by Julia Harlow
He came to a closed door off the small main room, the woman close on his heels. “Is this her room?”
The woman shrugged her shoulders. “The door’s locked, and she won’t answer when I knock.”
“How long has she been in there?” Grant grabbed the door handle and gave it an impatient jiggle.
“I don’t know. I just got home from work and found the door locked.”
Grant took a deep breath in an effort to gather what he could of his quickly deteriorating composure and tapped his fingers gently on the door. “Dorrie, it’s Grant. May I come in?” When he got no response, he knocked harder. “Can you hear me, Dorrie? I just want to see if you’re all right.” His dress shirt was stuck to his back and chest, damp with sweat. He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on a ratty-looking chair in the living room.
“Is there a key?” he whispered to the woman.
“I tried the two keys I found, but they don’t fit.”
Grant dredged his fingers through his hair. “I’m going to force the door.”
The woman grabbed his arm. “Let’s call the police.”
“No, that’ll take too long. Stand back.”
With one heave of his shoulder, the door gave way, the frame splintering with a loud crack. Grant squinted through the darkness searching for Dorrie. His eyes adjusted enough to make out that she wasn’t on the bed. Stepping into the room, he located a lamp on the dresser and switched it on illuminating the small room.
His heart pounded so hard against the wall of his chest he thought it might burst through at any moment. That’s when he saw two bare feet sticking out from the other side of the bed. Even though he moved as fast as he could, it felt like slow motion as he went to her, knelt down, and brushed the hair from across her face. She was wearing a short, pale pink nightgown. He pressed two fingers against her throat, searching for a pulse, and shut his eyes when he found it.
Curling one hand beneath her knees and the other around her neck, he lifted her limp, rag-doll body onto the bed. She hardly weighed anything; it felt to him as though she’d lost twenty-five pounds. Maybe more. A cell phone in her hand clattered to the wood floor. “Dorrie, can you hear me?” Stroking her forehead with a feather light touch, Grant studied the thin, pale face, cringing when he noticed the dark purple circles under her eyes. What had happened to the lovely, lively young woman he’d last seen in Palm Beach? A folded afghan lay at the foot of the bed, and Grant spread it over her, making sure she was well covered.
Her eyelids fluttered open halfway, closed again, and then opened wide. “What happened? Why are you here?” The sound of her weak, hoarse voice added to his concern.
“Thank God! I was so worried about you.” He smiled down at her, his knuckle gliding down her cheek.
“But why are you here, Grant?” Her brows slammed together as she observed her roommate hovering in the doorway. “Did you let him in, Melanie?”
Melanie shrugged. “Sorry, Dorrie. When I got home from work, I knocked on your door, and you didn’t answer. Then I got scared because your door was locked. He said he was your friend.”
Dorrie struggled to sit up, but the effort was too much, and her body sagged back into the mattress. “Friend? You told her you were my friend? That’s so ludicrous I can’t even comprehend it.” She turned her face into the pillow.
Grant cleared his throat and spoke without turning, his eyes never leaving Dorrie. “Melanie, would you excuse us for a moment?”
Melanie raised her eyebrows, searching for her roommate’s cue. Dorrie rolled her eyes and exhaled. “It’s okay, Melanie.”
Melanie eased out of the room and pulled the door, but didn’t quite close it all the way.
Grant took Dorrie’s icy hand in his, expecting her to snatch it away. When she didn’t, he noticed tears welling in her soft brown eyes, and it almost rent his heart in two.
He cleared his throat and swallowed. “When you didn’t show up for the book launch, I talked to Arianna, and she said you hadn’t been feeling well. They’re worried about you at Omni and I am, too. Talk to me, Dorrie. Tell me what’s going on. Please.”
“You didn’t give a crap about what was going on with me before, and now it’s too late. If you really want to help me, just leave.” The bleakness in her eyes shredded him.
“Okay. I’ll leave, if that’s what you want, as soon as you answer one question: why you were passed out on the floor in a dark, locked room?”
When she blinked, a lone tear spilled out and slid down her cheek. “I don’t know. I was going to make a phone call and must have fainted or something.” She draped an arm over her face.
“Who were you calling?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
He noticed a notepad on the nightstand and something was scrawled across it that looked like Call Dr. Wright. So she was calling a doctor. What kind of doctor? Grant was positive she wouldn’t tell him, but he couldn’t leave her like this. Helpless. Sick. A shadow of her former self. And he needed to know why.
Just then his cell phone buzzed. He glanced at his watch. Fuck! Five thirty.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” He just couldn’t resist. Right before he stepped out in the hall to answer the call from Carly, he thought he heard Dorrie mutter something that sounded like “Ass.”
Before he answered, he noticed Dorrie curling into a ball on her side. Was she trying to protect herself? From what? Him? He attempted to keep his voice quiet as her responded to Carly’s question. “Sorry, Carly. We’ll have to skip tonight. Something important has come up. I’ll call you later.”
As he settled back down on her bed, Dorrie let her hand fall to her side and asked, “Carly? Is that Carly Ann who’s been photographed with you recently?”
“Carly? Yes.”
“And you didn’t put two and two together?”
“You’ve lost me. What are you talking about?”
“It’s hardly a common surname, Grant.” Apparently rolling her eyes didn’t take much energy.
“Thomas?”
A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “So, Carly Ann’s taken Uncle Tad’s given name, Thomas, as her surname. Carly Ann Applegate is my cousin.”
Christ! He knew there was something so familiar about Carly; small similarities to Dorrie struck him to his core every now and then.
“Why’d she change her name?”
“Running as fast and far away from her past as she could get? Just a guess. Look. As much of a thrill as all this has been I’d really like to get some rest if you don’t mind.” The effort to wave her hand toward the door was apparently too much, and her hand fell lifeless across her sunken stomach.
“Who’s Dr. Wright?”
Dorrie shot a death glare at Grant. “Get out. Now!” She’d lifted herself up from the pillows, probably to yell at him but fell back hard as what little stamina she had dissipated.
Grant stood up. He couldn’t bear to look at her, so weak and helpless, and in the back of his mind, he kept wondering why. What had she been going through these past six months? He heard her groan while his eyes scanned her room.
Pristine white walls. Matching blue-and-white floral curtains and bedding. Variegated ivy in bright yellow ceramic vases. Framed Impressionist prints on the walls. And books. Everywhere. Not strewn around but in tidy stacks. Recently published biographies of famous people didn’t surprise him, but he also saw fiction, classics and new releases, non-fiction, paperbacks and hardbound. A bookmarked copy of When to Ask for Help by a leading self-help author sat on a gleaming antique oak dresser.
Dorrie’s meager little room was an oasis of light and enlightenment, soothing colors, healthy plants, rich prints, and a wide variety of reading material. The caramel-colored hardwood floors were old and nicked but spotless. His heart ached. On less than a shoestring, she’d created a clean, beautiful space for herself. Honestly, he wouldn’t have expected anything less from her.
A whimpering sound snappe
d him back to the moment.
He watched as Dorrie’s tentative rein on her emotions crumbled. The utter helplessness of her state caused her to succumb to the sobs she’d managed to stave off so far.
In a nanosecond, Grant was at her side, cocooning her in his arms, breathing in her scent. As he rocked her, he crooned, “It’s okay. Let me help you. Please, Dorrie.”
A tear-stained face of pain stared up at him, and, in between sobs, she managed, “I want . . . my grand . . . grandmother.”
After a convoluted conversation while Dorrie continued to sob, Grant ascertained Blanche’s address and phone number and made two quick calls, one to a limo service and one to Blanche to let her know they were coming. He asked Melanie to bring in a glass of orange juice. When she brought it, he cushioned Dorrie’s back and held the glass to her lips. She eagerly drank it all.
“Want more?” Grant asked, hopeful.
She shook her head as he let her down carefully. “So, what do you want to wear for our outing?”
The juice must have perked her up because she bristled. “Our outing. I don’t think so. Don’t you have a date with Carly Ann to rush off to?”
Grant paid no attention and busied himself with opening her dresser drawers. “These little yellow knickers with daisies on them will work. Is there a matching bra? Oh, yeah, here it is.”
“Out, now! Get Melanie in here!”
He chuckled, wishing she were well enough for him to mess with her some more.
After Melanie helped her dress in jeans and a daffodil-colored blouse, Grant located a navy cotton cardigan and draped it around her shoulders her while she sat on the bed.
“A car’s here to take us to Bronxville. Don’t even think of fighting me on this, Dorrie. I’m carrying you to the car and coming with you to make sure you get there safely. I’ve already spoken to your grandmother.”
Dorrie’s eyes filled with tears once more, but she remained silent as he carried her down several flights to the waiting limo. And remained silent all the way to Bronxville.
~~~
The black limo crept down Lake Avenue and eased to a stop at number ten. A uniformed driver opened the door, and Grant emerged carrying Dorrie in his arms.
Waiting at the door, Blanche covered her mouth with her hand and then bolted to the curb.
“Let’s get her inside.” Grant’s calm voice belied his deep concern.
“Of course!” Blanche led the way, holding the door open for them. Inside it smelled of something homemade and delectable. His stomach reacted with a loud growl. Through the turmoil of his emotions for Dorrie, he hadn’t realized how hungry he was.
“Please set her down here.” Blanche motioned to a sofa upholstered in a familiar blue and white floral. Same fabric as in Dorrie’s bedroom. Dorrie had probably used the scraps to decorate her bedroom. He settled her down and stood aside as Blanche spoke to her in a whisper so low he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He watched as Dorrie shook her head and, after a pause, nodded.
“Mr. Maxwell, would you mind carrying Dorrie to the bedroom?”
Grant was lifting her up before Blanche had finished. “Just show me where. And please, call me Grant.”
“This way. The door on the left.” Blanche led them to her bedroom and indicated the bed centered on the far wall. Grant gently deposited Dorrie, who frowned up at him and gritted out, “You need to leave, now.”
Grant placed a soft kiss on her head, slid off her Keds, and covered her with a fluffy white blanket.
“Just rest now, sweetie pie. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.” Blanche’s voice was soothing, but Grant detected the underlying distress.
Back in the dining room, Grant held out his hand. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Mrs. MacDonald. Dorrie speaks so highly of you.”
Blanche’s handshake was firm. “I’m happy to meet you. Welcome to my home. I made dinner, but Dorrie isn’t up to eating. Please, join me.”
“She made it clear that she doesn’t want me here. And I wouldn’t think of interrupting your dinner and time alone with Dorrie. The car is waiting to take me back to Manhattan.”
“Mr. Maxwell, I mean Grant, I can never thank you enough for bringing Dorrie to me. She needs a lot of care right now. I know she asked you to leave, but I think part of that is because she’s so weak. She told me you made her drink a glass of orange juice. Exactly what she needed. Right now, she’s exhausted and needs to sleep. Then I’ll tend to her.”
Blanche brushed soft brown curls away from her forehead. “As one token of my appreciation, please, let me feed you.”
Grant gazed down into eyes as softly brown and genuine as Dorrie’s. “I’d love nothing more.”
In no time, the table was spread with English Ironware serving pieces filled with mouth-watering, steaming pot roast, carrots, peas, mashed potatoes, cornbread muffins, and a deep, rich sauce that looked like the beef bourguignon sauce he’d had recently at a five-star restaurant. While Blanche chatted, Grant poured them each a glass of red wine from the bottle she’d set out on a buffet table, and savored the aromas of a home-cooked meal from an earlier era. A centerpiece of bright yellow chrysanthemums in a chunky white vase completed the warm, welcoming table. Grant sobered at the thought that Dorrie was too weak to join them.
As if reading his thoughts, Blanche spoke. “Let’s have dinner first, and then we’ll talk about Dorrie.” He nodded. As Blanche continued to pass bowls for Grant to fill his plate, their easy conversation flowed from one topic to the next. Blanche wanted to know all about the places where Grant had traveled; he wanted to know about Dorrie as a little girl. He also wanted to know what the situation was between Dorrie and Carly and figured this may be the perfect opportunity to find out.
“So, what exactly is going on with Dorrie and Carly? Why do they behave as if they don’t know each other?”
Blanche drew back slightly in her chair. After a moment, she took a deep breath and sighed. “Well, that’s a complicated story. I always thought it was such a shame that the girls were caught in the middle of the family drama and deprived of the chance to be friends as well as cousins. Both of our families are so small as it is.” She met Grant’s eyes. “Are you sure you want to hear this? It may take a while.”
“I’m sure. Please, go on.” He turned his chair to the side, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, seemingly hanging on Blanche’s every word.
“Well, Dorrie’s paternal grandmother, Clara Applegate, and I served on the committee to raise funds for a new library in Pine Bluff. She was a lovely woman: never had a mean word to say about anyone and always wore pearls. Her family seemed like Ozzie and Harriet’s to me. You probably have no idea who Ozzie and Harriet were, do you? Oh well, never mind. It hurt to see the family torn apart and the toll it took on everyone involved.”
She stood and walked to the windows. It was pitch dark outside, and she drew her just laundered curtains closed against the blackness, releasing a whiff of freshness in the small dining room. Then she settled back in her chair, placing her knife and fork across the middle of her plate.
“To explain why things are the way they are between Dorrie and Carly Ann, we’ll need to go back to the beginning. Clara and her husband, Wesley, had two sons. When Deanie, my daughter and Dorrie’s mother, was just in junior high, Wes and Tad were the most popular boys at Pine Bluff High School. The brothers were two years apart, both over six feet tall and handsome. Oh, my, were they ever handsome. Not in your league—you’re in a class all by yourself—but they were very good-looking young men. That’s where the similarities ended. Wes was a senior and played baseball and basketball; Tad, a sophomore, played football. Wes had dark hair and brown eyes, while Tad was a blond-haired, blue-eyed golden boy.
“But those differences were simply superficial. Clara went on and on about how the space program and NASA had captured Wes’s imagination for as long as she could remember. He was always a voracious reader and could lose himself in a
book when he wasn’t drawing spaceships or building one of his model jets. According to her, his sights were set on college and a career in aerospace engineering.
“Wes was willing to study and do whatever it took to achieve his goal. Clara beamed when she talked about his grades ranking at the top of his class. He really was an impressive young man. He was also president of his class for all four years of high school. On weekends, he worked delivering groceries for a small grocery store in Pine Bluff.
“According to Clara, Tad’s ambitions only reached as far as obtaining enough money for gas, cigarettes, and beer. He worked part-time at a garage, repairing cars. His grades were never very good, somewhere between below average and average. His weekends were spent carousing with his friends, and because he continually broke his midnight curfew, his mother said he was grounded more times than she could count.
“Some of the women on the library committee often wondered if his older brother’s shoes were too daunting for Tad to fill and if that were the reason he never tried. Faith Peacock, one of the committee members who knew the family well, described the boys as being as different as salt and pepper from the beginning. Faith said that, even when they were younger, Wes was industrious and serious while Tad was a cut-up. Wes never got into trouble; Tad’s middle name might as well have been trouble. Wes was cautious while Tad was a daredevil, almost causing Clara and Wesley to have dual heart attacks on more than one occasion.”
Grant reached for the bottle of wine and nodded toward Blanche’s glass, his brows raised in question. Blanche shook her head, and Grant filled his own glass before returning his intense blue gaze to her.
“By the time he graduated from Pine Bluff High School, Wes had been awarded a full scholarship to the University of Cincinnati College of Engineering. After graduating, he went to work as an engineer for General Electric Aircraft Engines Division. He’d met Deanie at U.C. when a friend they had in common introduced them. She was an English Literature major, and they fell head over heels for each other. The funny thing was they’d both grown up in Pine Bluff, but never knew one another until college. I guess it was the age difference. He was three years older than Deanie, and they each had their own group of friends.
