by Mary Campisi
Grace eyed the bag, then Jenny, and then the bag again as though they were both explosives, mere seconds from detonation. “Take it,” Jenny said, plopping it into her suitcase.
“I don’t need any of those things,” she said, her eyes narrowing on the lavender bag.
“What things? You don’t even know what’s in there.”
“I can guess.”
“Come on, Gracie, you know I’m only teasing you.” Jenny sat up and leaned forward. “I think it’s great that you and Guy are still seeing each other and that you’re such great friends.” She dropped her voice, met her gaze. “But I think he’d like more and I think maybe you would, too, but you’re afraid. I’m just trying to lighten up the situation, make you…consider it.”
Grace sat on the bed, rubbed her face, combed her fingers through her hair. It was much longer now, thick and shiny, with wispy bangs and a back that touched her shoulders. “I have been thinking about it,” she murmured. “A lot.”
“Good.”
“But, Jenny, I’m so scared.”
“I know.”
“I feel like a dinosaur caught in the twenty-first century.”
Jenny smiled.
Grace looked at her, eyes brimming. “I don’t want to get hurt again.”
There it was, beneath all of the doubt and insecurity and talk about dinosaurs, that was the real reason.
“Believe me, I know.”
“I know you know.”
And Jenny did. She’d gone on a real tightrope for Elliot, without so much as a net, and had been scared to death, was still scared some days. But most days, she loved her choice as much as she loved the man and his daughter.
Grace swiped at her cheeks, sniffed and reached for the bag, pushing aside the lavender-hearted tissue. “Oh. Oh, Jenny.” She looked up, grinned. “Thank you,” she whispered. “They’re beautiful.”
“You’re welcome.”
She lifted the tissue paper and four pairs of underwear spilled out: silk lace, French cut. Magenta. Turquoise. Black. Red.
“You should wear those,” Jenny said, “even if you’re the only one who sees them.”
Grace picked up the magenta pair, traced the lacy side panels. “I doubt I’ll look like the models in the magazine,” she said, letting out a little laugh.
“You’ll look beautiful. And if Guy ever gets to see you in them, I’m sure he’ll agree.”
She smiled then. “Maybe.”
“He’s crazy about you, Gracie. Give him a chance.”
Grace didn’t say anything for a long time, just sat there, fingering the silk and lace. Finally, she murmured, “Maybe.”
That’s all Jenny had to hear. She leaned in closer and grabbed the edge of the suitcase. “Well, don’t forget about protection. There’s stuff out there that can kill you today, not just make you pregnant. And if it doesn’t kill you, it can still stay with you forever, like Chlamydia, warts, and a whole host of other STDs.”
“Jenny!”
She shrugged, determined to have her say. “You’ve been living in the Dark Ages all this time, Grace. You need to know this stuff and be aware. Not that Guy hasn’t probably been walking around with something in his pocket all these months, hoping it’ll be his lucky day, but you can’t be too sure.”
“I got tested two months ago.”
“Huh?”
She held Jenny’s gaze. “I had a husband who was sleeping around. Remember? Well, I got tested for all of those things. As far as they can tell, I’m okay.”
“Oh.”
“So, I know the risks.” She shook her head. “I’ve always known them. I just didn’t think it applied to me if I had a husband. Guess I was wrong.”
“All men aren’t like Grant.”
“I know that. I really do. Guy is so different. He really cares about…me, and what I think. I’m just being careful.”
“I don’t blame you. Not at all.”
She laughed. “Look at this role-reversal. I used to be the one worrying about you and your relationships. Now, it’s the other way around.”
“Does this mean I’m finally growing up?”
“And it’s only taken thirty-three years.” Grace’s smile faded. “Elliot is good for you, Jenny.”
“Elliot is more than good for me, Gracie. He’s fantastic.”
“I can tell. Anybody who could make you quit that horrible bubble gum habit of yours is a winner in my book.”
“I haven’t had a piece in over three months, and the weird thing is, I don’t really miss it.”
“That’s what love will do to you.”
“I believe it is.” She glanced at the diamond on her left hand: a solitaire shining back at her. She and Elliot were getting married this summer in Sydney’s garden, surrounded by friends, family, and their very favorite flowers. Next month, Stefan and Gerald planned to visit and paint a garden in Elliot’s kitchen. This one would be filled with lavender, Shasta daisies, and poppies, every inch covered with color…and a black Lab in the background … and butterflies, monarchs and Pipevine Swallowtails.
“Sydney’s a very lucky girl.”
“I think we’re both lucky.”
“I think you’re right.”
“When Gerald and Stefan come, I want them to paint your bedroom ceiling with a zillion stars. Tiny, glow-in-the-dark ones. That way, when you flick the switch off and get into bed, you’ll always beat the light.” Jenny squeezed her sister’s hand. “Always.”
“Yes,” Grace said with strength in her voice. “I will, won’t I? Finally, after all these years, I’ll beat it.” Her eyes sparkled with determination. “I’ll win.”
“You’ve already won, Gracie,” Jenny said. “You’ve already won.”
* * *
The End
* * *
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Outtakes
from The Butterfly Garden
Grace and Grant What really happened that day. . .
* * *
Breathe, just breathe.
Laura’s words came back to her, assuring her this was the right thing to do. He’ll love it, you just wait and see. You’ll be the one getting coffee in bed for the next month. Trust me, okay?
Yes, he would love it.
Grace headed across the parking lot, her high heels click-clacking on the brick, imagining Grant’s face when he saw her standing before him in nothing but a pale, pink, semi-sheer teddy. When she entered Chantel’s, the maître d’ gave her a brief smile, bowed from the waist, and inquired in a mix of French-American, “May I help you, madame?”
“Yes, my husband is here. Grant Clarke. I’d like to join him.”
The maître d’ nodded, checked his reservation list, and said, “If you will follow me, please.”
The restaurant was crowded, business people mostly, lunching and making deals. Grace followed the maitre’d past several tables, scanning ahead for Grant. It wouldn’t be too difficult to find him; his tall frame and good looks stuck out in any crowd. Ahead, off to the right, she spotted the back of a man’s head, same brownish-gold curls as Grant’s. Was that him? The maitre’d slowed his pace before she could get a better look. He stopped, turned, his face flushed a dull red.
“Madame, I am sorry, but it appears Monsieur Clarke is not here.”
“Not here? But…of course, he’s here.”
He shrugged his shoulders, motioned toward the entrance. “I must have been mistaken. Monsieur Clarke is not here.”
“But that man over there,” she side-stepped around him, pointed in the direction of the man with the golden brown hair, “he looks like my…” The words evaporated, sucked dry by the sight in front of her. The man had turned and was in profile, his lips full, his cheekbones, high, jaw strong. It was Grant, and he was
as handsome as he’d been the first time she saw him in the Laundromat at college, trying to decide how much detergent to put in the washing machine. He’d smiled at her then, a slow, bewitching smile that brought her under his spell and made her believe in Happily Ever After.
But now he wasn’t smiling at her; he wasn’t even looking at her. There was a woman, leaning partway across the table, her hands clasping Grant’s close to her bosom, her lips working their way over his fingers, trailing tiny kisses along the back of his knuckles.
“Madame,” the maître d’s voice reached her, uncomfortable, perhaps even sympathetic. “Let me help you.” He tried to take her arm but Grace twisted away.
“No.” Then louder, “No! I want to see my husband.” A few people looked up, quickly turned away when she stared back. Others were more furtive about it, like vultures waiting to peck out scraps. Grace tried to get closer, but her body wouldn’t move. She watched the scene before her, transfixed in a surreal kind of way as the woman with the long, black hair smiled at Grant, laughed, flicked her tongue over his fingers. She was tall, graceful, familiar, in an oddly bizarre way, as though Grace should know her. Or perhaps, it was the dance itself, the mating ritual of women who prey on other women’s men, perhaps it was that which was familiar.
“Please, Madame, please, let me help you—”
Grace swung around and faced the maître d’. His forehead was beaded with sweat, his eyes darting from Grace to Grant’s table. It was obvious his main concern was getting her out of here as quickly and quietly as possible. He cared nothing about what was happening six tables away, probably witnessed it every afternoon and evening. As long as the customers practiced discretion and the tip was sizeable, no one need be the wiser, certainly not the wife at home with the children. They were casualties, unfortunate, yes, but inconsequential.
“It seems you were mistaken,” Grace said, raising her voice above Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” and the dull clatter of silverware on china. “My husband is here,” she let out a strained laugh, pointed at Grant. “He’s there, see, right there, the one with the woman falling all over him.”
Grant happened to turn then, noticed everyone watching him, and gently eased away from the woman. He didn’t see Grace at first, she was partially hidden by the maître d’, and then she stepped forward in full view. Grant stared at her, stunned, his forehead creasing as he pulled away from the table. The woman pouted, reached for his hand, frowned when he brushed her away. It wasn’t until she turned that the earlier sense of familiarity exploded with a burst of understanding. The woman’s eyes were light, almond-shaped, her face oval, neck long and slender.
She looked like Jenny.
Grace stumbled as she tried to find her way out of the restaurant, past the onlookers, most still trying to determine what part of life’s pathetic drama they’d just witnessed. When she reached the parking lot, she made it as far as a row of holly bushes before she leaned over and threw up.
“Grace! Grace!”
She wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her cotton shirt and looked up. Grant was coming toward her, his long legs closing the distance between them. She turned and ran.
“Grace! Stop!”
She made it to the van, scrambled inside, but he opened the passenger door before she could press the Lock button. “Get away!” she screamed. “Get away!”
“I can explain.” He climbed into the van, closed the door. “It’s not what it looked like.”
She couldn’t stop the tears scalding her cheeks, burning the memory of Grant and the other woman who looked like Jenny, in her brain.
“What do you think it looked like?” She didn’t give him time to answer. What was the point of listening to another lie?
“Do you think it looked like a man having a cozy lunch with another woman, one who wasn’t his wife? One who looked almost exactly like his wife’s sister? Is that what you think it looked like?”
It was this last that got him, the part about Jenny; she could tell by the twitch on the right side of his jaw. One twitch, two, three. Oh, he didn’t like that last comment. Well, too damn bad. The truth wasn’t always kind.
“Grace, you’re upset, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Stop it! Just…stop it.” She sniffed, wiped her hands across her face. “I hate it when you patronize me, do you hear me? I hate it!”
“Okay.” He held up his hands, nodded. “Okay. I’m sorry. I just want a chance to explain.”
Her chest ached with a pain so deep she thought if she unbuttoned her shirt she’d see blood. How could love be so one-sided, so cruel, so unsympathetic? Maybe it wasn’t love at all that was thrashing against her, threatening to beat her into the ground and stomp her. Maybe it was the betrayal that threatened to bury her alive.
He’d promised to be faithful and had been unfaithful…again. Three years and two months ago it had been the same; no name, no face, just a letter in a shirt pocket and a charge-card receipt from the Ritz.
“I had a luncheon appointment with a realtor. We were handling the foreclosure.” So soft, so persuasive. “I knew as soon as I got here that she was going to be a problem, the way she kept touching my hand when she talked, and the sly smiles. I tried to be professional, tried to ignore it, but it was damn embarrassing.”
So full of lies. “You’re saying she forced herself on you?”
He did have the good grace to turn a dull shade of red. “Pretty pathetic, isn’t it? I should have excused myself and gotten out of there, but Foster Realty’s a big client. I thought I’d just tolerate it.”
“Tolerate it?” She envisioned the woman’s full lips moving over Grant’s knuckles.
“Right.” He reached out to touch her hand, but she pulled away. “I wouldn’t do that to you…to us…”
“Again.”
“What?”
“You meant, you wouldn’t do that to me or us, again.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
“I love you, Grace. I know I screwed up before, but I love you.” He leaned forward, closing the space between them. “I’ve always loved you.”
“Don’t.” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “I know.” How could she still be breathing when her heart had ripped in half? “I know.”
* * *
Grant stared at her as if trying to interpret what she’d said. Then, slowly, his shoulders slumped and he ran his hands over his face. “Oh, God. Grace, listen, you’ve got to listen to me. It didn’t mean anything. Honest. She doesn’t mean anything to me.” His voice trailed off with a weak, “It just sort of happened.”
Did he think she was an idiot, or simply desperate once again to believe his lies? “And she just sort of happened to look almost exactly like my sister.”
“No, that’s not true. She doesn’t look like her at all.”
“And the one three years ago, did she have long, black hair, too? Did she look like Jenny?”
His lips flattened a second and she spotted the anger in the twitch of his jaw. He didn’t like being questioned, and he certainly didn’t like to be challenged. Well, too bad. He wasn’t in charge right now. She was, and these were her rules.
Grant cleared his throat and said, “You’re upset. You’re not thinking clearly.”
Her rules. Her questions. “How long have you been lusting after my sister? “
He paled and shook his head. “I love you, Grace. You, nobody else.”
“But you want Jenny.” The words hung between them, sharp, painful. True.
“Grace—”
“Do you know why I came here today?” She didn’t wait for him to answer; what was the point? “I thought I’d surprise you, take you to lunch.” She let out a laugh that morphed into a croak. “And then I was going to really surprise you, maybe even shock you a little with a hotel room.” She leaned forward, unzipped the overnight case, and pulled out the pink teddy. “Here.” She threw it at him. “Happy anniversary.”
He caught
the swatch of material, held it up, fingered the satin edges. “It’s beautiful, Grace. Beautiful. Just like you.”
She tried to stay calm, but his words made tiny convulsions course through her. Grant’s words were no more than syllables strung together that formed sound. The conviction, the promise, the pledge was missing. Maybe it had never been there, maybe she had only imagined it, wished it, dreamed it; maybe he had never really loved her. Or maybe he just hadn’t loved her enough.
Grace swiped at her eyes and straightened in her seat, avoiding Grant’s steady gaze. He would be desperate now, promising his heart, his love, his soul to eternity and beyond. That’s what he’d done last time. There would be roses and love notes pasted around the house, in her purse, on her dashboard. Grant Clarke in pursuit was an all-consuming force, not so different from the Grant Clarke in the boardroom of Clarke, Heath & Jackson. She could expect jewelry; last time it had been a gold bracelet with rubies and diamonds. Maybe this time she’d earned a matching necklace. And the lovemaking, well, that would be superb, selfless…dizzying.
Familiar. All of it was too familiar.
Grant didn’t love her enough. She knew this, just as she’d known from the moment she laid eyes on him in Chantel’s that he was having an affair with a woman who, by design, bore a striking resemblance to Jenny. This last part was almost worse than the affair itself.
“I…I was going to give this to you tonight.” Grant was talking again, his words low, almost desperate as he pulled a small, silver box from his suit jacket. “But I want you to have it now.”
Did he really think he could buy his way out of this, give her a gift and she’d forget he’d slept with a woman who looked like her sister? Yes, he probably did.
She had to get away, now. Grace put the key in the ignition, started the engine.
“Grace? Where are you going? We need to finish this.”
