Frosted (2 page)

For her whole life, Grace had felt a strong kinship to Katharine Hepburn—they both had reddish-brown hair, blue eyes and spare, athletic builds—and Grace spoke with that same clipped, outdated New England accent that had been a trademark of the famous actress. Like Hepburn, Grace had grown up on an estate in Connecticut surrounded by wealth and comfort, and at first glance, she had a similar no-nonsense demeanor. But it was even more than that. Back in the 70s, when Grace was still a teenager, Katharine Hepburn had given a late-night interview in which she shared, “I strike people as peculiar in some way, although I don't quite understand why. Of course, I have an angular face, an angular body and, I suppose, an angular personality, which jabs into people.”

As a teen, Grace had stared at the TV, transfixed by these simple words. Sighing with self-awareness, she so closely identified with that description, both physically and emotionally, she’d spent the ensuing week researching Hepburn’s life. Fascinated with the private relationship between Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, Grace had read everything possible about their clandestine, deeply devoted, love affair. In fact, reading every shred of information about
their
passion for one another was the closest Grace had ever come to a love affair of her own.

So, the night before last, swept away by the simple romance of the movie—a story of two fifty-somethings who find love late in the game—Grace had suddenly whipped the covers off her body, jumped out of bed and found herself packing her bags at one o’clock in the morning. Then, she had arranged for a car service to the airport before she could talk herself out of it and set her alarm for six o’clock.

Perhaps it was Addy’s words about Grace never having known true, passionate love with her husband, or her assurances that it wasn’t too late. Or maybe it was the fact that Grace’s toes had curled when Kate got that smack on the lips from Spence at the end of the movie. Whatever the reason—and Grace had done her level best not to overthink it—she’d somehow found herself arriving at The Deer Mountain Inn yesterday afternoon…

…and regretted her impromptu decision by bedtime.

The resort itself was just as elegant as it had always been.

Her room was quite pleasant.

Told that there was an informal “Welcome Mixer” going on in the bar, Grace had dressed in a modest maroon wrap dress, put on her “Grace Holden” name badge and dutifully headed down to the bar/lounge…which was where her “Kate-Spence” fantasy had gone up in foul-smelling smoke. Cigar smoke, in fact. Lots of it.

Taking a sip of her coffee, Grace wrinkled her nose and huffed softly, thinking of last night: all those big-bosomed, autumn-aged ladies on the prowl and the handful of overconfident bachelors evaluating their possible conquests.

As Grace had fingered her pearls nervously, sipping a watered-down gin and tonic in a corner of the bar, she’d assessed the situation quickly: there were twice as many women attending the weekend as men, and scanning them, leaning confidently against the bar, not one made her heart go pitter-patter. They were stuffed and arrogant, smiling their “I’m a prize. I’m a prize. I’m
such
a prize.” grins as their gazes swept the room, never lingering long on thin, angular Grace, who, at worst, probably looked unapproachably cool, and at best, blended into the shadows cast on the hard wooden wall of the little pub. For half an hour she’d stood in the corner and held her drink, feeling increasingly pathetic, while not one eligible silver wing of the male species approached her even to say hello.

Why this hurt so much, she didn’t know. She told herself that she was a mature woman, established and respected at home in Manhattan—there was no good  reason her confidence should be affected by a few shabby bachelors ignoring her.  But her internal pep talk hadn’t helped. The very sparse optimism with which she’d arrived at The White Deer Inn bid a hasty retreat and the longer she stood in the corner, ignored and alone, the more she wished she’d never come. Finally, after almost an hour of uncomfortable solitude, and with tears burning the backs of her eyes, she placed her half-finished drink on an empty cocktail table and headed back upstairs.

What she had realized, as her cheeks flushed with heat on the lonely elevator ride back up to her suite, was that the “Welcome Mixer” had been a test of sorts. A test of fate. She’d stupidly expected Spencer Tracy to sidle up beside her with some tart witticism—perhaps some mildly vulgar observation that would make her laugh, shock her, quietly delight her. A spark. A dash of wonder. The slightest sliver of surprise on the horizon of a ho-hum future.

But fate had failed her.

Without Harold’s strong arm around her waist, she felt lost. The Silver Wings weekend was going to be full of desperate women more confident and forward than Grace, and men that would ignore her unless they discovered her real name—Mrs. Harold Edwin Luff III—at which point they’d suddenly vie for her company and find her fascinating.

She rolled her eyes and sniffed disgustedly.

Well, forget it.

As Grace finished her coffee, turning away from the blanket of white outside, she looked down at the trash can with satisfaction and firmly decided to avoid
all
Silver Wings events for the rest of today. Maybe by tomorrow she’d have the spirit to try again, but for now, she was done.

In the meantime, she’d spend some time enjoying the scenery and tranquility of  The White Deer Inn, reading her book or bundling up for some fresh air. As a young girl, she’d spent several weeks every winter at the venerable old resort and she was anxious to explore the grounds through a mature lens. Still, she couldn’t help the wave of gloom that washed over her…and told her just how much she’d hoped to end her streak of loneliness by meeting someone special this weekend.

She sighed as she headed toward her bedroom to get dressed. If a “future someone” existed for Grace, she felt quite certain he wasn’t in attendance at the Silver Wings Singles Weekend. In fact, despite her quiet longing for a Hepburn-Tracy romance of her own, she worried that a “future someone”
might not exist at all.

Grace ducked into the small sundry store right off the lobby and purchased a cup of hot coffee and a pastry wrapped in plastic. Keeping her head down and sunglasses on, for fear of running into the overly-enthusiastic Silver Wings coordinator, she quickly headed out the sliding glass front doors of the main lodge, peeking up to see a sign that indicated the lake, boathouse and recreation center could be reached by following a path to the left, while the conference center and stables were to the right. Steering left, she decided to stroll by the lake with her breakfast and see if it was still possible to rent snowshoes or skis from the rec center as she had during childhood vacations.

Silver Wings be damned
, she thought, feeling stronger and better with every step away from the lodge. She could still enjoy the austere, frosted beauty of the Adirondacks with an agenda of fresh air and exercise.

Grace’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She balanced the half-eaten pastry on top of her coffee cup and answered the call.

“Hello?”

“Mom! You went! You’re there!”

Grace felt her lips tilt up in a small grin. Addy’s enthusiasm was infectious.

“Well…the room was paid for, after all. It would have been wasteful to refuse. What choice did you leave me?”

“I’m so delighted! Well, I don’t want to keep you from the…” Addy paused. “Wait a second. You’re supposed to be at the Welcome Breakfast. How come it’s so quiet?”

“Slipped away when my phone rang,” lied Grace quickly. She didn’t have the heart to tell Addy the Silver Wings part of the weekend was already a bust.

“Oh. Well…did anyone look
interesting
? Or
familiar
?”

“Familiar?” Grace’s heat dropped. “Oh, Addy…what did you do?”

“This is unconfirmed,” said her daughter, “but Stewart Whitman may or may not have also been invited to The White Deer Inn.”

“Adelaide!” Grace stopped in her tracks, shaking her head with pique. “Please tell me you did
not
invite Stewart here this weekend.”

“But you
like
him,” said Addy sheepishly.

“As you well know, Stew and I are just friends.
Friends.
And that’s all we’ll ever be. He’s almost eighty, for goodness sake!”

“So was daddy,” protested Addy, “and Mr. Whitman is a very handsome older man.”

“Addy, I have
no
romantic interest in Stewart. Zero.” She sighed, knowing that marriage to Stewart would lead her to the same sort of respectful, passionless union she’d had with Harold, and that’s not what Grace wanted. “It’ll be very awkward to see him here. You’ve likely raised his expectations with this stunt.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I should have told you that Shannon invited Stewart.”

Shannon Whitman, Stewart’s daughter, was Addy’s oldest and best friend, and Grace had felt the pressure of the girls’ good intentions over the last year as Grace and Stewart were invited to parties, dinners and holiday events, always—and conspicuously—the only singles in attendance.

Grace took a deep breath and sighed again, resuming her walk toward the rec center. “Yes, you should have. But it’s too late now.”

“What will you do?”

“The ratio of women to men is in his favor,” said Grace dryly. “I have no doubt he’ll find someone nice.”

“
You’re
nice,” said Addy. “
You
deserve someone nice, too.”

“Well, don’t ring the church bells just yet,” she cautioned gently, thinking of the breakfast from which she was hiding. “Kiss the babies from granny, okay? Bye, dear.”

Just as she was pulling the phone from her ear, she heard Addy’s voice. “Mom? Mom?”

“I’m still here.”

“I just wanted to say…keep your heart open, okay? You never know. I love you. Bye.”

Keep your heart open.

Grace’s eyes pricked with tears, suddenly, as she placed her phone back in the pocket of her down parka.

Keep your heart open.

It was such a sweet and simple piece of advice, and yet Grace didn’t know how to actualize it. Had her heart been open to Harold all those years ago, or had she merely chosen him as a safe landing place?

Grace hadn’t been a beautiful girl—she’d been gangly, small-chested and fit, her features more sharp than soft, with no lush curves to warm up a man at night. By twenty-two, Grace had been passed over more times than she could count—nobody’s first choice date to homecoming or prom, no serious boyfriend in high school or college. When Harold showed such intense interest in her, she’d been flattered and a little relieved. She quickly convinced herself that there was tremendous value in a marriage based on mutual kindness, respectability, and friendship. He was in need, and she would be useful. It wasn’t the sexiest basis for a marriage, but it was valid, wasn’t it?

Of course Grace had wondered now and then over the years: What would it have been like to hold out for her soul-mate instead of marrying a friend in need? Would she have been alone forever? Or would she have eventually found the Spence to her Kate, someone for whom her heart would have opened like a flower?

Taking off her leather gloves, she swiped at her eyes. It was too late for recriminations. There was no sense in looking back. The only way possible, was forward.

Looking up from the snowy path, she recognized the log cabin-style building ahead with smoke billowing cheerfully from an ancient brick chimney. A large sign over the front door read “Recreation Center” in dark green and Grace’s spirits were buoyed when she saw two young girls exit the building carrying skis. With any luck, there’d be some left for her too.

Keep your heart open.

The best Grace could promise was that she would try.

***

The young man behind the counter handed two pairs of skates to the teenagers in front of Grace. As they turned from the counter and took a seat on a nearby bench to lace up, she stepped forward.

“Well, good morning! I'm Roger! How can I help you, ma'am?” He had bright blue eyes and a cheerful smile on his young, handsome face.

“I thought I'd rent some cross country skis,” she said, glancing at the price chart over his head. “I'm a hotel guest.”

He rifled through a file under the counter and placed a slip of paper in front of her. “Alrighty! Just need your room number and your size.”

He grinned as he said this, and Grace almost smiled back at his bouncy enthusiasm, but as a rule she didn't approve of this much emoting over ski rentals, so she restrained herself. “410. Eight and a half.”

Roger's face contorted into a cringe and he sighed, shaking his head like he was about to let down the General who'd sent him on the mission that could win the war. “Oh, man. Oh, wow, I hate to tell you this, but...we don't do half sizes.”

Confused by this dramatic delivery, she stared at him, dumbstruck for a moment before parroting, “No half sizes?”

He took her response for censure and shook his head, pursing his lips and sighing. “Gosh, I hate to let you down.”

“I'll take a nine instead.”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, beaming at her. “Terrific!”

His blond exuberance reminded her of a Golden Retriever puppy and she half expected him to vault the counter and lick her face. He didn't. He turned and yelled toward a back room, the door slightly ajar, “Hey Dad, you got those nines all fixed up? Nice lady here wantin' to rent 'em.” He faced Grace again and winked—
winked!—
at her. “Someone broke the binding. My Dad's just fixing them. He can fix anything.”

For heaven's sake
, she thought,
what a fuss just to rent a pair of cross country skis
.

It was starting to feel like more trouble than it was worth. All she'd wanted to do was hide out from the other silver wings and get some fresh air. But they didn't have her size and what if the binding broke again when she was a mile from the hotel? Then what? She could feel her scowl starting as she stepped back from the counter. “Forget it. I can just...”

“Here we are.”

Her voice tapered off as the door to the back room opened all the way and an older man, about her age, stepped into view.

And damn if Grace Holden Luff didn’t
feel
her heart open as she lifted her gaze and slammed her eyes into his.

Like any other blue-blooded New Englander worth her salt, Grace prided herself on her sense of composure. Which is why—as her fingers slowly balled into fists until her nails were curled painfully into the skin of her palm—her face betrayed nothing.

His eyes were blue. Bright blue like the Caribbean Sea or the summer sky or the raspberry-flavored sno-cones they sold before the fireworks on the Fourth of July. A color blue that should be impossible in nature and yet there it was, in kind eyes fringed with dark lashes looking back at her from across a scuffed counter. He was solid and stocky, just about her height. His body was barrel-shaped, but fit, and his dark-blond hair was streaked with white, especially at the temples. His face wasn’t wrinkled, but his laugh lines were deep, and he had the look of a man who’d lived a good portion of his life outdoors, soaking up the sun, welcoming the buffet of the wind against his cheeks.

“You the lady that needs the nines?” he asked, and she saw the father-son resemblance as his lips turned up into a grin, holding up the ski boots. “Binding was broken.”

Her heart fluttered—
fluttered!—
as she watched his eyes crinkle with mischief.

You're a tease, aren't you?
she thought, wondering how many hearts had fallen for that smile in his lifetime. She physically fought the impulse to step forward, closer to him. She had a sudden thought that he’d smell like leather and fresh air and pine and she wanted to find out if she was right.

For heaven’s sake, Grace, you're behaving like a teenager!

Clearing her throat, she nodded at him.

“So I heard,” she finally answered, her voice overly crisp, even in her own ears.

“Fixed it,” he added as if she’d been warm instead of cool, and winking at her as his son had before.

Her heart kicked into a higher gear and she swallowed before taking a deep breath. She knew her cheeks had colored because she could feel the flush of heat and rush of blood.

“So I heard,” she said again, softening her tone this time. She felt her lips wanting to tilt up, wanting to answer his, but she didn’t let them. Overcome by her response to him, her first instinct was to flee the shop as quickly as possible…but where would she go? Back to the other silver wings? Oh, Lord, no.

“You know how to use ‘em?” he asked, those blue eyes holding hers as he circled the counter.

“S-Skis? Of course.”

He laughed good-naturedly. “We get some folks here who want to try them out for the first time, and I always warn ‘em: It’s a hell of a work out.” His eyes flicked quickly down her body after he delivered this advice. His voice was a smidge lower and his eyes a trifle darker when he found her eyes and spoke again. “But I suspect
you’ll
be fine.”

Grace blinked, fingering one pearl earring nervously. Was it her imagination or had this ski shop manager just checked her out?
Fearing her heart would thump right through her rib cage and flop onto the rental shop floor, she pressed her hands to her cheeks and sat down on the bench vacated by the skaters.

“I—I’ll just, ah…”

Before she could catch her breath completely, he was kneeling at her feet, reaching for her rubber and leather snow boots, his gnarled, masculine hands surprisingly graceful as they opened her laces.

“I’m Tray, by the way,” he said, then chuckled softly. “That rhymed.”

Though he didn’t look up from unlacing her boots, the tips of his ears turned pink, and Grace fisted her fingers because she had an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch them.

“Tray?” she asked. “That’s unusual. I mean, for our generation. I don’t recall a lot of Tray’s.”

He sighed, huffing softly, before looking up at her. “My real name is actually Tracy, which is just as bad as Sue.” He grinned. “You like Johnny Cash?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, her voice barely a murmur.

The whole earth had tilted on its axis when he told her his name. Her lips had parted, her eyes had widened, and she’d quickly stared down at her lap to hide her discomposure. His name was Tracy…
Tracy.

His voice interrupted the wildness of her thoughts. “Never listened to him?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“That’s a shame. He’s one of the greats.”

“Like Mozart?” she asked, raising her eyes to his.

He beamed at her like she’d just made a terrific joke. “Exactly! Like Mozart! Ha. You’re a pip.”

Never having been called a “pip” before, Grace found she liked it far more than she probably should, and bit the inside of her lip to keep from grinning. Still, she was fairly certain her eyes were twinkling because he winked at her again before pulling off one snow boot and then the other.