Authors: Jennifer Laurens
“Miss? Are you all right?” she asks as I wobble past her.
I nod.
Keep going. Keep going
. I need to see Oscar, that will douse my wild libido with reality.
I pull the chair to the side of Oscar’s bed and take his hand. The dead-white light casts his tired face and body in a ghostly hue, and, the flooding sensations brought on by Brenden begin to subside.
“What happened?”he rasps.
“It’s nothing that can’t wait until you’re home. How are you feeling?”
“Have you told Brenden the truth?”
I bite my lower lip, shake my head. “No. That’s the last of my concerns. You—you’re my concern.”
“I wondered if there’d be trouble.” Trouble? I want to laugh. Even picturing Brenden causes my insides to liquefy. Oscar’s eyes twinkle. “Ah, I see.”
“Nonsense.” But my cheeks are warm, giving me away.
“I may be dying but I’m not blind. It’s a good thing, I think, that he’s here.”
“He’s talked to Rufus.”
Oscar’s eyes widen. “Dear god in heaven.”
“Rufus didn’t even wait until Jonathan’s casket was in the ground.”
With a hiss of disgust, Oscar’s skin begins to pink with rage.
“At least Brenden didn’t give him anything,” I say.
Oscar swallows with relief. “He’s Jonathan’s son.”
“Yes, but his feelings for Jonathan are very resentful. I feel responsible.”
“Don’t. That’s water under the bridge.”
“But he and I are on that bridge.” I rise, scrubbing away a chill.
A nurse comes in and checks him, says he’s oxygenating better and that they’ll move him into a private room. I gather his clothes and follow the nurses who push the portable bed through double doors, down a long hallway until we reach a sleepy section of rooms waiting for patients.
The light in the room is at a twilight setting, the scent of sterile linens is strong as they settle Oscar into his new bed. I place his pajamas and slippers in the closet. When we’re left alone again, I stand next to his bedside. Rufus’ image forces its way into my head—and I hate it. I swallow back the urge to vomit. I won’t lose the control I’ve earned.
Even though the idea of facing Rufus looms, I can’t ignore the completion of peace that awaits if I finally do accept what needs to be done.
“I’m tired,” he drawls. “It’s going to be all right. Go home.”
”I’m going to see Rufus.”
Oscar’s eyes widen. He studies me for long moments that cause me to wonder if he’s behind my decision or not. “You’re serious about this?”
“How else can I ever be completely done with my past?”
“I don’t know if you can ever be completely done. Can any of us?”
“I know everything stays with you to some degree or another, but I’m tired of being afraid. I don’t have to wonder if he’s going to find me, Oscar—he has. We can’t move, you’re sick. This needs to be over.”
He ponders my words, and the sharpness in his eyes softens. “I’ve been waiting for you to come to this conclusion.” He pauses. “Take Brenden.”
I have no idea how I’ll approach the subject or if Brenden will agree to go. “I’ll only be gone a day. You’re safe here, and you’ll be well cared for. I’m going to make the arrangements, all right?”
He nods. Closes his eyes. A tear slips out from behind his lashes and my heart aches. I lean over, kiss his forehead. He grasps my arms tight and holds me close. “You’ll have the freedom you deserve.”
“Shh.” I lay my cheek against his forehead, holding my own tears in place.
“Be careful.”
I stand erect, our hands still joined. “Rufus can’t do anything to me.”
From where I stand, I catch Brenden’s backpack on the floor on the other side of the room. The nurse must have brought it, assuming it belonged to Oscar. I cross, pick it up and look at Oscar.
He shakes his head. “Sis, no.”
“I’ll tell him…later,” I rationalize, fingers on the zipper.
The vial.
The backpack smells like Brenden, and I lift it to my nose and inhale. Oscar’s brow arches. I have the fleeting thought that Oscar is right, Jonathan sent Brenden—and not just to give me the vial.
The door opens and Brenden enters. His eyes skip from mine to the backpack, back to me. Behind him, the door comes to a quiet close.
I extend the backpack. “I didn’t…”
“I discouraged thieving.” Oscar tries to lighten the tension. “You owe Brenden an apology.”
I can’t apologize to him, even though I may owe him one. I only apologize to people I love and trust.
“She always has been stubborn,” Oscar says on a sigh of disappointment. I avoid his gaze.
Brenden studies me through wary eyes. When he takes the backpack, his fingers brush mine. Warmth flurries from my hand, through my arm and floods my body, pooling in my wobbling knees. I reach out, grab hold of the foot of the bed and sit.
Brenden hoists the backpack onto his back, anchoring his hands on the straps. If he trusted me at all, he doesn’t anymore. His gaze continues to probe. I try to calm my fluttering heart. Not looking at him helps.
“Oscar, you feeling better?” he asks.
“I’m fine.” Oscar waves his hand. “You two get back to the house. You need sleep.”
He knows I don’t sleep.
“I’ll catch some z’s out in the lobby if I need to.” Brenden crosses to me. “Get comfortable. Let me take your coat and scarf.”
Maybe he’s not angry at me after all. “I’m fine, thank you.” In fact, the warm layer of clothing gives me a sense of safety—from my precarious reaction to him.
“Go,” Oscar says. “I’ll be all right.”
Oscar’s trying to get me alone with Brenden so I will talk to him.
Brenden opens the door and pauses in the jamb. “She’d probably rather be in here,” he says. “A Grace Doll movie is showing out in the lobby.”
Oscar’s brow furrows. “Oh for Pete’s sake, ask them to change the channel.”
Brenden glances at me then closes the door after him. When he’s gone, a draft of emptiness chills my heart. I have to tell him the truth. How?
“What are you afraid of?“ Oscar asks.
“Are you speaking of facing Rufus? Or the easy task of telling Brenden that I’m Grace Doll and risk that he’ll tell the world?”
His eyes twinkle and tease. “What risk? It’s all about timing,” he says. He reaches for my hand. “You’re good at timing. It’s always been one of your strengths.”
Chapter Twenty
~Brenden~
Grace’s face beams from the black and white film like a full moon in a midnight sky. Her voice spins soft threads of want through my body.
No. That woman tore my family apart. I’m confusing Grace with Katherine.
I can admit that.
Katherine obviously hates the woman. Why else would she run out of the room, ready to hurl? What kind of a diva was the actress?
The vibrating cell phone breaks my concentration on both women—a good thing. To keep my head straight, I pull the phone out. Solomon, again.
This matter needs to be discussed over the phone. I’m waiting for your call.
My nerves jump. I’m too curious about the desperate man willing to make up such outlandish stories. How much farther is he willing to go with this obsession?
I dial.
“You’re one sick bastard, you know that?”
“There’s a marking on the back of her neck. A star.”
The man is overboard. “Why would she have a star there?”
“Ask Grace.”
“I told you, she died two weeks ago.” I click off the phone. I want to huck it against the wall, and I almost do. His implication is impossible and insulting—I’m angry he’s desecrated Dad’s death because of his sick obsession with a woman who already damaged my life.
Ask Grace.
His disturbing comment is stuck in my head even if it is outlandish. All I can think about is looking at the back of her neck.
How are you going to do that? Excuse me, but can I see the back of your neck? And then what?
Who is she, really?
My cell phone vibrates. Again. I’m not going to talk to Solomon until I check out his claims and can tell him to choke on them.
I plunk into a chair, backpack at my feet. The weariness settling into my muscles drags my body near the edge of exhaustion. It’s not likely I’ll sleep with suspicion chewing on me.
The vibrating phone has to stop. I pull it out and turn it off before the battery dies. Then I slip the phone away. My sketchpad. Just seeing it eases my building anxiety. I pull it out, grab a pencil.
My gaze is drawn to the screen. To Grace. The loss and disappointment I feel at not getting to meet her and talk to her about Dad weigh like boulders on my chest. An intense longing lingers in spite of the fact that I will never get to tell her off. Pencil pressed against paper, I scrape. Furious strokes. Slashes. Her face—the look of urgency in her eyes. But her voice works my heart into soft putty. My strokes slow, soften as I sketch the fullness of her mouth, the feminine softness of her jaw. The scratching sounds of my pencil eases my tight muscles. Fluid thoughts of her pour her image through tendons and sinews until the final stroke—the side of her neck, and I stop.
Ask Grace.
The door to the ER opens. She appears. Her eyes latch on mine and she crosses to where I sit, stopping inches from me. Her gaze shifts to my drawing. In a surreal exchange, Grace’s dialogue narrates the curious moments passing between.
“If you don’t believe me, who will?” Grace’s character asks.
“Everything you’ve said makes me feel like you’re lying to me. I need reasons. Proof,” her costar says.
“Ready?” She buttons her coat, tightens the scarf.
“We don’t have to leave on my account. Like I said, I can sleep—”
“It’s been arranged.” She strides to the exit like a woman with a mission. I hop to my feet and follow.
The double doors slide open. We’re hit in the face by a gust of icy air.
“Hey, it stopped snowing,” I observe.
“Where’s the car?” she asks.
“Over here.” I lead her to the snow-covered SUV and when we get there, give her the keys. My fingertips touch the palm of her hand, her breath billows out in small gasps and, for a second, she looks like she’s going to faint. But she steadies herself. She opens the trunk and pulls out a snow scraper. I extend my hand. She hesitates, then gives me the scraper and gets in the car, to start the engine. The car has a three-inch build up of snow, but it’s powdery, and brushes off easily.
After the windows are clean, I climb in and shut the door. The heater blows cold air and both of our breaths hiss out in white wisps.
“Brenden,” she says. My name sounds melodic coming from her lips. “I wouldn’t have taken the box and not told you.”
Her eyes are earnest—beautiful. I want to believe that she’s not b.s.ing me. I don’t say anything because my head’s jammed with,
Ask Grace. Ask Grace.
The resemblance seems even more striking—my crazy imagination on overdrive. Still, a pit opens in my stomach that I’m allowing Solomon’s words a corner in my consciousness.
“It’s the truth,” she says.
“I walk in and you’re holding my backpack.”
She lifts her chin. “I
was
tempted. But I didn’t take it.”
“Can you tell me what’s in the box?”
She takes a deep breath and cautiously backs the car out of the parking space.
“I can’t tell you that—yet.”
“Why? Don’t you trust me?”
“That’s not it.”
“Do I scare you?”
She seems to struggle with a reply. “You
do
scare me,” she whispers.
“What did I do to—”
“You didn’t do anything. I’m not used to being around…anyone… but Oscar. I’ve been taking care of him for a very long time.”
“I get that. I took care of Mom. It’s not easy.”And I can relate to how the rest of life can suck along with it.
“I owe it to him.”
“He’s lucky to have you,” I repeat what she said to me about Mom. A soft smile lights her face.
Ask Grace.
I wish she’d tell me how she was related to the woman. I can’t wait to put Solomon out of his obsessive misery and shut him up with the truth. “Can I ask you another question? Since we’re on a roll.”
She smiles. “Are we?”
“I definitely feel a roll.”
Her glance is coy. Seductive? I don’t know. All I know is I want to put my arms around her and feel her.“How did Grace wind up with Oscar and not Dad?”
She takes a deep breath. Earlier, she didn’t want to talk about Grace, but I have to have some answers. And, she seems a little more receptive now.