Saving Grace

by J. M. Hill

  Saving Grace

  J. M. Hill

  J.M. Hill (2012)

  Rating: ★★★★☆

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  Saving Grace

  By

  J.M. Hill

  Copyright © 2012 by J.M. Hill

  hjulesh@aol.com

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from J.M. Hill.

  Dedication

  For my husband, who after twenty-one years of marriage continues to be the voice of encouragement, and more often than not, the voice of reason. You still make my heart flutter.

  And for my mom. Any amount of writing ability I possess comes from you. You are the wisest, most talented woman I know.

  “When the cloud in the sky starts to pour and your life is just a storm you’re braving.

  Well, don’t tell yourself you can’t lean on someone else, ‘cause we all need saving sometimes.”

  Jon McLaughlin

  ONE

  I felt ridiculous, but this didn’t keep me from watching the house across the street. Through the slant of the wooden blinds at our front window I peered, hoping to see someone. Usually I’m not the nosey type, but the excitement and anticipation of new neighbors had me so curious, I was spying through the blinds like Lucy or Ethel.

  This morning a huge moving truck parked in the middle of our semi-private drive for over five hours, while a crew of six burly men in ugly gray jumpsuits unloaded furniture for the new residents. Residents I had yet to see. On the bright side however, I was able to take inventory of some rather impressive furnishings. This satiated my newly-discovered voyeuristic tendencies, to some extent.

  My cousin, Kate, and I have lived here our entire lives, and we’ve shared the private drive with only one other house. The old Jenkins’ place. It stood empty for over ten years, until about four months ago. A construction crew appeared one day and began working non-stop, refurbishing the dilapidated house that was somewhat of an eyesore. The once sad, depressing, two-story, red-brick dwelling was transformed into a much more pleasant sight. A new porch with a black, wrought-iron railing stretched across the front, black shutters framed tall, paned windows, and a massive garage extended from the right side of the house big enough to contain several vehicles.

  We’re a little pessimistic about new neighbors and very curious.

  The shrill ring of the phone made me jump, and I sprinted to the kitchen, knowing it would be Kate.

  “Hey, Gracie!” Kate’s voice chirped on the other end of the line, barely stopping to take a breath. “I’m on my way home, are you ready to watch the game? Are you hungry? I’ve got Mario’s.”

  “The game’s on, and I’m starving.”

  “Anything new going on across the street, Ethel?”

  “Nothing whatsoever, Lucy,” I replied. “And why am I Ethel?”

  She sniggered. “See you in a minute.”

  Shamelessly, I returned to the front window to peek through the blinds again. Still nothing. I’d been disgracefully lazy all day, so I went to the laundry room to start a load of dirty clothes, then to the kitchen to get plates and drinks on the table. When Kate came through the front door, she balanced a pizza box with one hand, and a container of salad with the other. We sat down and I dished the salad while Kate opened her soda, eyeing me expectantly.

  “So what did you do today?” she asked, knowing exactly what I’d done.

  “Nothing really. Although, I did just put a load of laundry in the washer, so I guess that’s something.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she hummed. “And you did surveillance on the house across the street.” She took a sip of her soda and I shrugged. Kate attempted ‘casual’, but she was just as eager to see who was moving into that house as I was, and I knew it. She tapped a steady rhythm against her plate with the fork, but I pretended to be oblivious. When dinner was finished, we retreated to the sofa to watch the Yankees game—already in the bottom of the fifth—and after a moment Kate heaved an exasperated sigh.

  “So?”

  “What?” I asked innocently, and she glared at me with irritation.

  “So… you haven’t told me what you observed today.” Her head tilted in the direction of the house I’d been watching for most of the day. “Come on, I need details!” She was whining now. “What kind of furniture do they have?”

  Deciding to end the torture, I began my surveillance briefing. “Typical bachelor furnishings. Lots of leather and dark wood. Pretty expensive stuff. Oh, and a drafting table, and a couple of desks. I figure they’re setting up a home office.”

  “I heard they own their own design firm,” Kate interjected. “But you haven’t seen anyone?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, whoever they are, I hope they’re friendly.” She’d barely finished her sentence when we heard the low rumble of a car engine come up the drive. Kate’s eyes widened with excitement, and I’m sure I mirrored her expression. In a flash, we were both off the couch, peeking through the blinds. Lucy and Ethel.

  Three vehicles pulled single file into the over-sized driveway, and parked inside the garage, side by side. Kate and I know little about cars. We bought a new Jeep last year, and the only reason we chose that particular vehicle was because we’d seen one in a movie and thought it was cool. Kate insisted it be red because according to her, we both looked great in red. Car aficionados we’re not. However, these cars were easily identified. The first, a colossal silver Hummer. The second, a shiny, black Yukon Denali. The third, a deep blue Audi.

  We watched with anticipation as two men exited the Hummer and the Audi, strolled to the middle of the driveway and scanned the area. It was obvious they were brothers. They were also quite good-looking. Kate and I looked at each other with shocked expressions and turned back to the window again.

  The driver of the Hummer was huge. I mean, professional-wrestler-scary huge. At least six-foot-six, at least. His dark hair was wavy and hung in short, loose curls. I noticed he laughed a lot—a loud, booming laugh that made his whole body shake. There were also dimples embedded on both sides of his mouth, so big they made me grin. The faded John Elway jersey he wore caught my eye—I had an identical jersey in my closet, waiting for football season.

  “A Broncos fan,” I said, voicing my approval.

  Kate giggled. “Excellent.”

  The driver of the Audi was nearly as tall as the Broncos fan, but probably more like six-four, and dressed impeccably in a snug, black pullover that displayed a nice physique. He resembled the big guy in an amazing way. Same dimples, but his dark curls were cropped much shorter.

  “Twins?” I wondered aloud.

  “Possibly,” Kate responded thoughtfully. “He’s adorable.”

  I laughed. “Which one?”

  “I’m referring to black-pullover-guy.”

  “No argument there,” I said.

  The third man emerged from the Yukon then, one hand shoved inside the pocket of his faded jeans as the other raked through his hair as he joined the other two at the center of their driveway.

  A strange knot formed in the pit of my stomach.

  Not as tall as the first two, he stood about six-two, his hair a rich shade of brown with no curl or wave at all. It was tousled and messy, with a small section that kept falling over his forehead just to be pushed back with another rake of his hand. He resembled a model from the glossy pages of GQ, exuding sexiness and something el
se I couldn’t quite pinpoint.

  The three continued their discussion, then in a synchronized motion turned to face our house. The big guy said something that made the other two laugh. After a moment they stopped laughing and focused intently on our window.

  “Crap!” Kate threw herself against the side wall in an effort to hide. “Do they see us?”

  I didn’t care. I couldn’t take my eyes off the third one, who shrugged out of a black leather jacket revealing a lean, muscular build. He was truly stunning.

  “Get away from the window!” Kate whispered frantically as if they could hear. “I think they see us!”

  I ignored her and watched them walk single-file into their house. Kate slid down the wall to the floor, grasping at her chest dramatically, as if having a heart attack. Once their front door closed, I stepped away from the window and stood over her holding out my hand.

  “These guys must be models, or actors, or something,” she said, taking my hand and pulling herself upright.

  I only shrugged, still a little stunned. Kate hooked her arm with mine, and we walked to the couch, flopping down next to each other. We sat in silence for a short moment, then at the same time looked at each other and laughed giddily.

  Once we caught our breath, I tried to be serious. “Well, we have to be realistic here. There’s no way these guys aren’t attached to someone. I mean, they’re just too…pretty.”

  “You’re probably right,” Kate agreed with a sigh. “But if nothing else, they’ll give us something nice to look at every day, right?”

  I definitely couldn’t argue that point.

  My alarm went off at seven o’clock as usual, and as usual, I cursed it to eternal damnation as I reached over to turn it off. I hated running on Sundays, but made myself do it anyway. I rolled out of bed and went into my bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I dressed in my running gear, smoothed my hair into a ponytail, grabbed my running shoes and iPod.

  While I sat on the front porch and pulled on my shoes, I couldn’t help but glance at the neighbor’s house, curious about the new occupants. As I made my way to the gravel drive, I chose the playlist for my run and started a slow jog.

  Though Kate and I are alike in many ways, running is where the similarities end. I’ve always loved running, while Kate thinks of the activity as a slow kind of torture. Of course, Kate doesn’t need to run either, she burns enough calories just being Kate. Most of the time, she reminds me of a hummingbird trapped in a shoebox; always doing everything at a high-rate of speed, with endless amounts of energy.

  “So What” blared in my ears, and I sang and danced, louder and with much more enthusiasm than was necessary, while I ran. I could never help myself when I heard this song, it always made me smile and dance, even while running. Solitary runs seemed to bring out my inner-dancing-diva.

  When I turned at my three mile marker, I spotted him. Navy running pants, gray ‘NYU’ sweatshirt, hair in a sexy state of frenzy, an amused grin on his face, less than twenty feet away, jogging toward me. I felt all the color drain from my face as I realized he’d been running behind me for the last three miles, witnessing my overly-energetic love for all things musical.

  I stopped singing. I may never sing again.

  He got closer, not changing his pace. The closer he got the wider his grin became, and the more nervous I became. With effort, I managed to put a large amount of space between us, nodding politely as we passed each other, and before I could help myself I glanced over my shoulder at his retreating figure. At that moment, he did the same. I snapped my head around so quickly I think I gave myself whiplash.

  Crap.

  Now, on top of everything else I was just caught ogling, and my neck hurt.

  When I walked into the house Kate was at the kitchen table sipping coffee, reading the newspaper in her fluffy pink robe, and fuzzy pink slippers that made her feet look much larger than they were. I poured my coffee, adding the necessary sweetener and cream, and sat across from her. She slid the sports page across the table for me, and I opened it up right away looking for MLB scores.

  “Pettitte is pitching today, two o’clock,” she informed me, preoccupied with some article she was reading. “We have time to get breakfast and do our grocery shopping.”

  I took a long sip of coffee. “You’ll never guess what happened on my run today.”

  “Did you save Muffin again?” She asked, sounding bored.

  Our elderly neighbor, Miss Whitt, lived two miles down the main road and owned approximately twenty cats, including Muffin. Of all those cats, Muffin was the only one who managed to constantly get stuck in trees, and I managed to be the one to constantly save him. I don’t even like cats that much. I also think his name is stupid.

  “One of these days you’re going to fall out of a tree and break your neck,” she continued without looking up from the paper.

  “No, I didn’t save Muffin again,” I said. “But I did see one of the new neighbors. You know, the good-looking one?”

  She snorted a laugh. “They’re all good-looking.”

  “Okay, good point,” I said. “But, I’m referring to the one with the brown hair.”

  “Did he talk to you?”

  “No. I didn’t really give him a chance.” I felt my cheeks redden as I thought about what happened.

  Intuition flashed in her eyes, and she giggled. “Dancing again were you?”

  I nodded.

  “It was P!nk, right?” she asked.

  This time she nodded with me.

  “Yep, that song gets you every time,” she said. “But, ‘So what/ I’m still a rock star/ I’ve got my rock moves, and I don’t need you’!” She bounced in her chair as she sang the stupid song that was the cause of all my trouble.

  “Very funny,” I said, irritated. “I just made a total idiot of myself in front of our new neighbor!”

  “Relax. It’s not a big deal,” she said dismissively.

  Kate and I had been together our entire lives, and I learned at an early age that very few things rattled her. When we were four years old, our mothers began teaching us piano. After they died, Uncle David arranged to continue our lessons with a teacher from the University, and we excelled at a rapid pace. We loved playing. We played our first recital when we were eight, in the gymnasium at the local high school. Kate had already performed flawlessly, but I cried in the corner of the girls bathroom, terrified of all the people who were going to be watching. She found me and spent ten minutes trying to calm me down by quoting our favorite lines from “I Love Lucy”, “Hello, Friends, I’m your Vitameatavegamin girl! Do you pop-out at parties? Are you un-poopular?” Because of Kate I was able to take the stage that night, though she sat on the piano bench beside me while I performed.

  “When do you think we should introduce ourselves?” Kate asked, unfazed by my humiliating event.

  “I think we’d better wait a while,” I replied. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Oh, big deal.” Kate said, exasperated. “So he saw you shaking your booty. He probably would’ve seen it eventually anyway. You dance all the time when you run.”

  She was right, but it didn’t make me feel better. At all.

  Less than seventy-two hours after our neighbors moved in, Kate made an announcement.

  “I think we should go over and introduce ourselves. You know, a welcome to the neighborhood type thing?”

  Frankly, I was surprised it had taken this long.

  “Sure,” I agreed. “Or maybe a welcome-to-the-neighborhood-you’re-all-incredibly-gorgeous- and-we’re-your-incredibly-single-totally-non-stalkerish-neighbors type thing. I wonder if we could fit all of that on a cake?”

  She laughed. “No, but we should introduce ourselves and take some kind of house-warming present. You could make some of your homemade bread,” she said eagerly. “You can never go wrong with homemade bread.”

  Truthfully, I didn’t need much convincing. I wanted to meet them, too, despite my recent humiliation. I wen
t into the kitchen and pulled an apron over my head. I do make good bread.

  Kate clapped happily, strode to the stereo to turn on music, and I got busy. While the dough was rising, we decided to mix together a batch of Kate’s chocolate chip cookies. After discussing the size of the big guy, we figured bread by itself wouldn’t be enough.

  I brushed the warm, golden brown loaves with melted butter and set them in a basket lined with a white tea towel. We put Kate’s cookies on a plate, covered them with plastic wrap, and placed them inside the basket. I also whipped up some cinnamon-butter—a necessary accompaniment for homemade bread—while Kate slid a gift card for our shop, between the cookies and bread. We went to my bathroom to check our hair and wipe any remnants of bread and cookie dough from our face. Kate grabbed the basket, we took a deep breath and walked across the drive to meet the new neighbors.

  TWO

  We climbed the steps slowly to the Anderson’s front door. Well, I climbed slowly, Kate kind of skipped. She pulled me next to her and smiled encouragingly as she rang the door bell confidently. The door opened, and the big guy stood there with a huge grin on his face—dimples and all—as he looked at Kate first, then me.

  “Hey there, neighbors!” His voice was loud, and I know my eyes widened when I saw how huge he actually was, because he was…huge.

  “Hi. I’m Kate.” She smiled as she stretched out her hand, and he shook it enthusiastically. “This is my cousin, Grace.”

  “Hi there, Grace.” His giant hand shook mine gently, but with the same enthusiasm. “I’m Garrett Anderson. Do I smell bread?”

  Kate and I both stifled a laugh. You can never go wrong with homemade bread.

  “Yes, actually you do.” Kate held the basket out in front of her. Garrett took it, and brought it closer to his face inhaling the aroma wafting from the bread. Just when I thought his smile couldn’t get any bigger, it did.