Anywhere You Are (20 page)

Summer in Eastbridge was a hell of lot nicer than summer in Manhattan—or worse, Mumbai. Marc breathed deeply, and the warm, sweet air, perfumed with damp leaves and cut grass filled his lungs. It was 75, maybe 80 degrees, but not too hot, thanks to a light breeze blowing in from the southwest.

Currently, he, Jake, and Press were taking advantage of the weather by walking the back nine in lieu of stuffing themselves into an aging conference room. Briarwood looked gorgeous, timeless, with its gently rolling hills, the mature foliage accenting the course, the tulip trees standing at attention at the edge of the property. Every once in a while, he'd catch a glimmer of the white-painted clubhouse through the lush leaves. From here, he couldn't see the crumbling siding or the peeling paint—things that would be repaired once they got the golf course in hand—and it stood like a crown jewel, punctuating the property with old-school grandeur.

Unfortunately, construction on the golf course had come to an absolute standstill thanks to the preliminary injunction they'd been slapped with on Monday after the TRO hearing. Walter Williams had been furious, but there was nothing they could do. The designer had given his crew a break and worked on what he could, including mapping out a plan of attack for when the renovations resumed.

Which hopefully would happen sooner than they anticipated.

As suspected, when Marc laid out the information he'd gotten from Grace, namely that her picture—the veritable face of the campaign—hadn't even been based off a bird she'd seen at Briarwood, Press and Jake had been elated.

“So all we have to do is get her to sign something saying she has no part in the campaign and that her picture is being used improperly?” Press asked.

“Yes,” Marc said. “I already confirmed it with the lawyers.”

“But will she be on board with that?”

“Absolutely,” Marc stated. Grace might be an environmentalist, but she wasn't a liar. Plus, she'd made it clear that she wasn't after fame. She'd sign the affidavit, the bird nuts would back off Briarwood, and she could go back to living in relative anonymity.

“I knew that George Arbor never saw that fucking bird to begin with,” Jake said in his typically expletive-filled fashion. “Without the celebrity factor, their case will crumble.”

“We don't know about Arbor,” Marc reminded him. “He could very well have seen the bittern. But yes, I think that without the boost they're getting from Grace's painting, public support will dry up.”

“We also have to get the Department of Energy and Environmental Protection out here to do their examination,” Jake pointed out.

“We contacted DEEP the moment the
Eastbridge
Times
published Arbor's first letter,” Marc said. “But I put in a follow-up call to them right after the TRO hearing to see if they could speed up their review.”

“Good,” Jake said. “How fast can they do it?”

“Who knows?” Press said with a shrug. “This is the government we're talking about here.”

“They promised to do what they can,” Marc said. “But really, we're on their time schedule.”

Jake grunted. “In the meantime, get on that affidavit from Grace Davingham. And do it before you leave town again.”

“I'm on it,” he said.

He really wasn't looking forward to his upcoming trip to India. He'd much rather work from here. Even his Aunt Sarah's place was better than the luxury hotels he stayed in when he traveled. Because it felt like home.

“Regardless of what happens with DEEP, I've been thinking about making donations to a few environmental causes,” Marc said, “as a gesture of goodwill, so to speak.” Maybe it would help sway public opinion.

“Yes!” Press cried. “That's exactly what I've been pushing for this whole time. At least someone finally agrees with me.” He gave Marc a searching glance. “So what made you change your mind? Only a couple of weeks ago you told me that we should keep working until the lawyers told us to stop, and you weren't that enthusiastic about the town hall I held last week. So what the hell changed between then and now?”

“Not what,” Jake said.
“Who.”

Press stopped in his tracks. “Are you telling me that you and Grace Davingham are…?” He blinked. “Well this changes things, doesn't it?”

Marc glared at Jake, but the big man simply shrugged. “It was going to come out eventually. I mean, your picture was in the
Post.
Twice.” He turned to Press. “You didn't see them?”

Press shook his head. “I try not to read it anymore. Ah, God, it all makes sense how you found out that she painted the bird at the marsh and not on our property. You've been involved with her? For how long?” He frowned. Thought for a moment. “How did you two even meet? It's not like you run in the same circles.”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Marc said, his voice tight.

“Why?” Press wasn't being rude. He was honestly curious, and Marc couldn't blame him. He'd be curious if Press started dating someone. The man had a past with a capital “P,” and anyone he dated would have to understand that.

“Let's just say that it's complicated,” Marc said.

“Because she's your exact opposite in every way, shape, and form?”

“No,” Marc said. “Because we have bird nuts breathing down our necks.”

“I don't see what's complicated about it,” Jake said gruffly. “You like her, she likes you. What's standing in your way?”

Nothing. Except his workaholic ways, his travel schedule, her family,
his
family…But then there was the way she made him feel. Invincible. And when he felt that way, it made it seem like all the pain was worth it.

“Colby's got all the angles figured out already, I'm sure,” Press said drolly. “You always did, even in b-school.”

“Hardly,” he said. “I was a robot.”

“A robot who aced every single class,” Jake said. “Whatever you did, it worked.”

“You two did just fine on your own.”

“But together, we were unstoppable,” Press said. “Still are.”

“We'll see about that,” Marc said, nodding toward the pond ahead.

“Ah, the scene of the crime,” Press quipped. “Let's go take a look.”

As they got closer, Marc noted how unkempt it seemed. A thin film of algae floated atop the murky water, and raggedy weeds crowded the pond's edge and bled into the rough. He didn't see any wildlife, but then again, he didn't exactly know what he was looking for. “Have either of you actually been out here since all of this blew up?”

“Sure,” Jake said. “I've been out here with Walt a few times, just to check out the progress of the renovations.”

“It doesn't look like he's done much here,” Marc said, eyeing the overgrown pond.

“No,” Jake said. “The groundskeepers always kept the foliage nicely trimmed. I mean, it's a water hazard, but we didn't want it to look like an eyesore. But since Walt's been working on the back nine, no one's touched it. I'm pretty sure this was next on his list.”

“What are the plans?”

“To drain it, clean it up, replant and restock. That is, if we get clearance to do so.”

“We definitely can't leave it like this,” Press said.

“Sure we can,” Marc said.

“What are you talking about?” Jake said.

“Leave it like this. In fact, I think we should screw the whole thing.”

Press was looking at him suspiciously. “What whole thing?”

“The renovations. I think we should forget about them altogether,” Marc said, his voice deadpan. “We don't need a golf course. Or landscaping, for that matter. We could save a lot of time and effort, not to mention money, if we just let nature reclaim it all. Think of the habitat we'd be creating for all the bitterns who wanted a place to nest. Doing that would definitely get those bird nuts off our back.”

For a few long moments after he'd finished speaking, neither Jake nor Press said anything. They just stared at him as if he'd grown another head.

“Was that a joke?” Press finally asked.

Marc simply offered up a small smile.

“He made a joke,” Press said to Jake.

Jake was looking at him, dumbstruck. “Holy shit.”

“Oh, come
on,
” Marc said. “Surely you've heard me make a joke before.”

“No,” Press said slowly, still looking thunderstruck. “Can't say that I have.”

“Ditto,” said Jake.

“I have to say that given your reputations, I'm surprised that either of you would have anything new to experience,” Marc said blithely. “But I suppose there's a first time for everything now, isn't there?”

“Was that another one?” Press exclaimed, looking to Jake for confirmation.

Jake blinked at him. “What the hell?”

“Seriously,” Press said, narrowing his eyes. “What did you do with our friend? Name's Marc. Dark hair. Wears glasses. About this high.” Press held his hand up approximately six feet in the air. “Acts like a robot.”

Marc laughed, earning more startled glances from his friends, but he didn't care.

Somehow, over the last few months, he'd lost the urge to play by the book. He was more flexible, and he damned sure felt freer than he ever had.

Grace had done this. Challenged him, pushed him, kept him guessing every step of the way. She cut through all his crap, pushed him to be so much more than who he thought he was, and refused to settle for the façade he showed the world.

He was changing—slowly, but it was happening nonetheless. Robot man was gone, and in its place was the new Marc.

Who that was, he didn't yet know.

But he looked forward to finding that out.

Grace was slowly, surely losing her mind. She hadn't painted in days, because every time she went into her studio, she was interrupted by another annoying reporter encroaching on her private domain. She'd had to call the Eastbridge sheriff's department repeatedly to come to get them to back off. And her flower business was dead in the water thanks to those tricky buggers. She'd had so many fake requests in the last week, it was impossible to tell who was a legitimate client wanting an arrangement and who was simply
pretending
to be a client to lure her out for a meeting. The only client she knew without a doubt was legitimate was Briarwood—though there were problems with that, too.

Marc had been handling all the publicity much better than she thought he would, especially since she knew it must be affecting the way he operated. But since the afternoon of the reality show taping where he'd kicked her family out, he had been remarkably calm about the fiasco. He hadn't once yelled at any photographers or lost his cool—with her or anyone else—about the increased scrutiny on both him and Briarwood.

At least there was no one knocking on his front door, though she guessed that had something to do with trespassing laws rather than lack of interest. The paparazzi had made the connection between Marc and his aunt, and sometimes there were a few of them hanging out at the gates to the large property, but they hadn't dared to enter the old-money estate. For the most part when she was there, she was left blissfully alone.

So she'd started staying with him at his aunt's place, mostly because every time she went back to her house, a reporter or photographer was lying in wait. She missed her home; she missed her greenhouse. Most of all, she missed her studio.

When would all of this end? She sighed deeply.

“Grace?” Marc said, tipping on his side to face her. “You okay?” In the dim light of the room, the shadows played over the hollows of his muscular body.

“Yeah,” she said. “Well, no. Not really.”

“It's because of the publicity, isn't it?”

Miserably, she nodded. “I just feel like a prisoner in my own home.”

He ran a hand up and down her arm, trying to soothe her. “I told you you're welcome to stay here, even when I'm traveling,” Marc said.

She touched his cheek, rough with stubble. “I know, and I appreciate that. Really.”

He met her gaze. Held it. “Or you could come with me.”

“Where?”

Marc shrugged. “Wherever. I have a trip to Arizona planned for next week, and I'll be back in India soon enough.”

She tipped on her side to fully face him. “So I'd just come with you? What would I do while you're working?”

“Whatever you want—paint, breathe, live. I'd be glad for the company and you could get out of Eastbridge for a while. Things will die down eventually, and then you can come back. When you're ready, that is.”

She knew what he was offering: protection.

He lived a life of luxury, of privacy, of relative anonymity. He could give her the same thing.

She licked her lips. “That's tempting.”

It was. It truly was. But it would mean giving up the life she'd so carefully built for herself, at least temporarily.

“Think about it,” he said lightly. “There's no need to rush into anything.”

“Thanks. But in the meantime, what am I going to do?”

“About what?”

“About the picture.”

“You've called Arbor?”

“He won't answer my calls anymore,” she said sadly.

Marc pressed his lips together, thinking. “Have you made any headway with your lawyer?”

“No.” She'd met earlier in the week with someone Carolyn and Jane had both recommended—a woman named Bex Teller, who was as sharp as a tack. Bex had informed her that she was out of luck; once she'd sold the painting to George, it was his. “But she says using my name is a different matter, and she could file a misappropriation claim.”

“Lawsuits usually take a while,” he said wryly.

“I didn't sign up for this, Marc. Especially not all the publicity.” She clenched her hand into a fist and smacked it against the coverlet. “Ugh, I wish I'd never sold it to him!”

“You did, and now we have to find a way to deal with it,” he said calmly. Reasonably.

“I just never expected him to start some kind of riot and use my picture as the face of the cause. The worst part is that now I know why George wanted that bittern so badly. It wasn't my talent at all. He just wanted to use me.”

This was shades of Zig all over again. She was famous. People wanted to use that fame. It was inescapable, and the fact that she'd managed to hide out for as long as she had was a miracle.

But things would never be the same. She'd never be taken seriously, and the fact that George had used her in this way put the rest of her career into doubt, too. Had George hired her to do the Audubon folio work only because of her name? Maybe he'd been planning this all along? The thought made her feel sick.

Moisture pricked sharply at the corners of her eyes. She bit her lip and blinked hard.

“You're insanely talented, Grace,” Marc said. “The fact that you're famous was probably just icing on the cake for him.”

“Yeah,” she sniffed. “Maybe.” She didn't sound too convincing, even to herself. Honestly, she just wanted to close this sorry chapter of her life. “When can I meet with your lawyer to get the affidavit prepared?”

“He's just wrapping up a few things with the board, and then he'll be able to turn his attention to this. I'll get a meeting set up.”

“Soon, please.”

Marc pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “Soon,” he said. “I promise. In the meantime, though, I have a favor to ask.”

“What's that?”

“I want you to come with me to meet my mom.”

She was stunned into silence as a million questions raced through her head. Would Marc's mom like her? Or would she be appalled by her son's choice in women? Without a doubt, she knew Marc's mom was majorly different from hers. Maybe too different.

“You don't have to if you don't want,” Marc said, mistaking her silence for rejection.

“No, it's not that. It's just that I'm a little nervous.” Grace forced out a breath. “But if you're asking, then I'd like to meet her,” she said.

“Great.” He looked relieved. “You have nothing to be nervous about. But I have to warn you that she's not doing so well. She's…well, she's sick. And emotionally fragile, which is making her even weaker.”

Grace bit her lip. “Will meeting me be too much for her? I'm not exactly the quiet type.”

“No,” Marc said. “In fact, I think you're just what she needs.”

“Then I'm in.”

“Thank you,” he said, his voice warm.

“I should be thanking
you.
”

“For what?”

“For trusting me.”

Marc kissed her then, and when he did, everything—her worries, her fears, her strains—fell away, until nothing was left but the two of them in the silent stillness of the room.

Together, they could face anything that came their way. Work, family…even pesky reporters. Because they had each other. And that was what counted.