Anywhere You Are (8 page)

“Did you really have to do that?”

“Yes,” Grace said, limping over to a chair and sitting down.

“Oh, Grace, you're really hurt?” Sophie asked, surprise in her voice.

“Uh-huh,” Grace said, propping her leg up on another chair. If they were going to have a conversation, she might as well be comfortable while it all shook out.

“I thought that…” Sophie started, then shook her head. “Well, I'm sorry about that, darling. It's nothing serious, is it?”

Grace sighed. “I sprained both my ankle and my knee. I'll heal.”

“Good,” Sophie said, slinging her bag on a nearby chair and sinking gracefully into another.

Her mother looked amazing. Seriously amazing, with bright, shiny hair, ageless skin, and a body to die for. And what was even more amazing was that Grace knew how little effort it took for her to look this good.

When she was a little girl, she'd pray to God to make her as beautiful as her mother. God hadn't quite granted her wish. She'd been cute as a child with her wavy hair, gap-toothed smile, and delicate features, but that hadn't translated into real beauty as an adult. The only thing Grace seemed to have inherited from her mother was her green eyes, and that, along with topping out at five foot six, had pretty much ended Grace's modeling career.

Sophie eyed her appraisingly. “You look good, Grace.”

“I feel good,” Grace said. She ate mostly local, organic food, and got plenty of fresh air and water.

“Then let's talk.”

“About what?”

Sophie looked astounded that she'd even ask such a question. “Why, your reentry into society, of course.”

“Mom, no. I'm really hurt. I'm not faking. The photograph was a fluke.”

“Photograph
s,
” Sophie said, emphasizing the “s.” “And they're worth thousands. It's money you could use.”

“I have plenty of money,” Grace said.

Sophie laughed. “No, darling, you don't.”

“I earn enough,” Grace said. Okay, that wasn't quite true. Until her first commission she'd been selling flowers out of her hothouse. Painting didn't pay crazy money, but it put food on the table and clothes on her back, as well as affording her the occasional piece of sparkly, dangly jewelry.

She owned her farmhouse and the land, free and clear, thanks to the money she'd earned as a child model. She had shelter, food, and clothes. She had enough.

“Tell me how much you think
Star
paid for that pic of you?”

Grace shrugged.

“Five thousand,” Sophie said, her eyes practically glittering with excitement. “And if it had been clearer, or you'd been kissing him, it would have been double.”

Grace was silent. She loved her mother, but when she got like this—shrewd and calculating—she just wanted to scream.
You don't see me as your daughter,
she wanted to shout.
I'm just a commodity. Something to sell.

As if on cue, Sophie continued. “You must know that you are leaving money on the table by hiding out here. Now, if you'd feed the paparazzi what they want—on your time frame, of course—you could make some serious money. You'd have all the control, all the cash. Joining us again would get you back in the game, darling. What do you think?”

“No,” Grace said.

Sophie pulled out a pout, which did nothing to mar her gorgeous features. “But darling, you haven't even thought about it.”

“I have.”
So much
.

There was a reason she'd left New York a year ago. It was too easy to be spotted there. Too easy to get caught up in the lights and the buzz and the neediness. God, the neediness.
Grace, over here. You're looking hot today, baby! C'mon—show me a smile. Who are you wearing?
As if she were a trained monkey, performing on command. The voices—of fans, of photographers, even of her own family—blurred together into one big shout, making her head ache.

“You are twenty-seven years old, Grace,” Sophie said. “When I was twenty-seven, I'd—”

“I know,” Grace said, interrupting her. “You'd already done the cover of
Vogue
five times and were the face of
Louis Vuitton
. Plus editorial work, runways, blah, blah, blah.” She'd heard this lecture before.

“You need to lay the foundation now so you can build on it later,” Sophie pressed. “Like I did with my fashion line. People want to buy clothes from Sophie Whalley because she has style. And then I branched out—to perfume, to art.” She shook her head. “You're in the prime of your life and you're wasting it. Come back to New York.”

“I like it here,” Grace told her, not for the first time. “I like the quiet and the calm. I like the fact that I can do what I want without people watching me all the time. And I love the fact that I have a huge studio for my painting.”

“So I'll buy you a studio in the city. You can do your painting there—but please, God, paint something I can sell in my stores. Your bird art is getting a little old, don't you think?”

Her words stung, but Grace pushed away the negative feelings and focused on the fact that her mom really wasn't getting that Eastbridge was good for her. Yes, people knew who she was, but they mostly respected her and her privacy.

She wouldn't last a month back in New York before she went crazy.

“I love you, Mom,” Grace said, keeping her voice even. “So I want you to hear me when I tell you this. I love my art. I'm not going to change what I do. And I'm not coming back. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

“Darling.” Sophie looked crushed.

Grace pressed her lips together at the very moment that Sophie glanced over Grace's shoulder and froze.

“What…is…that…
thing
?” she said in a horrified whisper.

Grace peered around. “Oh. That's Big Blue. I'm keeping him for a friend.”

Big Blue padded up and stood by Grace's chair. He leaned his soft head on her shoulder and she reached around to give him a pat.

“He's monstrous,” her mom said in the same shocked voice.

“Well, yeah. He's a Great Dane. They're pretty big dogs. But he's as gentle as a lamb. Want to pet him?”

“Absolutely not.” Carefully, keeping one eye on the dog the whole time, her mom grabbed her bag, stood, and backed toward the door. “I'm leaving, but next time, I'm bringing your father. Maybe
he
can talk some sense into you.”

Sophie cast her gaze around the farmhouse kitchen, as if seeing it for the first time, then glanced at the dog and sniffed. “You could do so much better. A SoHo loft. A TriBeCa studio. Think about it.” And then she swept out, all hair and legs and perfume, exiting as grandly as she'd arrived.

The sound of the vans and cars retreating down her driveway was the best thing Grace had heard all day. Finally, she was alone with Big Blue.

Grace had tried on that life—for way longer than she should have—and it didn't fit. This life in the quiet woods of Eastbridge with only a handful of close friends, doing the work she wanted to do? That fit—like a glove. And she'd do anything to keep it.

So her past would flare up once in a while, but she could deal with it. She could keep it at bay as long as she had something to call her own.

Honestly, she missed her mom, her dad, and even her idiot brothers. Things had been so much easier before that ridiculous show. But reality TV distorted everything. There wasn't any real life anymore. There was only play-acting at what they thought real life was—manufactured arguments and parties and fashion and shopping and publicity and staying relevant.

Grace hated it. Truly hated it.

The lid on the soup pot started rattling, hard. Soup burbled over the edge, spilled onto the burner, and the acrid odor of burning broth quickly filled the kitchen. Grace raced over as fast as she could to lift the lid.

It took a second, but the pot stopped bubbling and settled down once again into a simmer.

Lowering the heat, she gently placed the lid back on.

Only one thing would make her feel better after talking to her mom.

“Come on, boy,” she called to Big Blue. Gamely, he followed her out the side door to her studio. She slid open the barn door and flicked on the light. Blue found a cozy place in the corner to rest, while Grace took a deep breath. Paint and thinner and fresh canvas. Heaven.

She threw a smock over her head and arranged herself as comfortably as she could onto her stool. This was what she needed. She chose her brushes. She mixed her paints.

And then she got to work.

Marc sat back in the booth of the upscale Greenwich tavern and took a healthy swallow of the lager Jake Gaffney had insisted was just the thing after their exhausting but ultimately rewarding board meeting at Briarwood. They'd triumphed, getting the board's consent for the renovations they'd planned. Technically, they didn't need the board's approval, but with it, things would be a hell of a lot easier.

The building renovations hadn't yet begun, but the golf course renovations were already underway, and Jake had somehow gotten Walter Williams, one of the world's premier golf course designers, to do the redesign for the eighteen-hole Briarwood course. As a favor to Jake, Williams had squeezed the job into his schedule and planned to head to New Zealand for another course renovation in early October. The timing was tight, but they'd make it, barely. Especially now that the Briarwood board of trustees was satisfied with their work.

Marc was glad they'd come out on top, but Lord, he was tired. Tired of traveling. Of sitting in meetings. Of being
on
all the time
.
And it was starting to show. Right now, he was jet-lagged, and these days, it felt permanent. He dragged all the time, there were shadows under his eyes, and he'd lost some weight.

How much longer could he pull these all-nighters? How many more trips was he going to take? He hadn't seen the inside of his apartment in close to a week—par for the course, since last month, he calculated he had spent only five days at home. He'd be spending even less time there now that he had Big Blue.

He glanced at his watch. Six p.m. At some point, he'd have to pick up the dog, and then he'd see
her
again. Grace. He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking, kissing her like that. She was lovely and crazy and too young for him and everything he shouldn't want, but he'd been dying to feel his lips on hers. Now he couldn't stop thinking about her. Where she was. What she was doing.

But even if he had the inclination to see where things could go with her—an insane prospect, given that the two of them couldn't be less alike—he didn't have the time. Same as always. He really should go get his dog, head to Aunt Sarah's house, and crash. Sleep sounded way too good right now, especially because he had to be back in India at the end of the week. Depressing thought. He took another sip of beer.

All at once, Preston North's large hand was waving in his face.

“Earth to Marc,” his blond friend said.

“Sorry,” Marc said, blinking. “Just exhausted. What did I miss?”

“I just asked how your trip to Phoenix went,” Press said. “I got the thousand-yard stare in response.”

“It went fine.”

“That's it? Just fine?” Press raised an eyebrow, baiting him.

Marc didn't bite. He never did. “Yes.”

Press merely looked disappointed at the lack of rise he'd gotten out of him. “Well, I think all that travel caught up with you, because you look like hell.”

“Thanks,” he said, wishing he could say the same about Press, but that charming bastard looked as put together as he always did, lounging in the booth with a devil-may-care smile on his face.

But behind the façade of sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and colorful prep wear, Press had dark demons. A recovering alcoholic, he never touched the stuff, and he'd once confessed to Marc that though he knew he wasn't tempted to lapse, sometimes he still craved the feeling of falling into oblivion.

Marc could relate. Only problem was, he had nothing—no vice, no escape—to help him turn off his brain. And in times like these, when all he wanted was to sleep, and
not
to dream, he wished he did.

“I'm running on empty,” Marc finally admitted.

“Can you go home? Get some sleep?” Jake asked.

Jake had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up the cuffs on his dress shirt, displaying the sleeves of tattoos that wound their way up his forearms. He was a big man—almost as tall as Marc himself—with jet-black hair and deep blue eyes. He also had a huge chip on his shoulder, owing to the fact that he'd grown up on the wrong side of the tracks in Eastbridge. Though his ink—not to mention his attitude—would forever brand him as an outsider, Jake had built himself from the ground up. But for all his swagger and toughness, Jake was loyal, and Marc had nothing but respect for him.

When the three of them had been assigned to the same cohort their first year in business school at Wharton, Marc didn't think they would work well together given that they'd all come from wildly different backgrounds. But they'd proven to be a great team, earning top honors in all of their classes and forming a bond that lasted well after school had ended.

They'd drifted apart for a while, but thanks to this Briarwood deal, they'd come together again. So far, things had been going better than he'd expected, given that they all brought something different to the table. Press was their front man, a guy who knew how to talk to anyone. Press always said he could charm his way out of a paper bag, and Marc believed it. He'd charmed the board, that was for sure. And Jake? He was always hungry for more, still determined to prove that he wasn't that scholarship kid at UConn, despite his major successes in recent years. He'd move mountains to close a deal, yet stayed true to who he was. Which left Marc, the master of logistics with an instinctive understanding of all the moving parts necessary to bring a project to fruition.

Of course they occasionally disagreed about how to do things, but their personalities had been tempered by age and experience.

“I'm planning on finding a bed as soon as I'm done with you two,” Marc told them. “But I have to pick up my dog first.”

Press sat up straighter. “Pick up your
what
?”

“Explain,” Jake demanded.

“I don't even know where to start,” he told his friends. “Okay, so you know how my aunt died earlier this month?”

“A tragedy, but I'm not following you.”

Marc let his raised eyebrow do the talking.

“You're kidding,” Jake said. “You inherited a dog?”

“Yes.”

Press looked at him thoughtfully. “I'll be honest. You don't really strike me as a dog person.”

“I'm not,” Marc told him bluntly. “Especially this one.”

“What's wrong with him?”

Let me count the ways.
“He won't follow directions, hardly listens to me, and runs wild. He chewed through two pairs of my best oxfords and slobbered all over the backseat of my Mercedes—which I just had detailed, by the way. Then I took him to the farmers' market. Big mistake. I blew through two grand in two minutes cleaning up his mess, and—” He stopped and shook his head. “Hell, just forget it. It's too complicated to explain.” He took a deep sip of his beer.

When he put his glass down, his friends were staring at him.

“What?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” Press said, but Marc caught the hint of a smile before Press lifted his glass of seltzer and took a long drink.

“Let's back up a second.” Jake pushed his beer aside and propped his forearms on the table, leaning forward. “Two thousand bucks? How could one dog do that much damage?”

“It can when it's a Great Dane.”

Jake groaned.

“Don't they weigh something like 140 pounds?” Press asked.

“At the low end. Mine weighs 155.”

“Fucking enormous,” Jake said.

“You're telling me,” Marc said. Yet he seemed to do just fine with a slip of a woman who seemingly had him under her spell. How she'd managed to tame that beast, he had no idea.

“What are you going to do with him?” Press said.

“Yeah, you travel a ton,” Jake added.

“I have someone taking care of him for the time being,” Marc said. But he hadn't thought too much further past this trip, and there was another coming on its heels. And another next month if he could get his schedule straightened out.

“I can barely take care of myself, let alone an animal,” Press told him. “But I have faith. If anyone can do it, you can.”

“I appreciate your vote of confidence,” Marc said. “But I'm still figuring it out.”

“Aren't we all?” Press said, his tone slightly sardonic. He tipped his glass to his lips, then paused. “Wait, I just realized we never toasted.”

“What to?” Jake asked.

“Victory,” Marc said, raising his glass. “Today, we got the board in hand and now we're full speed ahead with our renovations. To Briarwood, gentlemen.”

“To Briarwood and to us,” Jake said.

“And to our futures,” Press added. “It's been good working with you two so far, and I hope we can collaborate on other projects after this one.”

In the instant before they clinked glasses, Marc realized something. He had plenty of acquaintances but few friends, and he was lucky enough to count Jake and Press among them. Although Marc was used to working alone, reconnecting with them to do this deal had made him realize how much he truly trusted them—with his money, with his business, and yes, even with his life. They'd come through time and again—like family—and he wouldn't forget that.

He needed more of that in his life, because God knows he wasn't getting it from his own family. He loved his sisters, but he rarely saw them. His mom was holding it together—barely—but he didn't have as much time to spend with her as he liked. And his dad? Well, that was a whole different ball game.

Needless to say, things were complicated. He was used to complicated with his work, enjoyed it a lot of the time, but not this kind of complicated—the kind that involved emotions and family and life.

A smack on his arm jolted him back to reality.

“Marc?” Jake said in a low voice. “Isn't that your dad?” He jerked his chin in the direction of the entrance to the place and Marc followed his gaze.

A tall, well-built man with gray hair stood at the hostess station, checking in. It was, indeed, Norton Colby, the very last person he wanted to see when he was exhausted.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Marc growled under his breath.

“And who the hell is he with?” Press asked. “No offense,” he quickly added.

“I don't know.” Not his girlfriend, that was for damned sure. The woman on his dad's arm looked to be several years older than Bethamy, though still far too young for a man in his seventies. And blond, of course, just like every woman he dated.

Marc desperately wanted to give his dad the benefit of the doubt, but his dad worked in New Haven and lived in Branford, so Greenwich was definitely not in his typical range. Suspicion bloomed in his mind.

The hostess was nodding and smiling now. She took two menus and led the way to the back. His dad and the woman followed, his dad's hand wrapped proprietarily around the woman's narrow waist.

“I don't know either,” Press said, shifting in his seat. “But brace yourself because he's coming our way.”

Press was absolutely correct. His dad and the woman were going to walk right by their table. Marc considered finding something interesting to look at on his cellphone, but in the end, he decided he didn't want to duck and hide.

Norton moved smoothly through the restaurant, his sharp eyes scanning, watching, always on the alert, as he guided the blonde forward.

Marc kept his head up, waiting for his dad to notice him.

And then he did, doing a double take as he recognized his son.

Marc gave him a wan smile. “Hello, Father. What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

Norton recovered quickly, but his cheeks turned a little red. “Just having dinner. You?”

“Drinks.”

“Ah.” Then there was an awkward silence during which the two of them simply stared at each other.

The woman looked back and forth between Marc and his dad, then her gaze settled on Marc with an appraising look that made him feel as if she'd stripped him bare with only her eyes.

“You're Norton's son?” she asked, her voice throaty.

At his nod, she touched her tongue to the corner of her lips.

Holy crap, was his dad's date hitting on him? Before he could process that completely messed-up prospect, Press jumped in.

“Dr. Colby,” he said, reaching his hand out from the end of the booth. “It's a pleasure to see you again.”

“Preston,” Norton responded, gripping Press's hand and giving Jake a nod.

It seemed to break the tension, and Marc was grateful for his friend's charm.

“Jacob,” Norton added.

Jake gave him a grunt, and Norton's gaze flicked back to Marc, just for an instant, before he turned to the blonde and frowned.

He'd noticed the way she was looking at Marc, and it was clear he didn't like it in the least. He let go of her waist and gave her a little nudge forward.

“You go ahead, sweets. I'll be at the table in a moment.”

She hesitated a moment, gave Marc another brazen look, then murmured her assent and smoothly followed the hostess. Norton watched the woman go, then turned back to the table.

“A word, Marcus?” He tilted his head, indicating that Marc should follow, then strode toward the exit of the restaurant.

Marc half-rose out of his seat, only to be halted by a hand clamping down hard on his arm. He looked down and Jake's gaze burned into his.

“I know you don't need me to tell you how fucked up this is,” Jake said.

“I know.”

“Right.” Jake nodded. “Just don't let him fuck with you.”

“He's been fucking with me since I've been old enough to walk,” Marc said. “I can deal with it.”
I always have.

Jake pressed his lips together and released his arm.

“We've got your back,” Press said.

“Appreciate that,” Marc said, and slid out of the booth.

Outside, the night was wet and warm. It reminded him of India after a rainstorm. His home away from home for the past year.