Oh, God, no.
There, on the floor, sat the trunk she'd had since St. Andrews, empty now, the contents surrounding her husband like a moat. A stack of her journals towered beside him, and he held one in his hands.
Regaining her equilibrium, she burst into the room. "What the hell are you doing?" She snatched the journal from his hands. "How dare you go through my things! How could you do this to me?"
"I...I'm sorry--"
"Get out! Please, just get out. Leave me alone."
Antonio hurried from the room and Grace shoveled everything back into the trunk. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. He wasn't supposed to learn about her past like this. She was supposed to tell him...was going to tell him...someday.
When she finished putting everything back in the trunk she noticed the lock, now broken, laying on the floor. She found some string and tied the lock closed. Then she dragged the trunk over to the closet and shoved it into the corner.
When she finished, she turned to leave the room and stopped in her tracks. Antonio stood in the doorway with a look on his face she didn't recognize. Was it shock? Horror? Disgust?
He shoved his hands into his pockets and fixed his gaze on the floor somewhere between them. "Grace, I--"
She put up her hand to stop him. "No, please, you don't have to say a word. I get it." Her stomach was in full revolt and she pushed past him, snatched her purse from the arm of the couch where she'd left it, and ran into the safety of the moonless night.
She shuffled aimlessly through the streets, weaving through throngs of faceless people lining the streets of Manhattan. She was completely numb. Finding her entire childhood sprawled out on the floor and in the hands of her husband left her feeling...naked, exposed.
She roamed the streets until almost three o'clock in the morning, and finally decided to go back to the gallery. She let herself in and curled up on the cot in the back, falling asleep quickly from exhaustion.
She must've sensed his presence, though he didn't say a word. She opened her eyes and saw Vinni standing over her. She blinked a few times to clear her confusion. Was it morning already?
"Good morning, Principessa," he said a little too loudly. "I hope this doesn't mean there's trouble in paradise."
"No. No trouble." She rolled off the cot and folded the blanket. "We're finished, over, kaput. Simple as that."
"Oh dear." Vinni sat down on the cot and patted the spot next to him. "Sit, and tell Uncle Vinni everything."
She'd never told Vinni or Francesca about her past, and she gave him just enough details now so that he could understand her outrage. If he was surprised, he didn't let on, and she loved him for that.
"Do you know for sure that he read your journals?"
"He had one in his hands when I walked in. And a stack of them in his lap. The rest of them were stacked up next to him."
"Well, it certainly sounds incriminating, but until you know for sure, I don't think I'd assume he read them. He's your husband, Principessa, for better or worse. Remember? You can't just run out on him because you're angry or because you think he did something terrible. You need to talk to him.""
"Why bother? If I didn't leave, he would've."
"Is that what you want him to do?"
"No, of course not, but that won't stop it from happening."
Vinni pulled her into his arms. "There, there, cara mia. Uncle Vinni is right here. I'll always be right here."
She clung to him and sniffled. "I sound pretty pathetic, don't I?"
"You sound like someone who was dealt a life she didn't deserve. Someone who had situations and people forced on her without having any say in the matter. It sucks, Grace, big time. But you're all grown up now and you have to learn to face the challenges in your life head-on, and not run from them."
That brought a small smile. "And if I don't want to grow up?"
"Tough. Antonio loves you and from what I've seen, he's a good man, and he's not going anywhere. If you're intent on destroying your marriage, you'll succeed. But if you want it to last, then trust him. Tell him your secrets, and if he doesn't run for the hills, then you'll know you were wrong. And if he does...well, at least you'll know."
She buried her face into his chest and clung to him. "I'm afraid," she said in a small voice.
"Of course you are, Principessa. But you have to create the life you want. If you want trust, you have to give it. Same goes for love. Stop being a victim to your past and be a survivor."
His words hit her like a cement truck, and she remembered her counselor from child services giving her the same advice. God, they were right. She didn't want to be a victim anymore. She stood up, grabbed her purse, kissed Vinni, and left the gallery.
She ran all the way home in the pouring rain, excited and nervous, but determined to tell Antonio everything. And let the chips fall where they may. Whatever happened, she didn't want to live like a victim anymore.
She threw open the front door and called his name, but got no response. She ran to the bedroom, pulled open his closet and drew in a sharp breath. Several of his suits were gone. Her mouth went dry.
This isn't happening.
She sat down on the bed, the sound of her breath filling the air.
What am I going to do now?
Call him. Tell him to come home.
Before she lost her nerve, she picked up the phone and called him at the office. No answer. She tried his cell phone, only to find it vibrating on the kitchen counter.
She called him back at the office and left a voicemail message, telling him how sorry she was for storming out, and asked him to please come home. When he got it, he'd come home. And she'd be waiting.
For the next hour, she paced the hallway and replayed Vinni's words. Could she have been wrong? Was it possible he hadn't read the journals? Had she jumped to the wrong conclusion? Choosing to believe that Vinni had been right, she went back to the closet in the studio and fished out the items she was looking for, including Theodore Izzle, and brought them back to the bedroom. When he got home, she would give him the journals and ask him to read them. All of them. It would be her gift to him, the part of her she'd kept hidden, so he could know her fully and she could stop living a lie. Could stop pretending those things didn''t happen. Didn't matter. Because they did. They made her who she was, good or bad. And he could decide whether she was worth loving.
Unable to sit for more than a few seconds, she paced all afternoon, waiting anxiously for Antonio to come home. She made dinner and waited for him, and when the summer sky turned dark, she tossed the food in the garbage. She took a long, hot bath with a glass of wine, hoping it would relax her, and then crawled into bed.
She kissed her old bear and snuggled him to her, as she'd done so many times before when her heart was breaking. Tears trickled down her face and onto the bear as the clock struck midnight, and Antonio still had not come home.
Didn't he get her message? He must've by then. She knew how busy he'd been at work lately and, despite the fact that it was Sunday, surely that''s where he'd gone. Right? She drifted in and out of sleep after that and woke up in a panic at seven o'clock the next morning. She leapt out of bed, heart racing, and searched the apartment for any sign he''d come home during the night. But there was none.
He had left her. Just like she'd feared.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Grace walked around in a daze for the next two days, too numb to feel the pain his leaving caused. By Friday, the numbness had turned to anger. So it was true. He'd read her journals and run. She just wished...if she hadn''t agreed to marry him, everything would be so much less complicated.
She stood in the middle of the living room and looked around at the newly renovated place. This was her home, but it felt like a prison. It housed all her secrets, all of her pain, and all of her hopes, now shattered and lying in pieces on the hardwood floor.
She thought about her mother. If only she'd been born to someone else--someone who actually loved her, wante
d her--her life would''ve been so different. She hated her mother and longed for her at the same time. She hated herself even more for feeling that longing. She wanted her mother to come and rescue her. To tell her it had all been a mistake. But no mother was coming for her. It was she that was the mistake. Her mother''s mistake.
The familiar pain of longing, gone for so many years, crept into her veins and she shook her head to push it away. She picked up a magazine from the coffee table and hurled it. At what, she didn't care. Something. She wanted to hurt something as badly as she hurt. She picked up another and threw it with such force that it shattered a picture frame. It felt good. Liberating, even.
There were more pictures on the mantel, pictures from her wedding day. She picked up more magazines and took aim. When she ran out of magazines, she grabbed books from the bookshelf and launched them until every one of the pictures lay shattered in a heap on the floor.
She eyed the picture hanging above the decorative fireplace. It was the picture Antonio bought for her in Rome on their honeymoon, just a few months before. She grabbed more books from the shelf, turned and took aim, but stopped cold before launching the first one.
There, in the middle of the living room, stood her husband.
Antonio put his hands up as if in surrender, and the books fell to the ground. She looked at the bags he'd placed on the floor beside him, and then up at him. Was he home? Had he changed his mind? Did she even want him now? The past week had been a living hell, but she'd survived. All by herself.
"You're...you're here,"" she said, breathless from her tirade.
"I live here, remember? I know you're mad at me, but you're my wife and I love you. We can work this out."
"But you...left me. You packed your things and walked out. You read all of my secrets and you left."
He shook his head. "Grace. I didn't leave you. I left you a note telling you I had to fly to Oklahoma to consult on a case. I left you the number of the hotel and told you to call me if you wanted to talk, otherwise I'd be home as soon as I could."
She stared at him and shook her head. "You didn't leave me a note. Antonio, there was no note."
He marched into the kitchen and searched the counters, the hunt growing a little frantic after a moment. Then he bent down and reached into the space between the counter and the refrigerator and fished out an envelope. He walked across the room and placed it in her hand.
She looked at the envelope. "You left me a note? You mean...you didn't leave me?" Her voice was small. A child's voice.
Antonio took her shoulders in his strong hands, and looked deeply into her eyes. "No, Grace, I didn't leave you. And I didn't read your journals, either. They''re filled with your private memories and your secrets. I would never betray you by reading them."
He moved in closer and she backed away.
"But...you..." The room spun and her legs buckled as the emotion of the past week overcame her.
Antonio grabbed her just before she fell. He lowered her to the couch and sat beside her.
"Oh God." He took her trembling hand in his. "I'm so sorry I didn''t call. I wanted to. But I wanted to give you space. I didn't think I'd be gone so long. I thought you would've read my letter but, oh God--"
He pulled her into his arms and held her until the trembling ceased.
She drew back and met his gaze. "I'm sorry I didn't give you a chance to explain," she said. "I saw the journals on your lap...and the one in your hands...and I jumped to the wrong conclusion. I'm sorry, Antonio."
He nodded, but the tense look on his face told her he was still upset. Was her apology not enough? Had she gone too far this time? What must he be thinking after all that had happened?
After a long silence, he reached for her hand and looked into her eyes. "Grace, I want you to know that whatever happened in your life, whatever secrets you have, it's okay. I love you no matter what. There is nothing you can tell me that will change that.""
With every fiber of her being she wanted to believe him. She searched his eyes for confirmation. They were the same eyes she'd looked into on their wedding day. Now was her opportunity to tell him everything. To correct the lies she'd told him about her childhood, and to tell him all the sordid details of her life. He might still leave, but even if he did, she knew she would survive. Somehow, she'd survive.
She closed her eyes and summoned the strength and determination she'd felt just a few days before to unburden herself and stop living like a victim. To tell him the truth about herself, and let the chips fall where they may.
She opened her mouth to speak but she couldn't drag the words from her throat. She tried again. "Antonio...I lied to you. About my family,"" she managed at last.
His brows pinched together and he shook his head. "I don't understand. What part was a lie?"
She walked over to the window and stared down at the street two stories below. It was a lovely summer night and the streets were littered with carefree tourists carrying shopping bags, and locals on their way to dinner. They seemed burden-free and she envied them.
"All of it." She turned to face him, leaning her trembling body against the window sill for support. "My parents aren't dead. I mean, they could be. I just have no idea who they are. They abandoned me when I was born and I ended up in an orphanage."
Antonio's eyes rounded in surprise. "Not even the aunt in Peekskill?"
She bit her lip and shook her head. "I was raised by nuns from the time I was an infant."
Leaning forward, Antonio propped his elbows on his knees. "Have you tried to find your parents?"
"Yes. I have my birth certificate, but my mother apparently doesn't want to be found."
"What about your father?"
"That part of my birth certificate is blank."
"So you were raised by nuns? In a convent?"
She smiled wearily. "No, in a series of orphanages and foster homes."
She moved to the chair opposite him and watched as he processed the information. Nausea rolled through her like a tidal wave and despite the chill from the air conditioning, her hands were clammy.
Leaning back on the sofa, Antonio locked his hands behind his head and stared through her.
A flurry of emotions played across his face and settled into a look she didn't recognize. Her heart thundered in her chest as the clock on the mantel ticked away the seconds. The seconds turned into minutes. She pressed her hand to her knee to stop her leg from jiggling. "It''s okay, Antonio. You can ask me anything you want."
He dropped his hands to his lap and met her gaze. "What was it like? Living in an orphanage, I mean."
Grace sat erect in the chair, hands clasped neatly on her lap but her eyes shifted down to her bare feet. Now faced with the moment of truth, she wasn't sure she could do this. She'd carefully packed her past away, secured the lock, and the notion of letting those memories loose after all this time was terrifying. But she'd come this far and there was no backing down now.
"The orphanage in Pasadena was small. We were like a family. I was happy there."
Antonio's mouth fell open. "You lived in California?"
She nodded. "Until I was eight. The orphanage closed then and we were sent to St. Andrews in Peekskill. St. Andrews was huge--more than two hundred children--and it was a big adjustment for the twelve of us. The kids there were different, not as friendly, and I had a hard time making friends. But I had Sister Maggie--she'd come with us from California--and she made everything alright for me."
"Why weren't you adopted? If you lived in the orphanage from the time you were an infant, why didn't anyone adopt you?""
She shrugged. "I'm not sure why I wasn't adopted as a baby, but when I was old enough to know what was happening, I made sure nobody wanted me on visitor''s day. I wanted to stay with Maggie. I loved her like a mother and I couldn't imagine being taken away from her. But then...when I was ten," she cleared her throat in an attempt to shove the emotions that were threatening to overcome her right back down to where they cam
e from, "when I was ten...everything changed."
Antonio's expression softened and emotion thickened his voice. "What happened when you were ten?"
Her first instinct was to say, "Nothing." Except, losing Maggie hadn't been nothing. It had been the first worst day of her life. Biting the inside of her cheek to stem the tide of tears that threatened she met his gaze. "Everything."
After telling him about the day Maggie left, Antonio rose from the couch and came toward her.
She put up a hand to stop him. "No, please don't. I don't want to cry anymore. I've cried enough tears for several lifetimes."
He sat down beside her but didn't touch her. "The sketches from your trunk, are those of Sister Maggie?"
Grace shook her head. "They are of someone else. Someone I once thought was my mother. I used to dream of her every time something...bad happened. She loved me...protected me.""
"After Maggie left, is that when you first dreamed of this woman?"
"June Crandall. Her name was June Crandall. And yes, she first appeared in my dreams after Maggie left."
Antonio blinked, twice. "The book you wrote...about June Crandall...those stories were based on your dreams?"
Grace inhaled sharply. "But you...you said you didn't read my..."
"I didn't read your journals, Grace. But I did read some of your stories. The book about June and some of your children's stories. I''m sorry if I shouldn't have, but they were good--really good."
Grace heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank you, I guess. And yes, every story was based on a dream I had. They felt so real--she felt so real--I just wanted to remember them. Remember her. So I wrote them down. Eventually I put them all into one book with the belief that someday I would meet her--meet my mother--and it would be the story of two souls destined to be together. I believed that she never meant to give me away. That the dreams were a message of hope so I would continue to believe until we found our way together. And then...and then we'd live happily ever after. Except...it was all a lie. A great big lie.""
The Many Lives of June Crandall Page 13
