She’s like a hundred years old, where else would she be?
I continue trudging. My teeth rattle, my bones quake. I’m soaked to the skin with snow and sweat. Every breath clouds my vision.
The place is locked up like a vault.
My knuckles ache—from the cold, and from knocking on the door.
Nothing.
I pound. “Hey!”
My voice echoes, then evaporates into falling snow. My gaze searches the surrounding area but I don’t see anything through the veils of white. Numbness creeps from my fingers and toes inward and upward.
I pound again. Maybe she’s deaf.
Leaving my backpack on the porch I trudge through more snow, sinking to my thighs in the stuff. Wracked with spasms, I round the house in search of lights burning. Every window is dark. You’ve got to be kidding me. I came all this way and she’s not here? What if she’s dead? Moved?
Realization chokes my lungs, heaving for air—thin air—cold air: I’m going to freeze to death and never see Grace.
Chapter Nine
~Grace~
I haven’t been able to think straight since we left the doctor’s office. In the passenger seat, Oscar reclines peacefully. He looks paler and more fragile since the appointment. So mortal. As I’ve wished countless times before, I wish again that I could share whatever exists inside of me that continues giving me youth.
“Stop,” he mutters.
I usually smile at his uncanny ability to sense what I’m feeling. But the inevitability of his life ending steals any comic relief he’s trying to offer. We’ve had this discussion so many times—if his health were better, he’d give me one of his twinkling grins—his way of saying everything is going to be all right. I see his smile in my mind, and close my eyes to hold the image in place.
“Eyes on the road,” he says.
I send him a glare.
Oscar clucks his tongue.“Trying to kill us both?”
“You can’t stop me from trying.”
The downturned corners of his lips lift a little. ”Now you’re being difficult.”
He’s right. And his gentle reminders are only meant to keep me from gravitating toward selfishness.
“I can be whatever I want.” I feel him looking at me but can’t bear to look back. Emotion tightens my throat. “Besides, you’re not going anywhere.”
“Oh,” he chuckles. “Is that so?”
I nod. “Not unless I approve.”
He laughs.
I pull in front of the gate, put the car in park, and get out. Snow hasn’t stopped falling since I took him in for his appointment. The cold, white blanket thickens every surface. I hate snow. If it weren’t for Oscar, I’d be gone from Utah and its paralyzing winters. But this is his home, and he wants to spend whatever days he has left here. After I unlock the padlock, I shove each gate open just far enough for the SUV to clear. Shuddering off the freezing air, I climb back into the vehicle.
“Tsk-tsk,” Oscar murmurs at my display of displeasure.
I slam the door, jam the transmission into drive.
“Tantruming is not going to change anything,” he says.
“Makes me feel better.” I step on it. The SUV doesn’t even give me the satisfaction of a fishtail. Still, I surge up the driveway faster than usual, enjoying a momentary act of rebellion.
Then I see him.
Someone hunched on the porch.
I take my foot off the gas. The sound of the car causes the intruder’s head to slowly rise. I can’t see his face, the hood of his dark sweatshirt and falling snow shrouds it.
“Who could that be?” Oscar asks.
Pulling the car to the top of the driveway, I stop but leave the engine idling so Oscar stays warm. “Wait here.”
“Where else am I going to go, sis?”
I get out of the car and shut the door. Zipping my coat, I cross my arms over my chest and march through rising snow to the porch. The closer I get, the more furious my heart pounds.
“Excuse me,” I start. “The sign reads no trespassing. You’re on private property.”
As I draw closer, the sharp angles of the intruder’s jaw become more apparent from within the recesses of the oversized hood covering his head. His eyes lift, meet mine. I gasp. The piercing eyes and squared jaw belong to Jonathan.
My pounding heart plummets to my feet.
Oh no. I close my eyes.
It’s been eight months since Jonathan’s last letter. He’d told me he wasn’t feeling well. Jon’s fine. You’re overreacting. This is some neighborhood vagrant or salesman who thinks himself above your sign.
I open my eyes and find the young man staring, those gray-blue eyes intense and sharp. His skin is white, nose violet from the cold temperature. He wears a brown sweatshirt, a pair of jeans. His arms seem frozen, clutched around his body. How long has he been sitting out here?
The resemblance to Jonathan is so strong, I can’t tamp out the anxiety building inside of me. Part of me refuses to believe what dreadful conclusion whispers through my heart.
Jonathan is still alive. He’s okay.
“You’ve trespassed on private property,” I repeat.
His pale lips part and his body starts to shake as if just opening his mouth has let the cold air invade him. He clears his throat. Coughs. White plumes of breath from his lips cloud his face. “I’m here to see someone.”
“Who?”
“A friend of my father’s.”
I suck in a deep breath of icy air. Oh no. “Who’s your father?”
“Jonathan Lane.”
Brain numb from the news, I don’t know how long I stand there trying to accept what he’s just told me. Jonathan. I’ve known this moment would come. For the sake of my sanity, I made the decision to not dwell on the reality. My head floods with muddy emotion, forcing tears in my eyes to start down my cheeks. Jonathan’s son watches me with veiled caution.
“Give me a moment,” I manage to say. “I’ll be right back.”
On shaky legs, I cross back to the car and open the door on the passenger side. Oscar’s eyes widen when he sees my tears. He’s wondering who the stranger is, why I’m crying. We’re careful of strangers—an ingrained habit.
“Jon’s dead.”
His skin pales. He glances at the boy. “His son?”
I nod, reach for him, and he takes my hands, squeezing them to the warmth of his feeble chest. Oscar’s sorrowful expression causes the pain inside to spread through disbelieving fibers.
With teary eyes, he nods toward the stranger—Jonathan’s son—as if to remind me that he’s here. “Get him inside.”
I leave Oscar, close the car door and march through snow to the porch. Jonathan’s son stands, his body shaking violently, his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt. I unlock the door, turn on a light. “Come in.”
Once he’s in the house I pull the car into the garage, unload Oscar’s walker and help him indoors. We’re silent. I’m certain his mind is scrolling through memories of Jonathan, of us, just like mine is.
Oscar’s gaze locks on Jonathan’s son as we approach the living room. “You’re Jon’s son?” Oscar’s tone carries amazement.
He nods. “Brenden.”
Oscar’s surprised gaze swivels to mine. His eyes glisten
again. “Jon’s son. How about that?”
Another round of tears fills my eyes. I blink them back, nod. “Yes.” I escort Oscar to his chair—a soft recliner that sits next to the fireplace. I’m frustrated. At Jonathan for leaving me. At Oscar—because he’s going to leave me, too. At this messenger for bringing bad news.
Brenden’s chattering teeth hold Oscar’s attention. “How long were you outside?” he asks.
“A while.”
“Oh my.” Oscar shoots me a startled glance.
I lift a shoulder, unable to juggle the frustration and sudden panic tearing through me like fire, drying up tears and emotion. Jonathan. Gone. Oscar…I pace, rubbing my arms. I want to cry, scream. I want to fight with God for taking them both from me.
Oscar clears his throat. He nods at Brenden who’s shaking, covered in a fine dusting of ice from head to toe. His jeans and sweatshirt are inadequate for the harsh mountain winter.
“Sis, turn on the fire.”
I flick on the fireplace and look at Brenden—amazed that he’s here, that Jonathan’s really gone.
Jon. My past, something I’ve buried deep and far away, suddenly resurrects and flies from the grave and into my consciousness in the form of thousands of memories on a celluloid strip. Days. Nights. Hours. Moments of a life I escaped threaten to submerge me with their vivid reality of having once been a part of me.
“Brenden, pull a chair close to the fire,” Oscar urges. “Go on.”
Shaking, Brenden crosses to the fire, his eyes on the red flames. He doesn’t bother with a chair, just lowers himself to the brick hearth where he huddles with his back to the heat. His gaze locks on me.
“Maybe Brenden would like some hot chocolate?”Oscar suggests. “Or coffee?”
I don’t feel like being hospitable. I need time to deal with the shock of Oscar’s terminal illness and Jonathan’s death. I need to gather the memories zooming around in my head out of control, the memories this visitor’s presence has unlocked. And I need to lock them away again.
Oscar’s eyes are uncomfortably piercing as they look at me as if to say, what’s gotten into you?
“Hot chocolate sounds good,” Brenden chatters.
As the sheath of ice covering Brenden melts, his shakes begin to subside. His gaze follows my every move. What does he know about me?
The only thing I’m certain of is, Jonathan wrote and told me that when he passed away, his son would bring me the vial. The vial. I close my eyes, as if the act will close off the vision of that night. The fire. Dr. Lemarchal. The images whisper through abandoned corridors of my mind.
I open my eyes and Oscar tilts his head in the direction of the kitchen as if to say, ‘be quick.’
Forcing my legs across the carpet to the kitchen, I flick on a light. Why must I play at being hostess? I need time—my own time—to deal with all of this. I can’t navigate through muggy shock lodged inside of me.
From the living room Oscar’s soft, gravelly voice mixes with the deep cadence Jonathan’s son’s voice. Jonathan. Waves of sorrow rise inside of my chest. The microwave chimes. I pull out the steaming mug, add hot chocolate mix and go back into the living room.
“I invited Brenden to sit on a chair, but he’s afraid his wet clothing will damage the furniture,” Oscar says. “I assured him we don’t care about that.”
Oscar knows I’m meticulous about stains and dirt.
“Perhaps you’d like to change?” I ask.
“They’re drying, thanks to this fire,” he says.
I cross to him and extend the mug. His hands—identical to Jon’s—with long, flawless fingers, reach for the mug. Just the sight of his hands sends a light tremor through my nerves. Touching him is out of the question. I set the mug on the table next to the hearth and his brows knit momentarily.
Ignoring the way my heart skips when he looks at me, I pull over the closest chair and position it next to the hearth.
“Sit.” My voice still sounds brittle. Brenden’s brow remains knitted in confusion. I’m being inhospitable to my dearest friend’s son. An ache of guilt reverberates through me.
I gesture to the waiting chair. “Go ahead,” I soften my tone. “Sit.”
Looking at Brenden, I’m thrown back decades, like I’m looking at Jonathan as a young man. But his son’s bone structure is more distinct. His chin isn’t soft like Jonathan’s. And the eyes are fierce, not gentle and earnest like Jonathan’s were.
Brenden coughs. “It was really cold out there. I didn’t come prepared.” His gaze remains tight on me. I detest people who stare. At last he sits in the chair, and his eyes snap back to mine.
“It’s barely twenty degrees out,“ Oscar comments.
Turning, I exit. I’m jittery now. I need to be alone, to mourn.
I grab a blanket from the hall closet and when I return, Brenden tilts his head back, drinking down the hot chocolate. “Thanks.”
He’s at odds with what to do with the mug, so I extend my free hand. He stands, ready to set the empty cup in my palm, and his nearness sets off a blazing heat of warning that races through my blood. I pull back my hand.
“Would you mind putting the mug on the table?”I ask.
His features crimp, but he sets the empty cup on the side table. I glance at Oscar, whose eyes are wide at my request. But he knows why I insist Brenden does not hand me the mug.
Oscar clears his throat. “Another hot chocolate, Brenden?”
“No. Thanks.”
“Something to eat, perhaps?”Oscar asks.
“No, I’m good.”
An odd silence drifts between us. I take the mug into the kitchen. I want to pretend Brenden never showed up here. Stop time thirty minutes ago—no—stop time whenever Jonathan died. When did he die? Oh god, Jonathan.
Their conversation continues without me.
“When did Jon pass away?” Oscar asks.
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry.” Sadness weakens Oscar’s voice, the sound sending fingers of hurt clutching my throat as I fight off a sob.
When I’ve composed myself, I return to the living room.
Oscar looks to me as if to insist ‘say something.’ But I can’t. Disbelief and frustration have silenced my tongue and dried my tears. I’m distracted by the sound of Brenden’s voice—the gravelly lilt—a rough cousin to Jonathan’s kind tone. And I’m surprised and put off by his casual response to Jonathan’s passing. Why isn’t he devastated? Doesn’t he feel the emptiness I feel? I wanted Jonathan alive forever—like me.
The gravity of the future squeezes away my ability to respond. Oscar and I have both known this day would come. We’ve even discussed how we would deal with having the news brought to us by someone we’ve never met. Someone who knows about us. Somehow, the scenarios aren’t playing out the way we’d planned.
I’m certain it’s because I’ve secretly been sure I would face this day alone. Knowing my two companions and only friends would die before me has left me with no other possibility when I allow myself to ponder this scene. I’m floating in a disturbing, heartrending nightmare alone, tainted by Jonathan and Oscar’s mortality. I have to face what’s really happening.
“Sis?” Oscar’s voice cuts through the quagmire.
“Yes?”
“Did you hear what Brenden just said?”
The piercing gray of Brenden’s eyes sends a shudder spinning down my spine. “No.” I place my hands on my cheeks. They’re too warm. “What did you say?” I ask.
“Dad wanted me to give Grace something. Where is she?”
His question hangs in the air without moving. I swallow. Flick my eyes to Oscar who’s already watching me. I turn my attention back to Brenden even though I’m not sure I’ll be able to speak through the pulse pounding in my throat.
Brenden has no idea.
Jonathan, you didn’t tell him?
Overcome with a rush of hysteria, I rise on shaky legs and run from the room.
Chapter Ten
~Brenden~
Did I say something wrong? She looked at me like I insulted and wounded her. All I did was ask where Grace Doll is.
My brain feels like it’s finally defrosting. I can think. Feel. Smell.
Outside, I was sure hypothermia had set in. And delusion. That girl walked up to me and my frozen brain started tricking out. I could have sworn I was looking at a young Grace Doll. Numb from cold, I realized I was in deep trouble. Grace was either dead, and coming for me, or she was the devil. I’d have done whatever she wanted just to get warm.
The ticking of a towering, ornate grandfather clock in the corner is the only sound in the place. Where did she go? I stare after her, through an opening that leads to the rest of the house. She looks so much like Grace it’s unreal. Who is she? Granddaughter?
The old man watches me. Grace’s husband? The girl’s grandfather? My body unthaws, and I itch with discomfort.
I feel like I’ve interrupted something.
“Is she okay?” I ask.
He ignores my question. “I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. Oscar.” He extends a trembling hand. I rise, cross to him and shake. “Her name is Katherine. Jon was a dear friend of ours.”
I glance around for a sign of Grace. Should I ask Oscar where she is? I lower to the chair. “Is Grace here? Dad wanted me to give her something.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You…do?”I ask.
“The news of your father’s death is hard for her.” Oscar nods at the exit. “Give her a moment.”
Thick quiet stalls in the air. I continue glancing at the opening where the girl vanished.
So Dad had been here and met Grace’s family. Spent time with them. Jealousy fires inside of me. I feel cheated—again. With each tick of the grandfather clock my nerves ratchet up. I feel like an idiot, sitting here with these people who knew Dad better than I did.
What if the old lady’s not here? No way am I going to miss my chance to tell her what I think of her, or give up my right to 150,000.
Grace Doll Page 7
