by Ann McMan
“Yeah,” Abbie took Grace’s face between her warm hands, “about that. Remember I told you there was a chance I may have made a serious error in judgment?”
Grace was beginning to know Abbie well enough to smell a rat.
“What about?” she asked. “And am I going to like it or hate it?”
“You tell me,” Abbie said, tugging her closer. “It could go either way.”
“That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence,” Grace offered. Although, she did have to admit that the way Abbie was holding on to her was inspiring all kinds of other ideas.
“After our first few ill-fated attempts at trying to be alone together,” Abbie explained, “I decided that we needed to adopt a bolder strategy to ensure we could have uninterrupted time together.”
“That makes sense, I guess.” Grace was having a hard time concentrating because Abbie had started to add more . . . empirical emphasis to her explanation.
“When I heard about Grady selling the cabin,” she kissed along Grace’s neck, “I decided it was a no-brainer.” She blew lightly on Grace’s earlobe. “So, I bought it.”
Dear god . . . Abbie felt so damn wonderful. Grace was lost in sensation. Her head was swimming and she was losing focus. She knew she wouldn’t be able to remain standing much longer. Not if Abbie kept doing what she was doing with her hands and mouth.
“Je t’aime,” Abbie whispered.
It was all so luxurious. Everything Abbie was doing. Everything she was saying.
Wait a minute . . .
Grace’s eyes snapped open. She pushed away from Abbie’s exploring mouth.
“Hold on,” she said. Her voice was husky. “What did you say?”
“That I love you.” Abbie repeated.
“Before that,” Grace prompted.
Abbie smiled at her. “The cabin,” she said.
“What about the cabin?”
“I bought it, Grace. For us.”
The words were enough to tip the balance of Grace’s tenuous hold on reality. In one dizzy and explosive moment, she surrendered her battle with gravity—and with everything else she’d fought so hard to resist throughout her life. Faith. Happiness. Outcomes that were fair and just. A belief that one day, life would offer up something permanent—an enduring connection that would thrive and grow stronger, instead of withering on the vine of indifference. And love. Love that would last and stand with her through the rest of time.
Here it was. Here it all was—hers for the taking.
In her freefall of surrender, she spread her arms and welcomed them—Abbie, Grendel, and a lifetime of wayward, prodigal dreams that had come home at last.
About the Author
ANN McMAN is the author of eight novels and two short story collections. She is a two-time Lambda Literary Award finalist, a two-time Independent Publisher Award (IPPY) medalist, and a five-time winner of Golden Crown Literary Society Awards. In 2017, she was awarded the Alice B. Medal for Outstanding Body of Work. Ann and her wife, Bywater Books Publisher Salem West, live in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, with their two dogs and an exhaustive supply of vacuum cleaner bags.
Acknowledgments
My love affair with Vermont began nearly two decades ago when I had the great fortune to discover a place called Shore Acres. Because it was the height of the tourist season, they had no room at the inn (literally), but still found a way to accommodate me after my arrangements for lodging at another place fell through. So, I stayed. And I have returned to Shore Acres every year—sometimes multiple times—to write, research, and replenish my soul. It truly is the place I feel most at home—and I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the enduring debt of gratitude I owe to Susan and Mike Tranby, and to my entire Shore Acres family. You’ve enriched my life beyond imagining, and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
This book came into being because of the prodding, encouragement, and downright nagging I received from an army of readers who loved a short story called “Falling from Grace,” originally published in 2012 as part of the story collection Sidecar. There is not enough space here to reprint all the email exchanges I had with folks who asked, “Will you ever tell us what happens to Grace and Abbie?” If we did, this book would be longer than War and Peace—and have nearly as many battle scenes. Who knew those two characters had so many legs? Four of ’em, to be exact—and taken together, long enough to flesh out a bona fide, book-length story.
Enter Beowulf for Cretins, in which Grace and Abbie get all the ink they need (or as much as time and reason would permit) to resolve the mess they managed to create in their shorter prequel.
You’ll have to let me know if you think their story is well and truly sorted out now . . .
I have many people to thank for their help and insight.
Captain Holly of Driftwood Tours—best charter service in the Champlain Islands—introduced me to Butler Island, a place of wonders, and an out-of-the-way spot for really great hot dogs. She was even (mostly) patient in the face of repeated entreaties to pilot her trusty pontoon past Bernie Sanders’ North Hero Island house . . . twice.
No one writes in a vacuum—not unless they work for Oreck. None of this book would have been possible without the keen insight, collaboration, participation, determination, and steadfast encouragement (often delivered in the form of an Adidas-clad foot up the wiz wang) of my beloved Salem West, aka Buddha. You make everything I do better, and I never want to learn what it would be like to write a book—or live a life—without you. That is truer than ever after the horrors of the past year—which I never would have survived without you. Thank you for being my person.
To my Bywater family—Slumdog, Hot Lips, SKP, Stef, Fay, RaLo, and Radar (who cleans up my verbal messes)—I don’t ever want to leave home without you. In fact, I pretty much don’t want to leave home period— unless it’s to go back to Vermont. And even then, I want you all along for the ride. Thank you all for keeping our little beacon of light shining on the best books in the bidness.
Nancy Squires—you improve everything you wave your red pen over, and I thank you for your superb job editing this book. Okay, so is this where I ask, “Hey?” I never can remember . . .
Thank you, Christine and Lou Lou, for taking time from your already impossible schedules to read early drafts of the book, and to plow through the whole shootin’ match as soon as it left my hot little hands. Since neither of you suggested I enter a witness relocation program, I guess that means you think it turned out okay. If not, please don’t tell me . . . not unless you toss a really BIG steak in first.
Eternal love and adoration go to Christine “Bruno” Williams—The Voice That Launched a Thousand Subarus™. Thank you, Bruno, for agreeing to be the voice of Ann McMan. You always make me sound taller . . . and better looking. Since your fan base is now about nine million times larger and more devoted than mine, I think this means our partnership has worked out pretty well. Through you, I got amazing audiobooks and a beloved friend for life. What a coup!
Merci to the amazing (and decorative) Québécois, Pam Roberts for translating Abbie’s meltdown into comprehensible French. I hope you enjoyed your cameo. And thank you to college HR professional extraordinaire, Kim Ball for helping me to navigate Grace and Abbie’s looming career nightmares—thank goodness Abbie was smart enough to follow your breadcrumbs.
As always, I am humbled by the starring role Carole Cloud plays in my life. Thank you, dear friend, for being my personal Rizzo.
Lynn “Skippy” Ames? I will always be grateful to you for giving me a mantra that kept me sane near the grueling end of this project: Focus on content, Thumper. Not word count. I met my incremental little goals every day—and you deserve the credit. You know I love you dearly.
I offer thanks to our late, beloved, sweet, and totally paranoid little dog, Gracie, for being the inspiration for Grendel. Implied threats still abound, Gracie. Thanks for keeping us vigilant— and for sending Dave and Ella our way to take up the slack.
My own personal Nurze, Jeanne Barrett Magill, kept me far from sober when the going got rough. Keep on pouring, Nurze. Your friendship (and strict enforcement of Lodge protocols) make me better in every way.
Thanks to Biz, who is more than a dear friend and adopted niece—she is frequently the only adult in the room. Biz? Please continue this activity.
Father Frank and Flora taught me (with great indulgence for my profound ignorance) about the marvel of eucatastrophe. Thank you both for standing fast at the helm of my moral compass. If my personal journey lands me anyplace worth the effort, you’ll get most of the credit.
I would be in violation of a solemn promise made to my dear friend, Sandra Moran, if I failed to make mention of how her mother, Cherie, lost her best shot to set a world’s record for FreeBASEing the Eiger while nine months pregnant. Sadly, when Cherie’s water broke, it lasted forty days and forty nights (hard to miss the irony there), and her window for making the historic climb closed with the onset of an especially brutal winter in Grindelwald. Although her hopes were dashed, Cherie did later recognize how the fates had smiled upon her—and not just because she was gifted with a Mensa baby. Later examination revealed that her idea of “freebasing” entailed an activity quite . . . different from rock climbing without equipment.
But that’s a story for another book . . .
Eternal thanks, finally, to my incredible mother and real life best friend, Dee Dee. You were my biggest champion and my harshest critic, wrapped up together in a super-sized bundle of love and contradiction. You taught me to read, to write, to love books, to ask hard questions, to tell the truth no matter how hard it was, to push myself to be better at whatever I chose to do, and to always fold my towels in thirds. It is intolerable to me that I cannot talk with you—even for two minutes. But I will always hear your voice, I will always remember the valuable things you taught me, and I will never not miss you. It pains me beyond reason that I’ve finally, sadly reached the place where I have written a book you never got to read. All that remains for me is to promise you that the next one I write will be better. Rest in peace, dear Dee Dee. I will always love you.
Books by Ann McMan
Dust
Hoosier Daddy
Festival Nurse
Backcast
Beowulf for Cretins: A Love Story
The Jericho Series
Jericho
Aftermath
Goldenrod
Story Collections
Sidecar
Three (plus one)
Bywater Books
Copyright © 2018 Ann McMan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
Print ISBN: 978-1-61294-117-2
Bywater Books First Edition: June 2018
Cover designer: Ann McMan, TreeHouse Studio
This novel reimagines and expands on “Falling From Grace,” which was first published in the short story collection, Sidecar by Ann McMan.
Sidecar was originally published by Nuance Books, a division of Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company, Fairfield, California in 2012.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61294-118-9
By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Bywater Books.
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This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events described by the author are fictitious. No resemblance to real persons, dead or alive, is intended.
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