Fall from Grace (11 page)

THE SECOND TIME
the cop car drove by, Sawyer was sure they had her.

He was parked on the side street. Across the open space, through the jungle gym and between the trees, he could see the front of the library. And thanks to the floodlight in the parking lot—the one she didn't plan for—he and anybody else who cared to look could see the tall white doors. He had thought he had seen one of them open a bit before the cop car drove by, but they were shut now and there was still no sign of Grace.

It was easy to imagine her handcuffed, sitting in the back of a patrol car, the cop pulling the painting out of her black bag as he called it in to the station. And it was
easy to imagine things getting a lot worse after that.

The plan wasn't working.

She had been right about the church. It was dark and there were plenty of bushes to hide behind, but as they had come down the road, they could see that there were lights Google Maps didn't show.

“Looks like there's a floodlight over the back door. I don't think you can see it from the street. I won't know till I get there.”

“There's one in front, too. And there's one pointing up the flagpole.”

“I can avoid those. I think we'll be okay.”

“What about the front doors?”

“I'll only be in the light for a few seconds. Shouldn't be a problem.”

He had looked over at her, no expression. “You still want to do this?”

She had yanked on her gloves and pointed to a clump of bushes near the sidewalk. “If I'm not at the meeting point in fifteen minutes, go home.”

He had pulled over and she had slipped out, then he pulled away as she disappeared into the darkness.

That was thirty-eight minutes ago.

The cop car went past the library—it might have slowed down a bit, he couldn't tell—and continued on toward the Dollar General. Sawyer knew it was exactly three point one miles down the road. That was in her plan. Drop her off, drive three point one miles to the store, turn around in the parking lot, drive back, turn right at the stop sign, take the first left, then left onto the street that ran along the side of the park, wait for her there near the sign that said
NO SKATEBOARDING
. Keep to the speed limit and it would take nine minutes. It took him twelve.

The park was at the center of the village. A mile in any direction and you were in farmland. You'd have to get back on the expressway and drive north ten miles to hit the outer suburbs, another ten to be back in the city. There were some homes in this part of the village, big old houses like the one they had turned into the library, and a few empty storefronts on the main road. He was parked across the street from a gas station that had
FOR SALE
painted on the sheet of plywood that covered the window. Next to that was an open lot stacked with tires. She had been right about one thing: there were no streetlights and, other than the front of the library, it was dark.

He looked across the park. Nothing.

Forty minutes.

He checked his rearview mirrors, no one sneaking up from behind. Too dark to see them if they were.

Movement.

A small black shape dropping off the side of the library stairs, away from the light.

Then nothing.

Fifty minutes.

It was probably his imagination.

Maybe just some shadow.

Some leaves blowing across the steps, an old newspaper caught in the wind—then the car door popping open, slamming shut, Grace saying “Go, go, go,” strapping on her seatbelt as the police car slowly rounded the corner and started down the street toward them.

They turned and looked at each other.

“Not good,” she said.

The headlights rolled closer.

“I didn't plan for this.”

Half a block away, the lights slowed.

“I—I don't know what to do.”

“I do,” he said, and he leaned in and put his arm around
her shoulder, flipping her arm around his. “Kiss me.”

“
What?
No way—”

“Shut up and kiss me,” he said, drawing her in, pressing his lips against hers, keeping one eye on the approaching lights.

Zoë wasn't the first girl he had ever kissed, but he hadn't kissed any other since tenth grade. And now Grace. Her face was cold, her lips chapped, and they didn't taste like strawberry or peaches the way Zoë's lips did. It was an awkward kiss, unfamiliar and strange, but when he heard the cop car drive up, pause, then drive on, he knew he'd never forget it.

“He's gone,” he said, pulling away enough to look at the passenger side rearview.

She leaned back in her seat, eyes wide. “Oh my god,” she said, “that was brilliant,” and pulled him in for a second kiss, this one fast and on the cheek. “I didn't know what to do. I didn't plan on
anything
like that. You're a genius.”

He sat up and started the car and pulled away from the curb.

“I can't believe it.
How
did you know to do that?”

“Let's just say I've been in that situation before.”

She laughed louder than he had ever heard her laugh. And he laughed too, his hands not shaking enough to notice. He glanced over to the black bag on the floor.

It was too dark to tell, but he knew she was smiling.

IT WAS COLD
and windy and miserable and it was snowing that wet, slushy snow that came down like slow, fat rain.

It was not ice cream weather.

But since noon there had been a steady stream of customers who—god knows why—had to have an ice cream, and it was after two before Sawyer was able to take a break. He didn't mind that it was busy. The time went by fast, and it kept him from thinking about what he had done twelve hours before.

He leaned against the counter, facing the street, and that's when he noticed the cop climbing out of the police car.

Behind him, the freezer door slammed shut.

“Looks like you're in trouble, Sawyer,” Francis McGillicutty said.

“Maybe.”

The cop zippered up her jacket and adjusted her hat.

“It's not your fault, but you can bet you'll catch hell for it.”

“Uh-huh.”

She stepped up on the sidewalk and started toward the door.

“Nothing to do but tell 'em the truth.”

“Yeah.”

“Just tell 'em. Say sorry, but we're all out of Rocky Road. They'll just have to make do with Fudge Ripple.”

And she walked past without even looking in.

Sawyer took a deep breath and let it out slow and choppy. “What are you talking about, Francis?”

“John and Cassandra.”

“Who?”

“The
Bordens
. They're going to be here anytime now. And you know how they love their Rocky Road.”

“I'm sure I can handle it.”

“Hope so, for your sake. You know the Bordens.”

He didn't, but he nodded anyway.

“Look at the time. I was supposed to clock out at two
and here it is almost twenty after and I'm still hanging around. Can you believe it?”

He could believe it.

“I suppose I could stay if you think you'll need help.”

“I'll be fine, thanks.”

Francis swapped his apron for his winter coat and was about to leave when the bells on the front door rang and she walked in. They both looked at her and she smiled back.

Oh boy.

“Want me to get this one?”

No, get the hell out of here,
Sawyer thought, but it was too late, she was already at the counter.

“Wow, it's
soooo
cold out there,” she said, then looked at the old man. “Francis, right? I'm Zoë. Sawyer's girlfriend. I've heard about you.”

Go. Please go.

“Really? I hope he made me sound better than I am.”

“I think being a professor at Notre Dame is pretty good.”

Leave. Now.

“A professor at
Notre Dame
? That would be very good. Good luck with that.”

“Oh, I don't want to be—”

“Hey, hon, how about some ice cream? See you later, Francis.”

“Ice cream? Hello? Didn't I say I was freezing?”

“Sawyer, if you'd like, I could brew up a pot of coffee—”

“
No
. I mean, thanks, Francis, but don't bother. And Zoë, uh, you
sure
you don't want an ice cream? We have mint chocolate-chip? My treat? Good-bye, Francis.”

Francis grinned and winked at Sawyer. “I hear ya. Nice to meet you, miss.”

“Nice to meet you too,” she said, and he was
this
close to being out of the store when she said, “Oh, and thanks for helping Sawyer out, you know, with the math test.”

She had her back to Sawyer, so when he made a just-humor-her face, she didn't see it. But Francis did and picked up on it and left without saying anything, which was very cool for an old guy.

Zoë started in right away, declaring Francis weird and deciding that a mint chocolate-chip ice cream sounded good after all. She made a show of licking the cone from end to end before dropping the act and just eating it, telling him how she was going out to dinner with her family that night, how she was going to get the shrimp scampi and those little buttered potatoes,
when the bells on the door jangled again and Grace walked in.

Perfect.

Sawyer watched as she unzipped her purple jacket, unwrapped her red scarf, took off her black beret, and ran a hand through her hair. He should have told Grace about the whole Starbucks thing and how Francis was her grandfather and how she really wanted a job at Mike's Ice Cream, but he hadn't, so he said, “You just missed him.”

And instead of saying thanks and heading back out, instead of pretending she didn't see him waving his hands behind Zoë's back like he was landing a jet, pointing to the door and mouthing
Go
, Grace walked to the counter and said, “Missed who?”

“Your grandfather. He just left,” Sawyer said, and when he saw Zoë's eyes go wide, he knew he had said the wrong thing.

Zoë turned and stared at Grace, her smile curling into a dismissive smirk as Sawyer read her mind.
So this is Grace.

“My grandfather? Really?” Grace stepped around Zoë to look in the cooler. “What was he doing here?”

Zoë looked at Sawyer and rolled her eyes while he
closed his. Zoë said, “Doesn't he
work
here?”

“Nope,” Grace said, then looked up at Sawyer and smiled. “Not on Saturdays, anyway.”

“He usually works weekdays. He was covering for, uh, Juan. If he comes back I'll tell him you were here.”

Grace looked at Zoë's ice cream and Zoë glared back, so of course Grace had to say something. “What'ja get?”

“Mint chocolate-chip,” Zoë said, the words sounding a lot like
None of your damn business
.

“Got any coffee ice cream? I was up all night and could use the caffeine.”

Another eye roll from Zoë.

Grace went for a medium sugar cone with Oreo pieces, and as he punched the numbers into the cash register he heard Grace say, “Did you guys hear about the painting somebody stole last night?”

Zoë was ignoring her and he wasn't going to say a thing, but that didn't stop Grace.

“Seriously. Somebody broke into the Wood Library last night. Took a painting
right off the wall
. Police haven't got a
clue
.”

“Fifteen twenty-three's your change. Thanks. Good-bye.”

“
Apparently
it's a Post-Impressionist oil painting done
in a loose
Orientalist
style by an artist named Ravlin. It could be worth
millions
.”

Sawyer bent down to pick up the rack of ice cream scoops he had knocked over, and on his knees he prayed she'd be gone when he stood.

“It's not big, either. It'd fit in my backpack, easy.”

“
Hey
, uh, Grace? Yeah, Grace, right. I'll ah, I'll tell your grandfather you were here. So long.”

That smile, then a wink only he could see. She zipped up her coat and pulled on her beret, careful not to drop her cone, and headed for the door. “If he stops back, tell him I've got the movie he wanted to see.” She tapped a finger along the side of her nose and left, waving as she passed the window.

“She's a freak,” Zoë said.

“She's definitely something,” Sawyer said as he watched her disappear down the street.

TEN MINUTES AFTER
his shift was supposed to be over, his replacement strolled in. It was the owner's nephew, and he showed up, as usual, late, stoned, and smelling of patchouli oil. He was focused on making himself a chocolate sundae and didn't look up when Sawyer said good-bye.

On the drive home, Sawyer had time to think.

There had been a few problems—those lights they didn't expect, Grace dropping the coat hanger as she cut through the bushes, the cop car going back and forth past the library a million times—but, just like with the test and the treaty, it went according to her plan. She had waited until they were on the expressway before she
showed him the painting. It was hard to see in the car, but he didn't want her to put on the inside light or do anything that would attract attention, like pulling over on the side of the road just to get a peek. She had it now, and if he wanted to see it all he had to do was ask. But if he never saw it again that would be fine too.

She had to be making up that “worth millions” crap. If it were worth anything close to a million it wouldn't have been hanging in the library on the same wall as the
Yo Gabba Gabba!
poster. Somebody would have spotted it and they would have put it in the art museum or sold it off to raise money long ago. It was worth something, sure, but millions? Not likely.

He laughed, remembering how she filled him in, acting it out in the front seat as he drove to the west side, all the sound effects, the facial expressions, the excitement. Maybe that was her talent, telling stories. Maybe that was what would make her famous.

Then there was that kiss.

Didn't see
that
coming.

Sawyer remembered the look in her eyes before she squeezed them shut, how she tensed up and held her breath, how he kept one eye open enough to watch the
patrol car roll by. He thought about what he
didn't
do, how he didn't panic or do anything stupid, and how he didn't sit there like a chump, waiting for it all to fall apart. What he did was size up the situation, consider the risks, and take action. Just like that. So what if it wasn't as brilliant as Grace said it was, it was still pretty frickin' cool.

The more he thought about it, the more that kiss meant to him.

When he dropped her off, close to three and a street away from her house, she said something that wouldn't go away.

“Thanks for the best night of my life.”

He had thought about that as he drove home, thought about it more as he fell asleep, and it was on his mind when he crawled out of bed the next morning. And he thought about it now as he pulled into his driveway.

The best night of her life.

What did that say about her life?

And if he felt the same way, what did it say about his?

His phone rang and he flipped it open and the screaming started.

“OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD! I'M GOING TO
ARUUUUBAAAAAA!
”

He held the phone away from his ear and checked the number, not that he had to. It was Zoë, and apparently her father had surprised her by announcing he was taking the family to Aruba for Thanksgiving. Last year he had surprised her by taking the family to St. Thomas, and the year before the surprise was a cruise. When she was a freshman and her older sister was a senior, they went to the Sandals Resort in Jamaica, but that wasn't a surprise since Zoë got to pick it. And now she was going to Aruba. What a surprise.

“
Oh my god
, Sawyer, guess what my daddy just did?”

Daddy?

He guessed and she screamed some more and he waited.

“I can't
believe
it! This is
so
out of the blue! I mean, I was planning on Thanksgiving here, you know, just my family, and then—oh my god! Aruba! Can you
believe
it?”

She told him that they were leaving in the morning and that she had nothing—absolutely
nothing
—to wear,
and that she and her mom were going straight to the mall and then she'd be up all night packing because they were flying out at, like, seven and that meant they'd have to be at the airport at, like, five or something and what was she going to pack and this was so exciting and soooo unexpected and, oh yeah, she wouldn't be able to see him that night but he understood, right? because he was so amazing, and oh my god, Aruba.

He sat in the driveway and listened to it all and said the things she wanted him to say and didn't say the things he knew she didn't want to hear, like how he had been looking forward to spending time with her or that it must be nice to be that rich or to have parents who gave you anything you wanted. He had said those things the last time her father gave her a surprise and it didn't go over well.

There was something else, something he couldn't explain and wouldn't have told her if he could. That feeling he had had last night when he drove Grace to the library, the same one he felt when he thought about the precalc test and the bet. Sure, he wanted to hang out with Zoë. All that time off? They'd end up having
some
kind of sex. But the more he thought about Zoë going
away for a week, the stronger that feeling became.

“When I get back I'm going to be
so
tan, and you
know
what that means,” she said, lowering her voice and adding a growl. He knew what she meant, that he'd get to check out her tan lines himself, up close. And he also knew it was just part of her act.

“I wish you were going with me,” she said, making it sound sincere. “What are you gonna do over break?”

He could have said “nothing” or “study” or “play
Black Ops
online,” but he knew he didn't want to do any of those things, that feeling already hinting at adventures he couldn't foresee.

So he told her the truth. “I don't have a plan yet.”

 

“Here's what you're going to do over break,” his mother said, dishing a second scoop of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Number one, finish that career project.”

“You're
still
working on that? I can't believe this. Your mother and I have all but written the damn thing for you.”

“It's not due until the Monday we get back. I've got plenty of time.”

“You
had
plenty of time.”

“This is exactly why your father and I wanted you to start early. You do this every quarter, Sawyer, wait till the last second and then rush, rush, rush to get it done.”

“You better break that habit soon, son. Once you start at Wembly the work will come at you fast and furious.”

“That's
so
true,” his mother said. “We'll have to have a set check-in time every night so we can keep on top of your assignments. Your freshman year at college is the most important. You get low grades then, it drags your GPA down for the rest of your degree.”

“Yeah. I was thinking about Wembly—”

“You better get thinking about this project or there won't be a Wembly,” his father said. “It's a graduation
requirement
. You know what that means?”

“Yes. I know.”

“No paper, no diploma.”

“I know, Dad. I'll have it done.” Sawyer took his time pouring gravy over his potatoes. “I still want to apply to other schools, see what happens.”

His father chuckled, shaking his head. “You won't let that drop, will you?”

“It's something I want to do.”

“Fine, knock yourself out. And like I said, we'll even pay the registration fees,” his father said, pausing for effect. “That is, if you ace your precalculus test.”

“I think I did.”

“You think you
aced
it?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“We're talking an A here, right?”

“Right. An A.”

“Great. I hope you did. I mean it, son. You ace that test and I'll be glad to pay your registration fee.”

“Fee
s
. I'm looking at a bunch of different schools.”

“We'll worry about that when you bring home the A.”

Sawyer nodded and started in on the chicken. “I should get the test back Monday.”

“
Anyway
, about that project,” his mother said. “I want to see a complete first draft Thursday morning before we head to your aunt Paula's for Thanksgiving. And if you're really going to be sending out more applications, you're going to have to get those essays to me next week
at the latest
. If they're anything like the last one, they'll be filled with errors.”

More chuckles from his father. “Wait till we see the A.”

 

He made two calls that night.

The first was to Zoë. She said she was too busy to talk, then talked for forty minutes, the last ten saying the things he could have bet she would say, things like “sorry I won't be around” and “I'll make it up to you when I get back” and “you better be good.” There were things he could have said and should have said, but in the end all he said was, “Have a good time.”

The second call was to Grace.