by Ann McMan
“Mixed together?”
“Not yet. But the night is young.”
“I think I’ll pass. How about some hot tea?”
Grace smiled. “That, I’m sure I can manage.” She opened a cabinet. “Chinese Gunpowder, Lemon Zinger or Earl Grey?”
“Surprise me.”
“Given your totally uncharacteristic ensemble, I think we’ll throw caution to the wind and go with Lemon Zinger. In fact, I think I’ll join you.”
Abbie glanced down at her clothes. “What makes you think this outfit is uncharacteristic for me?” She sounded amused.
Grace filled a kettle with water and set it to boil on the gas range.
“Well. You said you were in disguise—or words to that effect.”
“No, I didn’t. I said I didn’t think I’d be recognizable dressed this way.”
“Is there a difference?” Grace asked.
“Absolutely. No one at St. Albans has seen enough of me to know what ‘typical’ is. Since I’ve only ever appeared here dressed like a Kelly Girl, I felt my casual attire would conceal my true identity.”
Grace was intrigued. “Which is?”
“Someone who eschews convention.”
“As your presence here would indicate?”
Abbie smiled. “Precisely.”
The kettle began to rumble and hiss.
“That was fast,” Abbie observed.
“Yeah.” Grace took two mugs down from a shelf and dropped a tea bag into each one. “One of my recent improvements. Dean talked me into it. This thing boils water in about twelve seconds. And, because it’s gas, it still works when the power goes out—which you’ll learn happens a lot up here in the tundra.”
“Oh, I remember. Growing up in Québec, I had to learn how to do all kinds of things in the dark.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
Abbie laughed. “I guess it does.”
“And here I thought you were just a fast learner.”
“You do tend to inspire me.”
Grace didn’t have a snappy response for that one—at least, not one she could make without blushing. So she feinted and held up Abbie’s mug of tea. “Cream? Sugar?”
Abbie shook her head. “Just plain.”
“Wanna go sit down in my study? It’s the only room in the house that’s not covered in tarps or sawdust.”
“I’d love to.”
Abbie followed her down the hall, with Grendel trotting close behind her. Grace fought hard not to veer off and make an immediate detour into the downstairs bedroom. The only thing that stopped her was a lingering vision of Dean and CK.
I really need to burn some smudge sticks of white sage in there . . .
“Have a seat.” She waited for Abbie to get settled before handing her the mug of tea.
Abbie glanced at the open bottle of Rémy and empty tumbler. “I take it you were in here when I arrived?”
Grace nodded. “As I said, it was a shitty day. It didn’t help when I got home and took a look at the backyard.”
“I was going to ask you about that.”
“Yeah. Ole Grendel here could work for Sunbelt.”
“You mean she dug all those holes?”
“Yep. In one day.” Grace sipped her tea. “The best part was when I discovered what she dug up.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Only if your last name isn’t Bundy.”
Abbie’s eyes widened in understanding.
“Yep,” Grace nodded her head. “It’s ammo. A lot of it. In just about every caliber.”
“Where in the world did that come from?”
“Oh. Cabela’s. Walmart. Bass Pro Shops. The bed of my brother’s pickup. You know,” she waved a hand, “the usual places.”
“Wait. You’re saying your brother buried ammunition in your backyard?”
“Ten-four, Kemosabe.”
Abbie’s jaw dropped. “Dear god.”
“Don’t worry. I expressed the magnitude of my displeasure. He’s coming over tomorrow to collect his contraband—and to repair the lawn.”
“So what else happened this week?”
“Apart from the detestable monotony of grading about ten thousand badly written theme papers, it appears I’ve been invited to a fancy dinner party.”
Abbie raised an eyebrow. “Really? Where?”
Grace smiled at her. “Your place.”
“My place?” Abbie asked with confusion.
“Yep. Next Thursday. You. Me. A soupçon of trustees. And about thirty other members of the St. Albans community. I gather it’s some kind of pre-inaugural soirée. I got tagged to represent the English department,” she rolled her eyes, “much to the chagrin of my nemesis, Bryce Oliver-James—or, as CK calls him, ‘Blowjob.’”
Abbie nearly spewed Lemon Zinger across the room.
“Sorry,” Grace apologized. “I guess that was TMI.”
“I don’t get it,” Abbie mused. “How is it you know about this and I don’t?”
“Beats me. Apparently, the invites went out yesterday. I guess they kind of figured you were a captive audience.”
“I guess.”
“So. Any thoughts about how we navigate this one?”
“Oh, god.” Abbie shook her head. “I have no idea.”
“Maybe I can come down with something,” Grace suggested. “Something exotic and highly contagious.” She gave the idea some thought. “Anthrax? Norwegian scabies?”
Abbie knitted her brows. “What on earth are Norwegian scabies?”
“Not something you wanna fuck around with, believe me.”
“And you know about them, because?”
“I watch a lot of Nat Geo on sleepless nights.”
Abbie shook her head. “I have so much to learn.”
“Well you’d better take a couple of crash courses on playing it cool, because I’m gonna be a damn basket case.”
Abbie ran a hand across her forehead. “When did you say this is taking place?”
“Next Thursday night.”
“Merde. My parents will be here. They’re arriving early for the big event on Monday.”
“Oh? Great.” Grace wished she had more cognac. Right now, even a red wine vinegar cocktail was sounding pretty good. “That’ll be cozy.”
“Believe me when I tell you it will be anything but.”
“Do you want me to get out of it? I could ask Bryce to take my place . . . he’d probably soil himself with excitement.”
Abbie looked at her. “Absolutely not. I refuse to have you take a back seat to anyone because of me.”
Grace exhaled dramatically. “Even though it goes against my nature to say this, we should try to be optimistic. I mean . . . I’m pretty much plankton when it comes to the taxonomy of St. Allie’s. Therefore, it’s entirely likely that the event-planning gods will stash my place card at the darkest, remotest table reserved for lower life forms.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Abbie . . .”
“Grace? If I had my way, you’d be seated in a place that doesn’t require a place card—or a chair.”
Grace blushed. The more she tried to minimize it, the worse it got. “You’re not helping,” she said.
“I’d say I’m sorry . . .”
Grace finished for her. “But it would be a lie?”
“Yep.”
“Great. So what do we do?”
“We manage it. Just like we’ll learn to manage a thousand other things.”
“I dunno, Abbie. I think we’re gonna get busted.” She didn’t tell Abbie that she was pretty sure Brittney had already busted them. And there was no way to know how many people she’d already poured her heart out to. It was only a matter of time before the whole thing imploded on them.
“Grace.” Abbie leaned forward in her chair. “We aren’t doing anything wrong. We’re both consenting adults. We have the right to explore our feelings for each other.”
“I don’t know, A
bbie. If it were a year from now, I’d probably agree with you. But there is no way a person like Bryce won’t view this as anything but a profound conflict of interest. And he won’t be alone in that—he’ll have a significant pocket of support in the faculty. And probably among many of the older board members—especially the ones with historic ties to the church.”
Abbie took a deep breath, but didn’t say anything.
“That’s not all.” Grace leaned forward, too. “You have to decide if you’re ready to permanently tar your professional reputation with the discovery that you’re romantically involved with another woman.”
Abbie nodded slowly.
Grace wasn’t sure what the simple gesture signified agreement with. “You just expressed frustration that your parents would be present on Thursday night. Is that because you don’t want them there, period—or because you don’t want them to find out about . . .” Grace didn’t complete her sentence.
“You?” Abbie asked.
“Well. Yeah.”
“Is it fair so say both?”
Grace gave her a sad smile. “Maybe not fair. But honest.”
Abbie took hold of Grace’s hand. “My reasons for not wanting my parents to know about us isn’t because of you or your sex. Please believe me about that. They’ve never approved of anything I’ve done in my life—nothing. Having them here, piously sitting on the sidelines and weighing in on any aspect of this experience—the reputation of the college, the appropriateness of the position, the intentional changes in direction I’ve chosen to make with my work and my life—will only serve to undermine my peace of mind—and my resolve.” She squeezed Grace’s fingers. “This is a referendum on my need to be free from their unceasing censure—not a plan to conceal the depth of my honest attraction to you.”
Abbie’s speech was a lot for Grace to take in. And she felt it would take more than the moment at hand to process the depth of it. Grace wasn’t sure how much to read into any of what Abbie had said about the two of them—or what it meant about how she should conduct herself on Thursday night.
She wasn’t really sure about anything.
But right now, she cared less about pushing for clarity, and more about offering Abbie some show of acceptance and support.
She turned her hand over beneath Abbie’s and tugged her forward.
This time, it wasn’t really a kiss—although anyone else who’d happened to be on hand to witness it would have disputed that claim. For Grace, it was a more a direct acknowledgment of the sad and sweet gratitude she felt for all that Abbie had just expressed. And the act of making that connection came cascading down around them, wrapped in faint, dull flashes of what Grace now recognized as the same hopeless longing that always lurked on the perimeter of their deepest interactions.
Abbie raised a hand to Grace’s face. The gesture was simple and calming. Grace leaned into her warm touch and wished the contact could infuse her with a tenth of the certainty Abbie seemed to feel.
But the road to getting something worth having was never simple—at least, not if the Sisters at Bishop Hoban High School were to be believed. And they, like the sanctified sideshow barkers they were, had hammered into Grace—and generations of other pockmarked adolescents—the rote belief that enduring a path of hardship and strife would lead to glorious rewards for the exercise of faith and perseverance.
That was the story, anyway.
But right now, sharing such close and intimate space with Abbie, she wanted to raise her hand and declare her fealty to this holy quest—and any other impossible idea.
Abbie began to rain soft kisses along the side of her face.
What about believing six impossible things before breakfast?
Abbie kissed her throat.
I can do that.
Abbie kissed her again—on her collarbone this time.
Dear god . . . you can make it an even dozen . . .
# # #
Any betting person would’ve set the odds at better than evens that this evening would end with Grace and Abbie making the short trip upstairs.
It had to be her bedroom, however, because there was no way Grace would be able to exorcise the graphic images of Dean atop CK that were burned into her gray matter like a profane daguerreotype. That meant the handy downstairs bedroom was off limits. So Grace led Abbie, in halting and deliciously productive fits and starts, up the kitchen stairs to her dormer room.
“I thought we weren’t going to do this again,” Grace muttered against Abbie’s lips.
“What are we doing?”
Grace had her pinned against the wall on the second landing. They were actively engaged in an energetic exploration of anything but reason.
“I think it’s called willful commission of acts constituting conflict of interest?”
“Really?” Abbie was beginning to breathe heavily. “I’m not feeling the least bit conflicted.” She demonstrated the veracity of her declaration by means that made Grace’s head spin. “Are you?”
Grace couldn’t reply because she was too busy trying to remember how that thing called standing up was supposed to work.
Abbie was right. She was feeling a lot of things at that moment—but conflicted was no longer among them.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends . . .
In her happy haze of uncharacteristic optimism, Grace failed to notice that Grendel hadn’t followed them on their halting journey upstairs—not until she heard her barking somewhere at the back of the house.
It wasn’t nine o’clock already, was it?
Then she heard the knocking, followed by a voice calling out—a decidedly female voice. It was an irritatingly waifish and gratingly thin female voice that still managed to communicate an air of insistent privilege.
Lorrie. Oh, shit.
Grace dropped her head to Abbie’s shoulder. What a time for another fucking test of faith and perseverance.
“Grace? Are you home?” It was the voice again. Followed by louder and more determined knocking. “I’m here as promised.” Another series of knocks. “Grace? Please come rescue me from this salivating beast.”
“Who is that?” Abbie whispered.
“It’s Lorrie.”
“Who’s Lorrie?”
More knocking on the back door.
“Laurel Weisz.” Grace sighed and began to straighten her clothes. “The poet who’s our visiting artist this year.”
“You had a date?” Abbie sounded . . . Grace wasn’t sure how she sounded.
Grendel was really getting wound up now. It sounded like she was about to go through the screened door.
“No. Look. Lemme get down there and get rid of her before Grendel buries her in one of those ammo caches.” Grace squeezed Abbie’s arm with what she hoped was reassurance. “I’ll be right back.”
She took off down the steps and headed for the back porch.
“There you are,” Lorrie exclaimed when Grace appeared in the open doorway to the house. “I began to wonder if you were hiding from me.”
No flies on you . . .
Grace called Grendel off and motioned for Lorrie to come inside. She was carrying a large paper bag with a grease-stained receipt stapled to its folded top.
“I brought dinner,” Lorrie exclaimed. “From the Thai place. I got both red and green curry, not knowing which degree of spice you’d prefer.”
Tell me this is not happening.
“Where should I set it down?” Lorrie asked. “The kitchen?” She pushed past Grace and entered the house. “How quaint this is. Are you renovating?”
I’m in a nightmare. Grace closed her eyes. This is my nightmare. Things like this don’t happen to real people. They only happen to Lucy and Ethel.
Grace herded Grendel outside so she wouldn’t be tempted to go fetch Abbie from the stairwell and drag her downstairs by her pant leg. Then she went in pursuit of Lorrie so she could nip this visit in the bud before it went any further.
Lorrie was already busy unpacking he
r paper satchel.
“You won’t believe who I saw on my way over here. Abbie Williams. She was cutting across Bank Street when I drove past. I almost didn’t recognize her because of how sloppily she was dressed—she looked like a student. I didn’t think she was coming back this early, did you? Maybe it won’t be as hard as you thought to get an appointment with her to ask about the magazine intro.” Lorrie was now opening and closing cabinet doors. “Where are your plates, Grace? I’m starving.”
Food was the last thing on Grace’s mind. She felt like she might pass out.
“Look, Lorrie . . . it’s awfully sweet of you to come by like this—and to bring dinner, but . . .”
“Oh, nonsense. I told you I was coming by to check on you, silly. Don’t you remember? So I thought we should make an evening of it. You looked so sad and out of sorts at our meeting today. I wanted to do something special to cheer you up.”
“I do appreciate that.” Grace made another valiant effort to let Lorrie down without coming across like an insensitive ass. “But I’m not really feeling up to company this evening.”
“Oh.” Lorrie crossed the kitchen and took hold of Grace’s face. Her hands felt like damp dishrags. “You poor baby. You do feel kind of warm. Are you running a fever?”
I was before you showed up.
“No.” Grace took hold of Lorrie’s hands and lowered them from her face. “I’m just a little overwhelmed right now by . . . things.”
Lorrie sighed. “I get it. It’s the tenure business, isn’t it? That Blake is an officious ass. I’ve known plenty of sniveling academics like him before—they’re all alike. You’re right not to trust him. He’d use anything to gain an advantage over you.”
Grace stared at her in amazement. Did somebody give her a fucking script?
Not to mention—Abbie was about twenty feet away, hearing all of this.
“No, Lorrie. That’s not it. I really think I’m coming down with something.” She tried to disengage her hands from Lorrie’s, but it wasn’t happening. Lorrie had latched on to her like a beggar tick.
“Oh, no,” she cooed. “Well, let’s get you into bed, then, and I’ll make you some hot tea.”
Bed? There was no fucking way she was getting anywhere near a bed with this Lilith in tow.
