Second was the workload, which really wasn't an issue at all because, unlike most of the kids there, she didn't plan to have a social life.
Tuition and housing were covered by her scholarship, but she did need some extra money for books, art supplies, and personal items. She still had some money from the articles she'd sold in high school, but she really didn't want to touch that, so she decided to look for a part-time job.
She had a week before classes started, and she used that time to learn her way around. She walked around Greenwich Village and Soho, and felt a welcoming energy that made her feel as though she belonged. A feeling she'd hadn't experienced in a very long time. And she learned that the number 1 or number 3 buses, or the 4, 5 or 6 subway trains, would get her to her fine arts classes.
The day before classes started, she noticed a sign in the window of a small art gallery in Greenwich Village for a front desk person, and went in to inquire. The stark white walls of the gallery stood in contrast to the bold color palette of the art on the walls. Though her knowledge of art was limited, she could tell from the shapes and patterns that the paintings belonged to the same artist. A shiver of excitement coursed through her at the mere thought of having her work shown in a gallery someday.
Grace told the owner, Francesca Rinaldi, that she was a student at NYU and could only work part-time, but that she would work hard and was willing to do anything to help out. The interview went well and Francesca hired her on the spot.
The gallery was located on Cornelia Street, which was convenient to both her dorm at Hayden Hall and the campus at Cooper Square. As she walked back to her dorm after landing the job, she could not contain her smile. She was on her own and on her way.
1998
Her first two years of college passed quickly, and Grace had never been happier. The workload was demanding and she had very little time for herself, but she never complained. In fact, her hectic schedule provided the perfect excuse to avoid all the drama that went on around her.
Though they weren't friends, she got along fine with the girls on her floor. But she had no time or patience for the boys. They all seemed immature, more interested in getting into her pants than into a discussion. She'd heard stories from some of the girls about how, once they''d been in your pants, you never heard from them again. She didn't want any part of it--the sex or the games.
Saturday morning was the only time during the week that she claimed for herself. Rather than sleeping in like everyone else on campus, she woke early and hopped the subway to Central Park.
In the fall of her junior year, on a picture-perfect Saturday in November, Grace strolled across the makeshift football field. She kicked leaves into the air as she walked to the bench where she normally sketched. The air was cool and crisp, leaves swirling to the ground in colorful splendor as she went.
A group of men tossed a football around on the other side of the field. The same men who played there every Saturday. She thought about the sketch she'd been working on for the past month when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of white barreling toward her. She launched into a full sprint, too late to get out of the way. The man leapt into the air to catch the ball and tackled her in the process, spilling her and the contents of her backpack onto the field.
He jumped to his feet, pulling her up with him. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I didn't see you there. I didn't mean--are you alright?"
She yanked her hand from his. "It was an accident," she said, knowing full well it was anything but. He'd tried getting her attention for weeks, but thus far she''d ignored him. She had no interest in anyone who could be that obvious.
She bent down to pick up her things at the exact time he did, and they bumped their heads together, knocking them both back. She grabbed her forehead and glared at him.
He flashed a lopsided grin. "I, um, I'm not normally such a clumsy oaf." He helped her collect her things. "Are you an artist?"
"Something like that." She glanced at the torn, grass-stained college sweatshirt he wore and up at the Harvard boy with the intense brown eyes and long eyelashes. Unimpressed, she grabbed the last few pencils from his hand, zipped them into her backpack, and hefted it onto her shoulder. ""Thank you for your help."
His eyes locked onto hers. "I'm Antonio Ramos."
She forced a smile that was pure fiction. "I'm sure you are." Then she walked off the field toward the bench where she normally sketched without looking back.
Some people thought it was strange that she was twenty years old and had never had a boyfriend. Had never even dated. But the truth was, she had never looked at a boy and felt anything other than indifference, if not contempt. Antonio Ramos was no exception.
After collecting herself, she sat down on the bench and pulled the sketchpad from her pack. Turning to the sketch she'd started a few weeks ago, she studied the stone bridge that crossed over a small pond. The bridge had a lush ivy cover, and when the sunlight hit it just right, it reflected into the pond. Today the sunlight was just right.
An hour later, as she was applying the finishing touches to her drawing, Antonio Ramos called to her from the field. She pretended not to hear him but a moment later she heard his footsteps behind her. He obviously couldn't take a hint.
"Yes?" She didn't look up from her sketchbook, but from her peripheral vision she could see him standing in front of her, shifting from one foot to the other.
"Uh, oh, well, I just wanted to apologize again for tackling you earlier."
"Apology accepted." When he didn't leave, she looked up. "Was there something else?"
"No...I suppose not. Well, I guess I'll see you around. Enjoy the rest of your day."
As he walked away, a smile tugged at one side of her mouth.
The following week, Grace walked the long way around the field to her bench. She'd thought about not coming, but in the end she decided she wasn't going to let Antonio Ramos chase her away from her favorite spot. So she arrived later than usual, when the men were just finishing their game.
As she sat down, she glanced over at them and Antonio waved. She waved back--she didn't want to appear rude--but she didn't return his ridiculous smile. She was not interested in him, or any other guy, for that matter. And even if she were, she had no time for them. It was as simple as that.
She tried to focus on the sketch of the bridge, but she was finding it hard to concentrate. She flipped the page to another sketch she'd been working on and studied it.
"Is that me?"
Grace flew off the bench as though she'd been electrocuted and hugged the sketchpad to her chest. "I...no...it's not you," she said. "And what are you doing sneaking up behind me like that?"
He gave her a knowing smile and her cheeks prickled with embarrassment.
"Sorry about that. I thought you heard me calling to you. Gosh, I've only met you once before and I believe this is my third apology. I think it must be a new record."
Grace cracked a smile and pointed to the basket he held in his hand. "What's that?"
"Oh, well, I thought you might be thirsty, or hungry, or something, so I brought some coffee and scones. Would you like to share them with me?"
"Scones? Seriously?" She reached for the basket.
He snatched it away. "Yes, and believe it or not, I baked them myself."
Her eyebrows shot up. "You bake?"
"Why the note of surprise?"
She looked him over from head to toe. "It's just that you...don't look the type."
"Oh, I see. And just what 'type' do I look like?"
"A jock. More Hot Pockets than hot buttered scones."
He put his hand over his heart in mock indignation. "Hmm, okay. So I guess that means you don't want any then."
"I didn't say that. I mean, since you went to all that trouble, I guess it would be rude if I refused."
"Quite." He sat down on the bench beside her, looking pleased with himself. He took out a thermos and a container with the scones, and placed it between them. He poured a c
up of coffee and handed it to her.
He held up his cup and made a toast. "Here's to the beautiful artist who has captured my attention, whose name I don't know and, frankly, don''t want to know because that would spoil the mystery."
She rolled her eyes, but she smiled anyway. "Grace," she said at last.
"Grace. What a beautiful name."
She took a bite of a scone and raised an eyebrow.
He watched as she practically inhaled the scone and reached for another.
They talked for the next hour. She told him she was a student at NYU, studying both art and journalism. He confessed he was a lawyer and that he worked for a non-profit organization in the city.
She drained her coffee and he offered her more.
"No, thank you." She glanced at his watch and jumped up from the bench. "It's my turn to apologize now, Antonio Ramos. I'm sorry, but I have to run. I'm late for work, and there's a big show at the gallery tonight."" She crammed her things into her backpack and ran off.
"See you next week?" he called.
She turned and waved, and shouted, "If you're lucky, Antonio Ramos!"
Luckily, a train was just pulling into the station as she arrived and she hopped on. As the train hurried along the tracks, she thought about Antonio Ramos and her stomach tightened. Forget about him, Grace. He'll only break your heart, or leave.
Or both.
Chapter Seventeen
Grace hurried into the Franco-Rinaldi art gallery, cheeks flushed from having sprinted all the way from the subway station. Vinni Franco looked at her, hands on his hips, his mane of dark hair pointing in all directions.
"Well, Principessa," he said. "I hope he was charming and ridiculously good-looking."
"I'm so sorry." She pushed past him and dropped her things at the front desk. "I was sketching in the park and I totally lost track of time. It won't happen again, I promise."
The gallery was co-owned by Francesca Rinaldi and Vinni Franco. Francesca was the money and ran the business side of things. Vinni was in charge of the talent, scouting artists both new and renowned, and together they planned their shows. Both had become good friends to her. Vinni thought she had real talent and had taken her under his wing.
Vinni was Italian, temperamental, and very gay, and even though he'd lived in America for almost twenty years, he still spoke as if he were on a runway in Milan. He told Grace she looked like an Italian princess, so he always called her Principessa. She doubted he even knew her real name.
Sometimes, after the gallery closed, the two of them would spend hours working on a sketch or a painting. She learned a lot in her art classes, but she learned even more from him.
He swished over to the front desk and held out his hand. "Let me see it," he said, referring to her sketchbook. He knew she sketched at the park on Saturdays, and he always wanted to see her work.
She was reluctant to hand it over but she knew he would insist, so she gave it to him. He told her he loved the bridge, and admired amount of detail she captured with a minimal number of strokes. He could see how the light danced on the bridge, leaving part of it in shadow while the rest was aglow.
"This should be in oils," he said, flipping to the next page. To the sketch of Antonio.
Grace reached for the book but Vinni held out his hand to stop her. His smile stretched from ear to ear. "Is this why you were late today, Principessa?"
She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. "No, it was nothing. He was just some boy in the park," she said, and meant it.
"Honey, this ain't no boy. This here is a man!"
They both laughed. He was right. Antonio was not a boy, he was a man.
But still.
With the holiday season fast approaching, the gallery planned a hectic schedule of shows, and Francesca asked Grace if she could come in earlier on Saturdays to help with the extra workload. She agreed. It meant that she would not be able to go to the park to sketch, but she loved working the shows and meeting the new artists they featured--a group she hoped to join someday. Besides, it also meant that she wouldn't see Antonio Ramos for a while, which was a relief.
In the spring, Grace took a Saturday morning art class, and Antonio Ramos became a distant memory.
1999
In the fall of her senior year, Grace took a class in investigative journalism and loved it. For her class project, she decided to research the name Elena Borgese to see whether she could find out anything about her mother. When she'd first learned the name, she'd looked through historical phone books from the greater Los Angeles area and found nothing. But now she had the tools to spread that search much further. She figured it shouldn't be that difficult because the name was rather unusual.
Tapping into the various databases she'd learned about--census data, tax records, vital statistics--she was able to find only one person with her mother''s name in the greater Los Angeles area, but this woman had died ten years before Grace was born. She was able to locate a few other women in other parts of the country with the same name, but none seemed the right age to be her mother. It was as if Elena Borgese had never existed. Or, if she did, had disappeared into thin air.
She'd set out on this project not expecting to actually find anything about her mother, but somehow the fact that she'd come up with nothing still stung, and she wondered whether the longing for her mother would ever go away.
After handing in her final project, a dark cloud of gloom settled into her. That night she stepped into the shower and allowed the pain to envelop her. Tears flowed like lava, hotter even than the water that pulsed her body. Her shoulders shook as she cried the tears of longing.
She allowed herself to wallow in the hurt for a few days, then she picked herself up and dusted herself off, and reminded herself that she was okay. Better than okay. She'd been doing fine on her own for the past three years, and she was happy.
Wasn't she?
2000
Grace graduated summa cum laude. When she took the stage, she heard Valerie screaming and whistling for her, and it brought a smile to her face. After the graduation ceremony, Grace launched her cap into the air and the girls squealed in delight. They'd done it. They were two independent women on the verge of their future.
Valerie introduced Grace to her current boyfriend, Greg, whom she had been dating for the past two months. Unlike Grace, Valerie had several boyfriends over the past four years, and was quick to tease Grace for being such a social recluse.
A term that didn't bother her one bit.
Grace had multiple job offers to consider upon graduation. After exploring all her options, she made the decision to become a freelance journalist because it offered her the freedom to choose the pieces she wrote, and gave her time to work on her art. She'd sold several articles to various publications while she was in school and, living frugally, had stashed away everything she earned, spending only her money from the gallery.
She rented a loft in Greenwich Village and invited Valerie to room with her. Valerie would be starting law school at NYU that fall on a tuition-only scholarship, and Grace was happy to help her friend in any way she could.
Grace continued to work at the gallery when they had a show and needed extra help, and Vinni remained her artistic mentor. He told her that her work was really good and promised that, at the right time, he would let her show.
Valerie found a job for the summer, answering phones at a non-profit legal organization called Project, Free the Innocent.
"It only pays minimum wage," she told Grace over dinner one night, "but it's right up my alley."
When school started, Valerie continued to work for the Project as an intern without pay. By the spring of her first year, she had started dating one of the associate directors of the Project, Matt Clark, and was, she said, in love for the first time.
Over dinner one night in early April, Valerie introduced Grace to Matt, and Grace asked him about his work. He explained that Free the Innocent helps to free people who had been wrongly convicted of
serious crimes. Grace was very interested in learning more and thought that others probably would be, too. So she asked him if she could do a piece about it.
Matt invited her to come down to their offices the following weekend, and promised to set up some interviews with various staff members. She spent the next week researching the organization before the interview.
Free the Innocent was located in a nondescript building in Soho. Matt greeted her with dark circles under his eyes, explaining that he'd just pulled an all-nighter working on a case that was frustrating the heck out of him.
It sounded like a good opener for an article. "Tell me about it," she said.
Their client, a thirty-one-year-old man who had been accused of raping and murdering a woman, had been imprisoned for the past eleven years. When he was convicted, DNA evidence was not widely used. Their client maintained his innocence all along, and after one of the inmates at the prison had been set free when DNA evidence proved he didn't commit the crime, his client wrote to them asking for their help.
"That was over two years ago," Matt said. "Since then, we've had the DNA evidence examined, and it shows the guy is actually innocent. The problem is that courts are always reluctant to overturn a verdict. We'll keep trying to get him a new trial, but the process is taking longer than everyone would like."
"Are there a lot of people like your client, imprisoned for crimes they didn't commit?"
"Fewer today since DNA has become routine, but yes."
Grace shook her head. "I can't begin to imagine what it would be like to spend your life in prison for something you didn't do. Thanks again for the chance to write the article.""
"I should be thanking you. We can use all the exposure we can get."
Matt showed her around the office, explained what each group was working on, and introduced her to several of the staff members. After talking with Matt and some of the other staff, Grace had a good feel for the personalities behind the Project and, along with her earlier research, had enough to start work on the article. She promised to send him a draft for his review within a few days.
The Many Lives of June Crandall Page 9
