The Price of Grace

by Diana Muñoz Stewart

  Gracie laughed.

  Aw, hell. These kids. Tugged at a man’s heart. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry ’bout that.”

  Chapter 50

  After dinner, Gracie was ready to skip dessert and head to bed. She was nervous about tomorrow, about leaving the safety of campus and going back to her club. But then the dessert trays were brought out and she caught Dusty’s gaze, and knew she’d be staying for dessert.

  He leaned over to her. “I grew up with an aunt who could make a mean pecan pie, but this is Cake Boss–type material.”

  She kissed him on his cheek. “For such a strong-looking guy, sometimes you’re just a big kid.”

  He grinned at her. “Who doesn’t like cake?”

  The servers carried the artful cakes around the table as her siblings oohed and aahed.

  After everyone had a chance to appreciate the cakes, they were taken to a serving station. One of the servers, a big guy with an easy grin and a Pacific Islander tan, took out a gleaming silver knife, and with a flourish that sent the kids clapping, began to cut pieces.

  Gracie decided on the Mantua Home’s world-famous cheesecake and Dusty had red velvet because he’d never had it before. Once he’d made this announcement to the table, the kids around him watched intently as he took his first bite.

  It was kind of adorable. Gracie watched too. Dusty, the adorable show off, exaggerated with a raise of his eyebrows, then he closed his eyes and declared it, “Good enough to make the angels sing.”

  With the addition of sugar, the conversation at the table reached earsplitting levels, a near deafening sound broken when Momma stood and clapped her hands twice. The room echoed her claps. Then silence. She nodded in approval. “It’s time for us to share a story.”

  Gracie startled. They were doing that tonight? She grabbed Dusty’s arm. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “You sure?” he said, sounding as if he wanted to stay.

  Momma passed behind them on the way into the other room. She put her hand on Dusty’s shoulder. “I’d like you to hear this. It’s my story. The way this all”—she waved around—“came to be.”

  Fudge. Gracie looked down as she heard Dusty tell Momma he was “Looking forward to it.”

  Gracie wasn’t sure…scratch that, she was sure. She didn’t want Dusty to hear this, but she had no idea how to stop it without causing a huge scene.

  The girls left their dessert plates and headed over to the room with the large hearth visible through an arched doorway.

  Her heart hammering, Gracie escorted him into the paneled room. They watched as the girls took seats around the brick hearth, plopped down on blue-and-gold pillows, and formed a circle. Unlike at the table where everyone sat with others their age—their units—the girls mixed it up. Older girls called the younger ones to sit beside them.

  Dusty grabbed two cushions and they settled on the floor.

  He put one arm behind her, leaned on it, so that her entire side warmed with his large, comforting presence. “So this is a big deal?”

  “Yeah.” She put a hand on his arm. She at least owed him a warning. “It’s another way we stay close. Each person here has a story that tells us about them, where they came from. Even me. Our stories are told in second person, read by a professional. The idea is that you feel the others’ stories, and that we join and know one another that way. Tonight, it’s my mother’s. It’s kind of brutal.”

  “And the kids are okay hearing it?”

  She looked around at her siblings. “They’ve lived it, Dusty. And just so you know, we don’t ever let strangers hear these stories.”

  “Never?”

  She nodded, gestured at the room. “Not even the staff is allowed.”

  “So this is—”

  A recording whispered out at them from audio speakers. Everyone went silent as a soft female voice spoke.

  You walk into the Red Cross tent with feet chalked white from the dust and dirt of the road.

  Your head pulses with a thousand painful fires. Rejection. Regret. Injustice. Thirst.

  Sliding onto the hot stool by the entrance, you wait to be noticed. It doesn’t take long. A woman gasps, grabbing at the loose-sleeved olive shirt of another woman. “Karen,” she says, forcing her to turn around.

  Their colored eyes, specks of blue and green and yellow, float over you. Like flower petals adrift in a bowl of water. You can’t help but be drawn to them as they bloom with pity.

  The second woman, Karen, comes to you without hesitation. She scoops you from the chair, murmuring words you cannot understand. And yet they comfort your ragged thoughts, tucking in grief with their plush softness as she places you upon a plain, narrow bed.

  Her words seem kind, soothing. But under that softness rests a pallet of ripe anger, a frustration born of centuries. You recognize the sound. It has been with you since that far-off day, before your very first moments of true pain. That day, your mother whispered to you, “They will cut you here,” and placed her warm hand between your legs, “because we must pay the price of desire. No charm comes without a chain.”

  “Who did this to your face?” Karen asks, speaking English now. Her oddly accented words sound clipped and tight.

  You say, “A man.”

  As the story continued, recounting Momma’s pain, humiliation, and being rejected by her family, Gracie watched every emotion that crossed Dusty’s face. She saw the sympathy, the disbelief, and anger. And then she saw him change, grow tense and uncomfortable.

  The story finished up with Momma being adopted by the women in that tent—a lesbian couple, one of which happened to be the daughter of the wealthy Coleman Bell Parish.

  It stopped there, with the happy ending.

  Dusty’s face looked anything but happy. She had watched his darkening facial expressions like they were the most important thing she’d ever see. Maybe because it felt that way. She’d paid such close attention that when he stood from their cushions on the floor and said, “I’m gonna get going,” she knew.

  He didn’t understand. He was going to leave, like John, and never come back.

  With her heart aching, she got up from the floor too. Around them, her sisters cried and spoke and shared their own stories in the quiet aftermath. A wave of love for them enveloped her.

  Did he see? Did he see how the story helped them share their own pain, how they felt less ashamed? Did he see how children from all over the world suddenly came together as one loving unit, a family? Momma’s story had become their story. Just as each of their stories became the family’s story.

  His eyes were shocked and bothered. No, he didn’t see. Looking around, he’d taken in what she’d seen but reached a completely different conclusion.

  She hardened her heart and her voice. “Can I walk you to your car?”

  His eyes settled on her, on her tell-a-tale face. He opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. “Sure.”

  After saying good night to Momma and Leland, Dusty took her by the arm, and they walked in silence through the hallways until they came to the front doors.

  Dusty turned to her. “Grace, I don’t actually have my car.”

  She knew that. “You said good night to Momma, told her you weren’t staying. I’m sure she directed someone to bring a limo around for you.”

  He looked toward the front doors. “Kind of her.”

  “That’s Momma.”

  He shifted. “Grace—”

  “Don’t,” she said. “I can see it in your face. You don’t approve. Trust me, I’ve been here.”

  That got a reaction. His eyes widened, he leaned closer. “No. You haven’t. That’s not this. Not me.”

  “Yet you’re leaving. I saw your reaction during the reading. I saw it.”

  “What you saw is complicated. Not so much disapproval as—” he ran a hand th
rough his hair. “It got me. I’ll admit that. Reminded me of my childhood, of the way my dad would manipulate people.”

  “This isn’t like that. You’ve met my sisters, seen the tape of my mother. Why is it so wrong for us to talk about what we’ve been through, to share with other people? Why are you so bothered by our truth?”

  “Fuck, no.” He shook his head. His honey eyes were angry, intense. “It’s not about that, about you. It’s about me. The fucked-up way I was raised. You get that? I just need time to process. Can you give me that?”

  Of course. But she was still worried. Her family had revealed a lot to him. She wanted him to understand and accept them. She placed a hand on his arm. “I know the storytelling feels manipulative, but it’s not. We can’t understand each other’s story, each other’s pain, unless it feels like we are experiencing it for ourselves.”

  He let out a long breath. “Give me the night, okay? I’ll see you at your club tomorrow. I’d like to take a look around.”

  She understood what he was asking, but it still hurt. It still felt like rejection. “Sure.”

  He bent and kissed her on the lips. “Night, darlin’. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She watched him leave. Tomorrow? She didn’t believe that. Not for one minute.

  Chapter 51

  Inside the lavish sitting area of his spacious InterContinental Hotel suite, Porter Rush ended his phone call and placed his cell on the stack of files in front of him. His palms were sweating. He shouldn’t be doing this. It wasn’t him. He didn’t do intrigue. He didn’t manipulate government agencies, make them his lap dog. And he sure as hell didn’t lie to his father, play him, in order to make him look innocent to the FBI.

  His father came out of his room cleaned up, dressed for the dinner, and looking at the index cards his speech was written on. The man had to get more comfortable with a teleprompter. “Porter, who are the main donors at our dinner tonight?”

  This was it. He stood up. “Dad, remember when I told you about that investigation into Mukta Parish?”

  His father’s eyebrows drew together. “I thought you were going to make that go away.”

  Porter’s stomach turned. This “going away” was not an option. The only option was to play the hand dealt. “Why would you want this to go away, Dad?” It was a lifeline. “You’re a victim fighting back. For years men have been wrongly accused, blackmailed and made to dance because a woman decided to lie. Enough.”

  His father’s face changed from calm to fury. The difference between day and night. “Don’t try to spin my own life to me, Porter. I know what happened. And you seem to think this is going to be easy. It’s not. You have to weigh the cost here. One cabinet position versus being dragged through the mud.”

  “Dad, the FBI investigation into Mukta Parish all but guaranteed we were going to be dragged through the mud. You saw what the file said. Your voting record. The funding… But these tapes change all of that.”

  The tapes would shield his father from the worst of it and send the ire toward Mukta Parish. Ire she rightly deserved after years of torturing his father, holding this over his head.

  “Awfully convenient,” his father said. “These tapes.”

  Not one muscle on Porter’s face moved. “What is it you say when we’re given donations from questionable sources, Dad? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?”

  His father pocketed his index cards, went into the kitchenette, opened the fridge, and took out a Perrier. He opened it with a snap. “Porter you’re putting unnecessary energy into this strategy.” He took a sip from the bottle. A bottle big enough for four. “It’s almost an obsession with you. Once elected, I’ll be nearly untouchable. Let’s focus on getting there. Not on this sideshow.”

  The man had no idea. He was that clueless. That self-confidence was great, most of the time, but right now it rankled. His dad honestly thought this would just go away. Porter knew better. Knew enough that he was risking everything on what would happen in this room in the next few moments.

  There was a knock on the door. Porter let out a breath. “It’ll be okay, Dad. Just answer the agent’s questions honestly.”

  His father looked toward the door and back to Porter’s guilty face. Slamming his bottle onto the counter, he stormed across the room and grabbed Porter by the lapels of his suit jacket. “What have you done?”

  The knock came again. “Let go, Dad. I need to answer it.”

  His father let go, but Porter saw that his hands shook. Taking a steadying breath, Porter crossed the room and opened the door. The FBI agent stepped inside and Porter introduced him to his father.

  He approached Porter’s father without hesitation. “Your son said it would be okay, Senator, if I took a small moment of your time.”

  His father cast Porter a wounded look. “Of course. Let’s sit.”

  Porter couldn’t sit. He paced, watched as the two men took seats on the suite’s stylish couches.

  The agent wasted no time. “Senator Rush, it’s recently come to my attention that you may have been a victim of a scam that Mukta Parish has been running on influential men.”

  His father visibly relaxed. “It’s been many years. I’m not interested in pressing charges.”

  The agent’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “With all due respect, sir, whether or not you want to press charges isn’t why I’m here. I’m here to ask you if you know of any reason someone might want to murder your illegitimate daughter, Gracie Parish.”

  His father shot to his feet. “What? She’s dead?” His gaze swung from the agent to Porter, his eyes filled with genuine regret. “I didn’t…” He stepped toward Porter. “You have to believe…”

  Porter’s relief was so intense his legs almost gave out from under him. His father had done good. Better than he could have expected. He went to his father, grabbed and hugged him. “Dad. You weren’t listening. He didn’t ask if you’d killed her.”

  He stepped back from his father. They exchanged glances. “And no, she’s not dead.”

  His father visibly composed himself, as much as he could, and plopped back down in an unsteady lump.

  The agent leaned forward. “Sorry that I had to test you like that, sir. I had to make sure. And now that I know, I want you to know I’m on your side here. It’s going to be okay.”

  His father, ruffled feathers soothed, said, “I’m sorry, Special Agent… What was your name again?”

  The trim man with the plain face smiled. “It’s Dillon Mackenzie. Mack for short.”

  Chapter 52

  Wearing a charcoal-gray pantsuit buttoned up over a white cami, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun, Gracie speed-walked through the hospital corridor. Her heart kept time with her sharp-heeled footfalls. The click and pound echoed across her jangled nerves.

  One more room to visit.

  Noting the numbers on the doors, she counted them down like a doomsday clock. When she arrived at the correct room, the door was closed. She took a deep, fortifying breath. Using a single knuckle, she rapped politely.

  The door was opened by an older man. Thick black hair, still black eyes, the memory of smiles lined a face darkened by the heritage of desert sun.

  His questioning gaze ran over her, over her suit, then settled on the vase of flowers. His heavy eyebrows bunched together. “Can I help you?”

  He had a mild Middle Eastern accent. Gracie let out a breath. “I’m Gracie Parish.” She swallowed. “Owner of Club When? I’m here to see Delilah. Is she available?”

  Using his body and the half-opened door to block her view, he turned and looked back into the room.

  Someone inside spoke. “Let her in, Poppa.”

  He gave way with a pointed look that said he’d throw her out at a moment’s notice. And the vase suddenly felt heavy and slippery in her sweaty hands. She walked inside. The private room was pac
ked with flowers. They lined the windowsill above the radiator, stood on extra wheeled trays, and were even on the floor beside the many chairs in the room, chairs filled with people.

  Gracie had never seen so many people squeezed into one room, and considering her family, that was saying something. She almost made a joke about it being a fire hazard, but she tamped down that horrifying thought fast and hard.

  Reclining in the bed was the woman from the bar. The one Gracie now knew was named Delilah. Half her leg was missing. She had bandages across her face. Her eyes were sunken and bruised.

  The people in the room were silent, watching Gracie. “I wanted to come and say how sorry I am,” she said. “And to see if there is anything I could do to make things easier for you.”

  One of the men in the room spoke to one of the women in Arabic. She didn’t understand the words, but it felt like a condemnation.

  Delilah flashed her dark eyes at them. A warning? Agreement?

  Gracie swallowed. She stepped forward with the flowers, never feeling more inadequate in her life. It reminded her of a poem she’d once heard about bringing a cup of water to the ocean. Flowers. What a meaningless gesture.

  Her eyes strayed to the blanket, to the missing part of Delilah’s leg. Her heart fell to her stomach, making it pitch like an unsteady boat.

  Delilah shifted forward in the bed. “Could you leave us?”

  Gracie startled, her face growing hot. She stepped back. And then the other people in the room began to rise. Oh. She’d meant her family should leave.

  The people began to rise, move from their positions holding up the walls, and shuffled out. As they did, one of the women said something cross to Gracie in Arabic.

  From the bed, Delilah answered in the same language. She seemed to reprimand her. The woman left with the others.

  “Excuse her,” Delilah said. “She moved from Iraq to get away from things like this.”