by Robin Wells
“I believe in doing the honorable thing.” Actually, he believed in being the exact opposite of his own father, who had been a liar and a cheater and who’d never shown the slightest interest in him as a child. “How about you? Are you in?”
“Of course I’m in! You already knew it would never be a question.”
He did. But it was good to hear it, all the same.
She stared out at the rain. “I hope Gracie will warm up to me.”
Zack studied Katie’s profile, taking in her small straight nose and the freckles dusted over it, and felt an old tenderness waft through him. He steeled himself against it. Getting close to her would just end badly, like before. She was a vine-covered-cottage, white-picket-fence kind of girl, and he didn’t believe in happily-ever-afters. From what he’d seen, the phrase “I love you” was just a manipulative tool, a way to get someone to do something for you. Love was nothing more than a gussied-up word for lust. It didn’t last. Attraction faded and degenerated into insecurities and bickering. Romance happened, fell apart, and dissolved.
Love was like heaven—if it really existed, it wasn’t for people like him. He didn’t even believe in it. But Katie did, and he hoped she could find it with Gracie.
“Of course she will,” he told her.
After all, who could help but warm up to Katie?
CHAPTER FOUR
The balding man at the front of the bookstore peered over the wire-rimmed reading glasses low on his nose when Gracie stepped inside. “Can I help you find anything?”
“No. I just want to look around.”
Gracie made her way down the narrow aisle of bookshelves, her stomach churning, her thoughts spinning about the woman she’d just left in the café. So that was her birth mom—her B.M. Appropriate initials, Gracie thought dourly, considering the shitty way Katie had discarded her.
That letter made it sound like Katie had loved her and cared about her, but Gracie didn’t believe it. Katie had probably written it to relieve her own conscience. Well, Gracie wasn’t buying it. She’d spent a lifetime wondering why her B.M. had given her up, and one tearjerker of an I’m-so-noble, I’m-giving-you-away-for-your-own-good letter wasn’t going to make everything all right. She’d spent too many years thinking she was somehow secretly flawed, that something about her just wasn’t good enough.
Her mom—her real mom—had told her that being adopted meant she was special—that she was chosen and wanted and prayed for and loved more than other kids. Gracie had never really bought that bull, either. It was just a bunch of empty words meant to make her feel less pathetic. What she really believed, deep down, was that she was unlovable. Why else would her birth mother give her away?
The rejection had always gnawed at her. Whenever Gracie asked her parents why her bio mom hadn’t kept her, her real mom’s mouth would get all pinched and tight, and she’d say something like, “I don’t know. There’s certainly no way under heaven that I could ever give you away. As far as I’m concerned, you’re my daughter, and that other woman was just a vessel.”
Gracie had spent an awful lot of time thinking about her vessel—wondering what she looked like, what she did, if she had any other kids. After her real parents had died, though, her curiosity had made her feel ashamed. Wondering about her birth parents—especially her B.M.—seemed like a betrayal or something.
Well, one thing was for certain: She wasn’t going to get all close and friendly with Katie. How could she cozy up to someone who’d basically said, “I don’t want you in my life”? She intended to treat her with the contempt she deserved.
Meeting her had been weird—beyond weird. Gracie had been unprepared for how much they looked alike. Looking at Katie had kinda been like looking at an older version of herself. They had the same widow’s peak and small chin, the same tipped-up nose, the same wide mouth.
The thought made her lips press together hard. Yeah, well, she couldn’t help it if she looked like her B.M., but she damn sure wasn’t going to be anything like her otherwise. Gracie would never make the choices Katie had made. She’d never willingly live in a podunk town, she’d never have a lame-ass career like running a beauty salon, and, most important, she’d never give away a baby like old clothes to the Salvation Army. Gracie was more like her real mother—the mother who had chosen her and wanted her and loved her and cared for her.
Tears stung the insides of her eyelids as the image of her mother’s face, round and smiling, filled her mind. Her father’s face floated into the picture beside her, his dark eyes twinkling like they used to when he teased her. Why hadn’t she told Mom and Dad how much they meant to her when she’d had the chance? That was the thing about death—there were no more second chances. It was final, permanent, forever. Whatever she’d said or hadn’t said, done or hadn’t done, that was the way things were from now on.
Come to think of it, that was how life pretty much worked, too. No taking things back once they were done. Like having this baby.
Gracie blinked back her tears and realized the man behind the bookstore counter was watching her. She drew her purse protectively over her stomach and ducked down another aisle. Ever since she’d started showing, people stared at her. Some of them got all prune-faced, as if they had a right to judge her. Some acted as if her big belly were public property and reached out to touch it. Just about everyone seemed to think it entitled them to ask personal questions like, When is the baby due? and How old are you?
Her purse did a pretty good job of hiding things. She didn’t have much stuff in it—just some orange Tic Tacs, a black eyeliner pencil, a tube of ChapStick, and a grand total of about ten dollars, tops, counting the change. The value of the bag was purely sentimental.
Her mother—her real mother—had macraméd the bag for her.
Gracie felt the old familiar lump rise in her throat, the lump that had lurked there in varying sizes ever since she’d been called to the principal’s office, where a police officer, her mom’s best friend, and the school counselor had dropped the bomb.
The lump was getting big now, big enough to clog her throat, big and hot and coated with guilt.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” the man called out.
She swallowed down the lump so she could speak. “Do you have any comic books?”
“No, but we have some of those graphic novels. They’re all the way in the back on the right, at the end of the aisle.”
Gracie headed that direction and found a selection of books with manga covers. She picked up one showing a big-eyed girl in a short skirt kicking serious ass with high-heeled, thigh-high boots. She’d just started reading it when the front door creaked open. Gracie peered around the corner and saw Katie and Zack walk in. Her stomach tightened, and she ducked back where she could watch them without being seen herself.
The older man beamed at Katie, gave her a warm hug, and kissed her cheek. “Hi there, sweetie! Great to see you.”
Katie hugged him back. “You, too, Dave.”
A moment of silence beat between them as the man looked at Zack, apparently expecting an introduction. “Dave, this is Zack Ferguson. Zack, this is my father-in-law, Dave Charmaine.”
Father-in-law? Oh, this must be the dad of that dude she’d married—the Marine who’d died in Iraq. She’d read about it on Google. Gracie watched Zack and the older man shake hands, while Katie stood awkwardly beside them. Silence circled in the air like a buzzard.
“Are you okay, Katie?” Dave asked. “You look kind of pale.”
“I’m—I’m fine. It’s just… well, actually, Dave, I’ve just had some startling news.”
“Oh?”
She bobbed her head. “It would probably be better if you and I sat down and talked about it in private later.”
Gracie’s lips pressed together. Yeah, right. Break the bad news to him easy. What was it about her very existence that made people need to sit down and reach for the smelling salts, like something out of a bad Jane Austen movie? Apparently Da
ve didn’t know what kind of a coldhearted bitch his son had married.
“Well… okay.” The old man looked at Zack curiously, as if he was trying to size up the situation, then turned back to Katie. “Brad is taking a coffee break. When he comes back, maybe you and I can go for a walk.”
Momzilla looked like she was about to puke. “Sure.”
The man turned back to Zack, his eyes frankly curious, and made another stab at extracting information. “So… how do you and Katie know each other?”
Katie twisted her purse handle. “We were, uh, friends. A long time ago.”
Friends. Yeah, right. The old guy didn’t seem to be buying it, either, from the expression on his face. He looked at Zack. “Can I help you find a book?”
Zack pulled his hands out of his pockets. “Actually, I came in looking for my daughter.”
“Must be the gal in the back of the store.”
“My daughter”—not “our daughter.” So Zack was going to just grab her and leave, without telling the old dude that Katie was her mom. Oh, sure, Katie was going to break it to him later—she had to, since she and Zack were moving to town. But why should she let B.M. do things her way? She’d had things her way for seventeen years.
Seventeen years of pretending she didn’t have a daughter was long enough. She wasn’t going to get away with it a moment longer.
Gracie stepped into the aisle, clutching the manga book. A perverse pleasure coursed through her as she sauntered up the aisle, her boots clunking on the hardwood floor.
“Hey—while everyone is introducing themselves, I ought to, too. I’m Gracie.” She treated Dave to a toothy grin. “Katie and Zack are my birth parents.”
Katie’s face grew as white as a roll of toilet paper. The old man gaped like one of those wall-mounted singing bass.
“Guess you’re my grandpop-in-law. Or maybe it’s step-grandpop-in-law. I don’t know a lot about complicated blended family arrangements.”
“You’re… you’re…,” the old man stammered, then cast a wide-eyed glance at Katie. “Did you say that you’re Katie’s…?”
“Birth daughter,” Gracie filled in helpfully. “As in, she gave birth to me, then she gave me away. Guess you didn’t know I existed, huh?”
The old man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped.
“Well, don’t feel bad. She didn’t bother to tell me about you, either.” She plunked the book on the counter. “What’s your name?”
“I’m—I’m Dave Charmaine.”
“Nice to meet you.” She pulled aside her macramé bag. “Guess you’re going to be my baby’s great-granddad-in-law or whatever.”
“Your—baby?” The old man sounded like he needed to cough up a phlegm ball or something.
“Yeah. Heck of a deal, isn’t it? You’re getting a new grandkid and a great-grandkid all in one package.”
The old man’s face turned the color of Silly Putty. He gripped the countertop. Katie jumped forward, her eyes wide and alarmed. “Dave—are you all right?”
“Yeah.”
Katie’s forehead scrunched in concern. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Just a little angina, is all.”
Angina? That was pain from heart trouble. She learned that watching Grey’s Anatomy on TV—and then she’d looked it up in Gray’s Anatomy, the book. Gracie’s own heart raced as the man dug in the back pocket of his khaki Dockers, pulled out a pill container, and opened the lid with trembling hands. He popped a pill into his mouth.
Oh, jeez—she hadn’t meant to give the old dude a heart attack. She hadn’t meant to hurt him at all. She’d meant… Oh, hell. Guilt snaked through her. She’d meant to cause trouble, and this was the result. Nothing good ever comes from bad intentions, her mother used to say. Remorse flushed through her veins. She was always screwing things up. Why did she always have to screw things up?
“You should sit down.” Katie took the man by the arm and edged him two feet back, to the barstool behind the counter. The wooden stool squeaked on the hardwood floor as he sat down.
“I’m fine,” Dave said. “Really. It’s already better.”
“Does this happen often?”
“Nah. Just every now and then, if I get upset or excited or”—he looked at Gracie—“surprised. It’s no big deal.”
“Heart trouble certainly is a big deal,” Katie said. “How long have you had it?”
“Awhile. But it’s all under control.” He straightened on the stool and looked through the window. “Here comes Brad. We can go in the back and talk, if you like.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” the man said. “The pain’s already gone.”
A thin young man a year or two older than Gracie walked through the door. Katie looked at Zack. “You two can run along.”
Zack touched Katie on the shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you this evening.”
The man gave Gracie a weak smile. “And I’ll talk to you later, Gracie.”
“O-okay.” She looked at him. Her chin trembled. “I didn’t mean…,” she started. “I mean, I’m… I’m…”
Sorry. The word stuck in her throat like a chicken bone. Dear God, she was sorry about so many things, things that she could barely stand to think about, things that woke her up in the night sobbing and covered with sweat, things that she would never be able to apologize for. How could she say she was sorry for this, when she’d never be able to apologize for the things that possessed her like a demon, stank up the air she breathed, and tainted her every thought?
Sorry. Yeah, she was, but what good did it do? It was just a word—a stupid, meaningless word that didn’t change anything.
Nothing could ever change all the things she was sorry for.
“It’s okay, Gracie,” Dave said. His weathered face creased in a smile, and he said the words she needed to hear but didn’t believe. “It’s not your fault.”
Zack opened the door, punched open the umbrella, and held it over her. She moved away from him, stepping off the sidewalk and into the gutter. Raindrops plopped down on her head. The sky was weeping, she thought as she wiped her face. No one needed to know that she was, too.
CHAPTER FIVE
The sun rode low in the sky as Dave steered his sedan into the parking lot of the Sunnyside Assisted-Living Villa. He turned off the engine, picked up the bouquet of roses he’d bought at the grocery store, and climbed out of the car. As he walked toward the large, French-country-style building, he thought again how the place looked more like a resort than a place for the elderly or disabled.
Disabled. It was hard to think of Annette that way. Of course, she was just temporarily in that condition—a nasty fall down the stairs at her home in New Orleans had broken her leg in three places and required a total knee replacement—but it was still hard, because in his mind’s eye, she’d always be the girl he’d fallen in love with in high school. Annette had been his first kiss, his first lover, his first wife.
Hell. She’d been his only real wife. That thing with his secretary didn’t count. That had been nothing but a stupid, alcohol-fueled, midlife crisis—a way of denying the fact he was getting older, of trying to feel better about himself. It was no excuse, but if he hadn’t been drinking so heavily, it never would have happened. It sure as hell never would have escalated into a wedding. He’d been planning on breaking off the affair when Annette caught him in the act.
The memory made his face heat with shame. Linda had been bent over his desk, her skirt up to her waist, and his pants had been around his ankles. A loud gasp had sounded behind him. He’d twisted his head to see Annette standing in the doorway, both hands over her mouth. His heart and his dick had both headed south.
“Annette,” he’d blurted.
She’d turned on her heel, walked out of his office, and kept right on walking—out of his life, into a divorce attorney’s office, out of Chartreuse, and into a new career as a substitute teacher in New Orleans. He’d married Linda on the rebound, but it
had never really been a marriage. She’d sure wasted no time bailing when he’d started having health problems.
He pulled open the tall arched French door and stepped inside the assisted-living center. Music tinkled from the parlor, where about twenty elderly people mingled and chattered gaily, as if they were at a cocktail party.
Some of them weren’t all that much older than Dave. At fifty-seven, he was only a decade or so shy of fitting right in. The realization burned. He’d tried to deny the realities of aging, but his recent heart diagnosis had made it all too real. He was getting old, and he was a fool. What was the saying? There’s no fool like an old fool. Yeah, well, there he was—Exhibit A. The only thing worse than an old fool was an old fool with a drinking problem.
The thought made him wince as he headed toward the elevator. At least he’d finally put the plug in the jug. Thanks to AA, he’d been sober a year and a half now. He was working his way through the twelve steps, and now he was on step nine, trying to make amends and clear up the wreckage of his past.
Most of that wreckage involved his family. It was too late to make amends to his son; Paul had died not speaking to him. The guilt over that had driven him back to the bottle during three earlier attempts to quit drinking. It was hell, having to accept the things he couldn’t change. He didn’t know that he’d ever be able to forgive himself for all the mistakes he’d made as a father. Those were just things he had to live with, one day at a time.
He couldn’t live without making amends to Annette, though. He needed to set things right, because the shame and remorse were eating him up. If he didn’t do his best to make amends, he was afraid it was going to drive him back to the bottle.
He’d avoided Annette for years, but when he’d heard about her fall, he’d rushed to the hospital in New Orleans. She hadn’t been pleased to see him. She’d been pretty doped up on painkillers, though, so hopefully he’d get a better reception now.
He wondered if Annette would be as shocked to learn that Katie had a child as he’d been. He’d had no idea, but then, Annette had always been closer to Katie than he had. His son had cut him out of his life after the affair. Katie, bless her heart, had been more forgiving, but she’d never really confided in him.
