by Jill Blake
But then Ruth announced a pause for a bathroom break, and as Grace waited for her grandmother to return, she found herself texting back: Yes.
He responded almost immediately. Going to Anaheim 2nite. Interested?
She crossed to the window and lifted the edge of curtain to peer out. Beyond the front wall, she could still see several news van antennas. Returning to the couch, she typed: Not in Disney mood, thx.
The cell vibrated in her hand. Logan’s name popped up on the screen.
“How about baseball?” he said in lieu of a greeting. “I’m taking Ben to see the Angels play. Game doesn’t start until 6:05. I’m sure we can score an extra ticket.”
“I don’t want to horn in on your time with family.”
“It’ll be fun. You’ll get to meet Ben, he’s a terrific kid. And I’m sure Eva will be happy to see you.”
“She’s coming too?”
“No, but we’ll stop by her house to pick Ben up.”
Baseball wasn’t her thing. Time spent with Logan, on the other hand, whatever the context, sounded tempting. Plus, she had to admit she was curious.
As an only child growing up in a household of much older adults, she had often envied friends who came from larger families. When she and Logan had first started dating back in college, the fact that he had two sisters with whom he shared a close bond was definitely one of the draws. It was only later, when he’d explained some of the convoluted family history, that she realized his early childhood was very much like her own. He hadn’t met either of his siblings until he was into his teens. Which made their close relationship even more intriguing. If anything could rival his dedication to research, it was his love for Eva and Angie.
Grace had no doubt that sentiment translated to his nephew too. But somehow she couldn’t imagine Logan interacting with an eight-year-old. Even as a college freshman, he’d been too mature for his age. Not completely without a sense of humor—he’d certainly enjoyed provoking her whenever possible—but the tone was more New Yorker than Mad Magazine.
She wondered how well that went over with a kid who probably thought farting in public was the height of hilarity.
“Grace?”
“Sorry, I got distracted.”
She glanced up as her grandmother re-entered, pushing the front-wheeled walker across the hardwood floor. Enticing as Logan’s offer was, she couldn’t abandon her grandmother to the mercy of the press besieging them. If the mob outside got rowdy enough, one of the neighbors might call the police, and Grace would have to deal with them. But she shuddered at the thought of braving the crowd of reporters herself. For all she knew, they had staked out the golf course behind the property, too. And today she simply wasn’t up to playing cloak and dagger just to escape the house.
The prospect of wading through a stadium full of strangers likewise held little appeal.
“Can I take a rain check?” she said.
“Sure. What about tomorrow?”
“They’re playing again?”
His laughter warmed her. “No. I was thinking maybe a hike up Temescal.”
Why not? In all likelihood, the siege would be over by then. Attention spans in L.A. were notoriously short, and there was always a bigger, better story vying for the spotlight.
“Who was that?” her grandmother asked when she hung up.
“Logan. We went to UCLA together.” She picked up the remote control.
“The Hamilton boy? You were mad about him. What ever happened?”
Grace shrugged. The last thing she wanted was to get into an argument with her grandmother over her reasons for moving to New York. She had come to terms with her grandparents’ role in the fiasco with her father, and considered herself lucky to have established a positive relationship with the man as an adult. But after the final blow-out with her grandfather, she doubted the wisdom of rehashing everything with her grandmother, too. What was the point? No way to undo the past. And Ruth wasn’t in the best of health. Better to avoid the subject altogether.
“We ran into each other a couple weeks ago. He works at UCLA now, too.” She pressed Play and focused on the intrigues of ancient Rome.
Her grandmother took the hint. Unfortunately, not for long. Over lunch, Ruth returned to the topic. “Are you seeing him again?”
Grace took another bite of tortilla stuffed with corn and black beans, buying herself time.
Were she and Logan seeing each other, in the sense her grandmother meant? Hard to say. They had gone on a few dates. And came close to having sex, even though she’d chickened out in the end. But frankly, she had no clue as to what Logan wanted from her. A friends with benefits arrangement? Something more?
And what did she want?
Six months shy of her thirtieth birthday, and she was as confused about her future as she had been the day she and Logan broke up.
The only thing she knew for certain was that she wasn’t about to squander the gift of a second chance. She trusted Logan. And that in itself was amazing. After her disastrous relationship with Harry, she thought she’d never trust another man again.
But something about Logan made her want to take the risk. Something that was new, that hadn’t been there back when they were in college and moving through life with the jaunty self-assurance of untried youth.
It was the way that he watched her now, as if she held the answer to some crucial existential question. The way he touched her, with tremendous care, tenderness, even reverence. The way he listened to her, as if tuning in to something beyond mere spoken words.
Her grandmother was still looking at her, waiting for a response. “I don’t know,” Grace said. “Maybe.”
“Good.” Ruth nodded. “I always liked him. You should bring him by sometime.”
Grace made a noncommittal sound.
They ate in silence for several more minutes before Ruth said, “I’ve been thinking about selling the house.”
Grace choked on her water. “Really?”
“Maybe getting something smaller. Without stairs.”
Since her surgery, Ruth had moved to the ground floor, into what had previously served as her husband’s study. Gone were the deep armchairs that smelled of cigar smoke, the massive mahogany desk, the bronze statue of a blindfolded Lady Justice bearing scales and a sword. In their place stood a hospital bed, a La-Z-Boy power recliner, and a nightstand crowded with pill bottles. The en-suite bathroom had been fitted with grab bars and an emergency alarm.
“Sounds reasonable.”
“This place is just too big,” Ruth continued, as if she needed to convince herself as well as Grace. “It has been for a while. At least when your grandfather was alive, we did plenty of entertaining.”
“I remember.”
“A lot of the old crowd is gone now.” She sighed. “And I’m not exactly in any condition to entertain.”
“You’ll get there. A few more months of physical therapy, and you’ll be good as new.”
“I don’t know, Grace. I’d like to think you’re right, but—” She broke off. “It’s hard, with your grandfather gone.”
“Yes. But you’ve got Maria. And you’ve got me.”
“You’re right. I don’t know what I’d do without Maria. But you have your own life, Grace. You need to start living it again.”
“I thought I was.”
“You’re not getting any younger, you know. It’s past time you started thinking about children.”
Grace blinked. Children? She and Logan weren’t even having sex yet, let alone planning a family. And that was assuming Logan even wanted kids. Or a long-term relationship, for that matter. With her.
The idea that he might not stick around for it to even become an issue had her swallowing the lump in her throat and changing the subject. “If you want to sell the house, this is definitely the time. I hear the place down the street is going for $6.5 million.”
“I don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing you out.”
“Don’t worry. Y
ou do what’s best for you, and I’ll figure things out for myself.”
“I don’t need to sell the house to get something smaller. I mean, I could just leave it in the trust for you, if you wanted it.”
The same trust that had paid for Grace’s college and medical school education, leaving her entirely debt free—in stark contrast to many of her classmates and colleagues. As rigid and judgmental as her grandparents had been while she was growing up, Grace had to admit they were certainly generous in providing for her material well-being.
But she was no longer a helpless child, or a student dependent on the largesse of her family to cover her tuition. In a few short weeks, she would be embarking on a career as an attending psychiatrist. It wouldn’t make her wealthy, but it would certainly enable her to support herself.
As for the house, she had mixed feelings. Yes, she’d grown up here. But her childhood memories weren’t the happiest. Nothing terrible, just...lonely.
Her grandfather had been a cold, remote figure with little time or patience for a curious and often mischievous child. Her grandmother had probably been worried that Grace would commit the same mistakes her mother had, like running off to marry the first inappropriate boy who paid her the least bit of attention. As a result, she kept a tight rein on Grace’s every move. The only person who had treated Grace with any warmth was Maria. The housekeeper had tolerated Grace’s presence underfoot, even when it would have been easier to just shoo her out of the kitchen. Instead, she had put Grace to work rolling out flour tortillas and beating the eggs for flan. If not for Maria, Grace didn’t know how she would have survived growing up in such a repressive environment.
Was it any wonder that she felt ambivalent about moving back? Through adult eyes, she could appreciate the value of the property, the beautiful architectural accents like hand-carved mahogany banisters and elegant crown molding. But it was hard to shake off the childhood impressions that lurked in every dark corner.
She looked forward each morning to escaping the house. The exercise was just a side benefit. The main goal was simply to get away and let loose. To feel the warmth of the sun on her face and the breeze in her hair. To have time to herself, when she could pick her own pace and run where she liked, free from whatever expectations her grandmother or anyone else had of her.
Irrational feelings, she recognized that. A house was just a house. Her grandfather was gone. And her grandmother was no longer the disapproving figure of Grace’s childhood, but a frail, sometimes cranky old woman who seemed bent on making peace.
She glanced at her grandmother’s hopeful expression.
“I appreciate the offer,” she said. “Can I think about it?”
CHAPTER TEN
“Doing okay?” Logan asked.
They had been climbing the dirt trail toward Temescal Ridge for the past forty minutes, the silence broken only by their heavy breathing and the chatter of other hikers along the way.
Grace swept aside strands of hair that stuck to her forehead. “Fine. I’d forgotten how much of a workout this is.”
“Skull Rock is up ahead. Good place to take a break, if you want.”
Taking a break meant conversation, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that. She’d had to sneak out the back way this morning, cutting across the golf course, in order to avoid a few straggling reporters who were still staking out the front of the house. Thankfully Logan hadn’t pressed her on why she’d asked him to pick her up from the country club. Nor had he commented on the dark circles beneath her eyes. But she had felt his assessing gaze several times during the drive up Sunset Boulevard, and again as they pulled into the parking lot.
She paused long enough to drink some water before slipping the bottle back into her waist pack. “Let’s keep going. Unless you need a break?”
He grinned. “You underestimate my stamina.”
She flushed, glad for distraction of a family with several children trooping past them.
It wasn’t until they began their descent from the summit that Logan spoke again. “Harry’s suicide is all over the news this morning.”
“I know.” Grace shaded her eyes, wishing she hadn’t forgotten her baseball cap at home. There had been sufficient tree cover on the way up, but this last part of the loop was all open trail, surrounded by mountain brush baked brown by the sun. She took a few moments to admire the panorama of blue-gray water and oceanfront stretching all the way from Malibu to Palos Verdes.
Logan ignored the view, focusing instead on her. “They’re saying he killed himself because he had something to hide.”
“He was bipolar, Logan. This wasn’t the first time he tried to commit suicide.”
“Yes, but this time he succeeded. It’s raised a lot of questions about who knew what, when.”
She started walking again. “So?”
“It doesn’t bother you?” He clambered after her. “That your name is being raked through the mud, right along with his?”
Her nostrils flared. “Does it bother you?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Then ignore it. Turn off the TV. Stop reading the papers. The press is fickle. They’ll glom onto the next big story as soon as some d-list celebrity releases a sex video or gets busted for DUI.”
“I don’t see how you can be so blasé about it.”
“You forget I’ve been through this before.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Life goes on, Logan.”
“Yes.” He offered her a hand over an uneven rock formation. “I can call my sister Angie, if you want. She’s a lawyer. Maybe she’ll have some ideas on how to make it all go away sooner.”
“I know you mean well, Logan. But trust me on this. The best thing to do is to simply ignore it.”
###
As Logan turned onto La Mesa, Grace tensed. An unmarked van was parked at the corner. Several houses down, two men in jeans and hoodies appeared to be aiming cameras with telephoto lens through a gap in the foliage, angling toward her grandmother’s house.
“Stop,” Grace said. “Let me out here.”
He pulled up to the curb and killed the motor. “What’s going on?”
“Paparazzi. No, don’t look. Can I borrow your hat?”
“It’s sweaty.”
“That’s fine.”
He passed her the baseball cap and reached to undo his seatbelt.
Grace placed a staying hand on his arm. “Don’t.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“It’ll be better if you don’t.” She hesitated, then leaned over the console and brushed his lips with hers. “Thanks for today.”
She slipped out of the SUV, donned his baseball cap, and readjusted her dark glasses. Head down, she made a beeline for the front gates. The paps must have noticed, because in the two seconds it took to key in the code, they converged on her, cameras clicking.
“Hey Grace, wait up!”
The gates swung open.
“Why did Harry call you before he hanged himself? Did you know he was going to do it?”
She flinched, nearly dropping the keys she’d extracted from her waist pack. But she managed to keep moving.
“What did you tell his mother?”
Fifteen feet to the front door.
“Why did you leave New York, Grace?”
The door handle turned, and she stepped inside.
“How much did you get in the divorce?”
She glanced back at the men trailing her. “This is private property, fellas, and you’re not invited. You’ve got about twenty seconds before the gates close. After that, I’m calling the police.”
“Come on, Grace, you gotta give us something!”
“Ten seconds.” She watched them scramble to exit before the automatic gates shut. “Enjoy your day, fellas. And thanks for stopping by.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
First thing Monday morning, Grace checked the view from her bedroom window. The street was empty. No, wait, there was a guy stand
ing on the opposite corner, talking on his cell phone. Reporter or not? Hard to tell from this distance.
She let the curtain drop. At least the news vans and slavering hordes were gone.
By the time the doorbell rang, she was showered, dressed, and pouring her second coffee into a travel mug.
Maria found her in the kitchen. “It’s for you, Miss Grace.”
“Who is it?”
Maria offered her the video monitor. “He says FBI.”
Grace flashed on the mental image of the man loitering across the street. Jeans, baseball hat worn backwards, shoulder bag. Didn’t sound like FBI to her.
She glanced at the monitor. It took her a moment to figure out what she was seeing: the close-up of someone’s hand, covering the camera lens. She pressed the intercom button. “Excuse me, who’s there?”
“FBI, ma’am.” The hand disappeared, and an official looking badge appeared in its place. “Special Agent Theodore Wallace here, with Special Agent Carlos Rodriguez. If we could have a moment of your time?”
Not again. She sighed. At least she knew this guy was legit. He’d interviewed her twice already back in New York. The question was, what was he doing here in L.A.?
“I’ll be right out.” She grabbed her coffee, shoulder bag, and keys. “If I’m not home by six-thirty, Maria, please start dinner without me.”
“You be careful, Miss Grace. If you want, I can call your grandma. She can take care of the FBI, en un dos por tres.”
Grace smiled, imagining her grandmother facing off with Special Agent Wallace over cucumber sandwiches and tea. When her husband was alive, Ruth King had been a formidable hostess, entertaining politicians, federal prosecutors, and company executives. Grace doubted she’d be cowed by a mere badge. She could just picture the headline: Walker-wielding Granny Browbeats Men in Black.
“I’m sure you’re right, Maria. But I’ll be fine.”
She met the agents out front, leaving her car idling in the driveway just inside the gates. “Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
Special Agent Wallace was just as she remembered: six-four, built like a pro basketball player, sporting a dark suit and crew cut. “We just need a few minutes of your time, ma’am.”
