by Liz Flaherty
“Understood.”
“Fine.”
She wore green velvet overalls Maxie found at the Goodwill store and presented along with a tiny diamond pendant in an Open Heart design. “I know I’m not your mother in the ways that count with you— Debbie was that,” she said, “but in my heart I am.”
Grace kissed her cheek and gestured at the earrings in the little velvet box. “There’s room in my heart for both of you, Maxie.”
Faith bought her black velvet flats to wear with them, but when Deac bellowed, “Gracie, get in here before Dillon hyperventilates and falls into this Christmas tree,” the shoes were nowhere to be found.
“So?” Faith slipped off her high heels. She thrust a small bouquet of white roses into Grace’s hands. “Like I expected any different? Promise, don’t you dare go barefoot.”
Promise extended one foot from under her velvet skirt. “I came prepared.”
Grace admired the fuzzy black slipper on Promise’s slender foot. “You did good,” she said. “Should we go before Deac pops a blood vessel and Jake and Steven have to save him?”
“We probably should.” Promise accepted her flowers from Faith, and the three women exchanged a three-way hug that left all of the bouquets slightly crushed and the huggers damp-eyed and sniffling.
“Gracie?” It was Dillon’s mother’s voice this time. “If you’re running away, honey, Dillon says to wear your shoes.”
In the parlor, which held more guests than Grace thought would fit, she eyed Deac suspiciously. “I’m not going to promise obedience, okay?”
“Of course, you’re not.” He lifted his book and smiled benevolently out over the crowd. “Dillon is.”
Ten minutes later, Grace and Dillon were married. They had exchanged platinum wedding bands, kissed each other, and turned, smiling, to face their well-wishers.
The reception was of the stand-and-mingle variety, since there was nowhere near enough room for everyone to sit down. Steven, as best man, cleared his throat to offer the first toast. “When she was little, Gracie went barefoot and wore bib overalls and told Magpie stories. When she laughed, it was like hearing music. When she gave of herself, which was nearly always, it was so unstinting that the receiver never saw the pain she endured in the giving.
“Well, Gracie grew up, even though her wardrobe didn’t. She still tells Magpie stories and still gives of herself, but it took Dillon to find the laughter that got lost along the way. He’s relieved the pain and allowed us all to hear the music once again.” He lifted his glass. “We wish you joy.”
Dillon gave Grace his handkerchief. She made use of it before kissing Steven’s cheek and heaving a dramatic sigh. “Now can we open presents?”
Chapter 28
Marriage to Dillon, Grace decided over the ensuing days, was the dandiest game of pretend anyone had ever devised. She liked going to sleep with him at her side and waking up knowing he was in the house. She thought she might like it if he were still in bed with her, too, but he never was.
She usually found him in Steven’s old room, where he’d set up his desktop computer. Grace almost suggested removing the beds from the room, but no sooner had she opened her mouth than her gaze fell on a pile of Dillon’s mail that lay on a corner of the desk. Yellow stickers printed with their Peacock address covered the original destination of the letters. One of the lines of printing on the yellow stickers said, “Temporary forward.”
Temporary.
She was folding Mrs. Rountree’s laundry that afternoon when Dillon came into the kitchen. He poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, staring broodingly at her over his glasses. “You know,” he said, “you don’t have to do that anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Other people’s laundry.”
“Oh.” She crumpled the snowy cotton panties in her hands. “Your money’s yours, Dillon. I haven’t done anything to earn it, so I don’t want it.”
“We’re married, Grace, and that idiotic prenuptial agreement you insisted on prevents you from stripping me of my assets. I think that makes it okay for you to share my checking account.”
Because she’d refused to use a debit card, he’d already given her a checkbook. Its soft leather cover matched the green wallet Promise had given her for Christmas and her name—Grace Elliot Campbell—was below his on the checks. She hadn’t written any of them, but occasionally she looked at them. There wasn’t even a balance entered in the ledger.
“Don’t worry about the balance. Just write checks for whatever you want, whenever you want.” He’d been impatient with her reticence.
“I’d just sign the wrong name.”
He’d grinned at her then. “This is Peacock, Gracie. You can sign any name you want. ‘It’s just my ditzy sister-in-law,’ Grant will tell people. ‘Cash it.’”
But she couldn’t do that. Her new name was only borrowed. Later Dillon would want it back. By then he probably would have found someone to share his entire life with, not just the bits and pieces he chose to expose.
Temporary.
“She’s used to me doing it,” she said now, stacking the clothing into a basket.
He topped off his cup and brought the glass carafe over to fill hers. “I need to meet with my agent and editor,” he said.
Her hands stilled halfway to her full cup. She forced herself to continue the reach. “In Boston?”
“New York. It will just be for a few days, long enough for them to tell me they love my proposal and then proceed to hack it into little bitty pieces.”
“Okay.” She lifted her cup to her lips, admiring the steadiness of her hands. “When are you going?”
“When can you get away?”
The coffee took a side trip going down. A minute later, when tears were rolling down her cheeks after her coughing fit and Dillon was rubbing her back where he’d pounded it, she said, “Me?”
He sat down and pulled her over into his lap. “Nah, I thought I’d take my other wife, just to keep things interesting. What did you think, that I was going without you?”
She nodded. “You still have a life away from Peacock,” she said quietly, “that doesn’t include me, and I understand that. I don’t mind.” Sorry, Mama. I know you hate lying.
He massaged the back of her neck, ruffling the damp hair that curled there, and his thumb stroked the tender skin behind her ear. She counteracted the resultant shivers by leaning into his warmth.
“I mind,” he said. “I’m asking, Gracie. It’s not an order.” He shifted her so that his hands could frame her face. “We could be by ourselves, and so could Prom and Steven.”
“We’re very good about privacy,” she argued. “We’re all careful—”
“That’s the point. For a little while, none of us will have to be careful. I stay at my agent’s summerhouse on Long Island, and there would be nobody there but you and me. What do you say?” He drew her into a kiss, his fingers leaving her face to travel to all sorts of interesting places.
“I don’t have clothes—”
“So get some. Or don’t. Whatever you want to do.” He unlatched the straps of her overalls.
When his hands slipped underneath her shirt, her breath hitched in her chest. “I could go Thursday night after I read at the library.”
“Umm.” He found her breasts and the rubbing lightened to a delicious stroke she felt all the way to her…all the way to everywhere. “Could Faith read in your place and we could go Thursday morning instead? Or Steven? He’d be a hell of an entertainer and Promise would get a kick out of it.”
Some basic part of her objected. Married three months and already Dillon was rearranging her life, talking her into doing things she’d never done before, seducing her into shirking responsibilities that she loved. Then when it was all over and he’d returned to his old life, she wouldn’t even have those duties to fall back on, to give meaning to Grace Elliot.
Grace Elliot Campbell.
“Okay,” she said, undo
ing the buttons of his flannel shirt. “Just this once.”
“Good.” He kissed her again, and when he lifted his head, he was grinning. “Now, let’s go upstairs. You can get undressed and then try on clothes to decide what ones you’ll take.”
“I already said I don’t have any.”
“That’s the idea.”
Steven’s dismay when she asked him to be her replacement was comical. Also overly dramatic. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve been coached and I’ve been submarined?” Grace complained, setting a platter of grilled chicken breasts on the table.
“Probably because he has and you have. Steven’s not a very good actor.” Promise passed the potatoes. “He only played a dead body when his eighth grade did Romeo and Juliet.”
“That may be,” Steven said indignantly, “but I was by-God-convincing, which is more than Dillon was as the nurse.” He tossed his head and batted his considerable eyelashes.
Dillon tied a dishtowel over his head and looked mournful.
Jonah stared fixedly at him, then took his hand. “Would you run away with me? My wife doesn’t understand me.”
Maxie propped her chin in her hand, her gaze going from her husband to Dillon—still wearing his terrycloth headdress—to Steven, who was trying to extract an eyelash from his eye. “It hasn’t been that long,” she said delicately, returning her attention to her chicken, “since you all thought I was crazy.” She smiled sympathetically at Grace. “What time does your plane leave, dear?”
Grace gaped at her. “Plane?”
“We’re not going there,” Faith said briskly when Grace pointed at the discount department store she usually frequented. “We’re going to the mall.”
“Promise will get too tired,” Grace argued, releasing her seat belt and leaning forward.
“No, I won’t. I’m feeling wonderful today.” Promise beamed at her from the passenger seat. “Besides, Faith is buying our lunch. Don’t argue.”
“I only need a dress I can wear out to dinner.” Grace was still arguing when they walked into the biggest store in the mall, the one she always expected to be charged to enter. “I’ll never wear it again. What are we doing in the cosmetics department?”
“Sit down. You’re having a makeover.”
Faith was stronger than she appeared. Grace was unable to pull her arm from her sister’s grip. It probably had something to do with that damn tattoo.
Grace sat down, hooking her sneakered feet on the circular rung of the high stool. “I could use a new tube of mascara,” she admitted to the consultant who was eyeing her purposefully. “Mine always dries out.”
“Imagine that,” Faith muttered, and Promise leaned against the glass counter, laughing helplessly.
The cosmetician swept behind a counter and emerged with two more high stools. “Please sit down,” she told Faith and Promise. “This is going to be fun.”
Grace crossed her arms over her chest. “Fun?”
It was, in the end, fun for all of them—not to mention a trio of shoppers who went to church in Peacock and two teenagers with numerous body-piercings who stopped to watch and advise.
The makeover gave a new definition to Grace’s lips, cheekbones and the delicate arch of her eyebrows. She looked from her reflection to her watch and spoke to the woman who’d applied the makeup. “I’ll never spend twenty-five minutes on this. What can I do in two?”
“This, this and this. They’re the most important for your skin, plus they give you a little glow to get through the day with.” The associate handed her a tube, a jar and a bottle. “If you apply for a store credit card you get fifteen percent off anything you buy in here today.”
“Okay.” Grace picked up the mascara and the lipstick that made her lips feel good. “These too.”
A few minutes later, she signed “Grace Elliot Campbell” and grinned at her companions. “I remembered.”
Faith herded her to the clothing department and pointed a commanding finger toward the dressing rooms. “Go in there. We’ll bring you things.”
“Remember, just one dress.”
She got the dress. And an elegant black suit that made her appear to have a waist. And another dress. And a sweater the color of her eyes to wear with the snug jeans Promise found on the clearance rack.
“They have black ones too.” Faith whipped them out and held them up.
So Grace bought black jeans, too, and a black sweater with sparkles in it to wear with them. And four pairs of shoes.
She didn’t think she’d owned four pairs of shoes at one time in her entire life.
“It’s time for lunch,” she said finally. “My stomach thinks its throat’s been cut, and I’m going to go into heart failure when I see the total on this. I’ll have to mortgage Elliot House to pay Dillon back.”
“I want to be there when you suggest that to Dillon,” Faith said dryly. “We hardly ever have fireworks in March.”
They arranged to pick the things up when they left the mall. Grace, biting all the lipstick off her bottom lip, signed her name again. They were leaving the store when she saw a plaid flannel shirt that would match Dillon’s eyes and she signed once more.
“So this is what you two do when you go shopping all day,” she said, when she was sipping gratefully on a glass of wine.
“Usually, we don’t draw a crowd,” Promise said.
“And neither of us ever says, ‘Holy shit, I could wear two push-up bras and still not fill this thing up.’” Faith got to her feet. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Order me another glass of wine and that dessert with all the chocolate.”
“You’ll get zits,” Grace warned.
“Not Faith.” Promise shook her head. “You would get zits.”
“Well, that’s certainly true.” Grace looked across the table at her. “You doing all right?”
“I’m fine.” She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “This is so nice for you and Faith. You need to stay close to her.”
“We’re close.” When the waitress stopped at their table, Grace placed their dessert orders then turned her attention back to Promise. “Closer than we’ve ever been.”
“What I mean is, kindred spirit close.” Promise’s gaze held hers. “She’ll pick up the ball if you let her. And maybe sometimes, she needs you to pick it up for her the way you do for me. It was never her fault she was the favored daughter.”
“I know that.” Grace frowned at her. I’ve already married Dillon to give you peace of mind about me being alone. Don’t ask me to replace you too.
Promise laughed. “I can read your mind, you know. We’re not going to talk about death today—we’re having too much fun. Just give her a bigger place, Gracie. She deserves it.” She took Grace’s hand on the white tablecloth. “Oh, we need to get you a manicure too.”
“I already made the appointment.” Faith returned as dessert arrived. She thrust a bag at her sister. “Here. A present from Promise and me.”
The lingerie, a rainbow of pastel colors, made Grace want to cry. Even though the panties were bikini-cut and cobweb lace covered the cups of the bras, Faith had made sure everything was made of cotton. Even the white mini-nightgown, with its embroidered bodice, was cotton knit.
Faith shrugged. “You’re still Grace,” she said, “and we wouldn’t want you any other way.”
She was beautiful, Dillon thought the next morning when he walked into the kitchen. She’d put on the makeup she’d bought, though the effect wasn’t as dramatic as it had been when she came home from the mall. She wore a spicy brown sweater and new jeans that fit like the proverbial glove.
“Pretty,” he said. Hell, she was even wearing shoes inside the house. There was a first.
“Thank you.” She didn’t meet his gaze. “I’m all packed. I did it last night when you were working. Do we have time for coffee?”
“Sure.” He went to make it, watching her as she sat at the table and straightened the medications in the middle of it. Twenty seconds later, she got u
p and opened the refrigerator to give its contents a frowning perusal. “They’ll be fine, Grace.”
“I know.”
“Did you pack some overalls?”
Her cheeks reddened. “Uh-huh.”
“Good.” He came to pull her into the curve of his arm, bending his head to kiss her, to make sure this well-dressed woman still bore the salty-sweet taste he loved. Her hand rested on his chest, and he saw her eyes light when she realized he wore the shirt she’d bought him. “I look good, don’t I?” he boasted, tugging lightly at his collar.
“Oh, absolutely, and I’m glad. I get so tired of being ashamed to be seen with you.” She brushed imaginary lint from her sweater, and he cupped her jaw to kiss her some more.
“Guess I’m lucky,” he said. “My woman looks just as good in baggy overalls as she does in butt-hugging jeans.”
She hiked an eyebrow at him. “Did you just say ‘my woman,’ as in you’re a big, strong man and I’m just a weak-kneed little old thing who irons your clothes?”
He straightened, puffing out his chest. “Yeah.”
“I thought you did.” She stroked her hands over his shoulders and chest, tweaking his breast pocket and moving quickly to his ribs and upward. “Big strong man still has hair under his arms,” she said, and tugged.
“Yeow!” he yelled, laughing, and grabbed her. “And weak-kneed little old thing is still ticklish.”
They were on the hardwood floor with her shrieking and him grunting laughter when Steven and Promise came into the kitchen.
“She’s your sister, Steven,” Promise said mildly. “I think you should interfere.”
“I would, but he’s a big boy,” Steven replied, stepping across their legs to reach the coffeepot. “He can take care of himself. If he lets a little old—”
“Don’t finish that thought,” Dillon warned, standing and hauling his wife to her feet after him. “It’s what started this whole thing. I do appreciate you coming to my defense, though, Promise. It shows a great openness of mind on your part.”
She gazed at him in either wonder or admiration—he was inclined toward believing the latter—then jerked her head toward Steven. “You’re getting as weird as he is. I wasn’t coming to your defense. I was coming to Grace’s, not that she needs it when she’s just dealing with you.”
