Chapter Seven
Grace did finally get a chance to talk with Brittney—but not until Thursday morning, the day of the dinner at Abbie’s. Since seeing Grace with Abbie at Burton Island, Brittney had skipped two classes, a Borealis meeting, and a scheduled office appointment—but she had still managed to turn her theme paper in on time. Grace had tried emailing her and even sending her a note through campus mail. No response. Nothing.
Grace was making a quick stop at the Borealis office on her way home to get changed for the pre-inaugural soirée. She needed to drop off some marked-up copies of two short stories for Bryce, and pick up three new submissions to read over the weekend.
She ran into Brittney in the foyer of the building.
When Brittney saw her coming, she tried to veer off down an adjacent hallway, but Grace called out to her. Enough was enough.
“Brittney. Wait up, please. I’ve been trying to catch up with you.”
The young woman stopped and turned around. She watched Grace approach with what Grace thought was reluctance and trepidation. When she drew closer, Grace couldn’t quite read the girl’s expression. The only thing she was sure of was that Brittney was not meeting her with composure.
“I’ve been concerned about you,” Grace said. “It’s not like you to miss two classes in a row.”
Brittney shrugged, but didn’t say anything.
“Are you ill?” Grace asked.
“No.” The girl shook her head. She didn’t offer any other explanation for her absence—and she avoided making eye contact with Grace.
Grace decided to try another approach.
“Did you enjoy the holiday weekend, Brittney?”
“I stayed here,” the girl said curtly.
“I thought I saw you out on Burton Island,” Grace offered. “On Sunday.”
Brittney lifted her chin. “I saw you, too. With Dr. Williams.” Brittney threw out the words like an accusation.
Bingo.
“That’s right, Brittney. Dr. Williams was visiting a friend on Butler Island. I offered to give her a ride back and save Captain Polly the trip.”
Brittney looked unsettled, like maybe she hadn’t expected Grace to own up to getting busted so easily.
“She’s really pretty,” she said. “But those sunglasses looked totally weird.”
Grace tried hard not to laugh. “She’s very nice, too. I hope you have a chance to get to know her. She’s going to be a real asset to St. Allie’s. We’re lucky to have her.”
“I got invited to a luncheon with her on Monday—after the inauguration.”
“That’s great. And a real honor, too. I hope you go.”
“I’m not the only one,” the girl explained. “There are a lot of students going.”
“All the more reason for you to be there,” Grace suggested. “Especially since you’re so active on campus.”
Brittney shrugged again. “Maybe I will go.”
“Good. Perhaps you can take your friend along, too.”
Brittney looked confused. “What friend?”
“The one you were with on Sunday—at Burton Island.”
Brittney blushed. “She’s not really my friend. She’s just some girl I met out there.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of people you know.”
“Will you be there?”
“On Monday? No. I didn’t get an invitation to that event, I’m afraid.” Grace glanced at her watch. “I need to run, Brittney. I want to catch Dr. Oliver-James before he leaves. I’ve got some pages to give back to him.”
“He’s still up there,” she said. “I just met with him.”
“Oh.” Grace was nonplussed. When you hear hoofbeats, think horses not zebras. Sister Merry Larry was on overtime these days . . .
“Great,” Grace said with more enthusiasm than she felt. “Well, I’ll run this right up to him. You take care, Brittney. I hope I see you in class on Tuesday.”
“Okay, Dr. Warner.”
Grace headed for the stairs without looking back. When she reached the first turn and started up the next flight, she could see that Brittney was still standing in the same spot, watching her with that oddly blank expression.
It gave her the shivers.
# # #
The black suit was totally wrong for this evening. The jacket hung on her like a shroud and the pants made her look like a mobster.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror.
“I look like a rerun of What Not to Wear.”
The classy invitation card read “cocktail attire.” Grace had no clue what that meant. She thought about asking CK, who was also invited, but she knew CK would probably show up in flip-flops and tie-dyed yoga pants, no matter what caliber of dress was requested.
When in doubt, go to The Google.
She walked to her computer and opened her browser. “What is cocktail attire?” she typed. The screen filled with about twelve thousand links to retail stores and online shopping venues. She clicked on “images” and scrolled through the photos. Most were of rail-thin women who were scantily clad in sleeveless short dresses with plunging necklines.
Yeah. I don’t think so.
It wasn’t that Grace hated dresses. She didn’t. She just didn’t own many—and none of the ones she had were what you’d call chic. They were mostly classified as wedding or funeral attire. She actually did own one “party” dress. It was a fussy, flouncy something-something and tulle creation her mother had painstakingly and expertly stitched together for her to wear at her brother’s second wedding. Wait . . . third wedding. They got married in Wilkes-Barre at the Moose Lodge because Dean couldn’t get the church to annul his second marriage—or his first, for that matter. Her brother never understood why the diocese didn’t accept his claims of spousal infidelity as an adequate basis to have those sacramental unions dissolved—not even when Grace took pains to explain that it was his infidelity that ended the relationships, not the unoffending spouses.
“So?” he declared. “Cheating is cheating—and the church makes it clear that cheating gets you out of a bad marriage.”
“Dean,” Grace tried again. “‘Cheating,’ as you call it, is not like a canonical ‘get out of jail free’ card—especially when you’re the one doing the cheating.”
He remained unconvinced, and, as the years and the spouses passed, he continued to file his petitions for declarations of nullity.
She looked over at her closet, where the puffy sleeve of what she called the “Moose frock” projected from her somber cache of dress clothes.
Yeah. That’s not happening.
She closed her laptop. This was getting her nowhere.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. She picked up her phone before she could think better of it, and punched in a number.
Her mother answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mum. It’s me.”
“Well, my goodness. Is there an R in the month?”
Grace rolled her eyes. “It hasn’t been that long since I called.”
“Yes, it has. It was Shrove Tuesday. I remember exactly because I was baking the king cake for the altar guild, and I was so distracted by your call that I accidentally dropped five plastic babies into the batter. Vivian Makowski was unlucky enough to get the slice with the ‘quintuplets,’ and everyone teased her about taking fertility drugs.”
“How is Mrs. Makowski?”
“She’s doing pretty well, considering.”
Grace knew it was a mistake, but she took the bait. “Considering what?”
“She had twenty-two polyps removed during her last colon-oscopy. But that’s nothing compared to what Kolby did while she was in the hospital.”
Kolby was Mrs. Makowski’s ne’er-do-well son. He was forty-three years old and still lived at home in his mother’s basement. Grace had actually gone out with him a few times while they both were inmates at Bishop Hoban High. Her mother never missed an opportunity to remind Grace of how close her bad judgment nearly brought her to complete ruination.
“Do I want to know what that was?” Grace asked.
“Well, he stole her keys and took that floozy, Marlene Zink, joyriding. He’s on his fourth DWI and isn’t allowed to drive anything—not even the forklift at the Schott’s plant. Of course, he totaled the Buick—hit a pothole and rolled it three times before it crashed through the plate-glass window at The Chicken Coop. I have no idea how those two escaped without serious injuries. Vivian said they were too drunk to realize what’d happened. I guess Kolby climbed out of the car and tried to order some ribs.”
Grace closed her eyes and dropped the phone to her shoulder. These are my people.
“But that isn’t why you called,” her mother continued.
Eureka. It usually took the span of five or six more object lessons before Agnes allowed Grace to get to the point of her call.
“Yeah. I have to go to a quasi-fancy dinner party tonight and I don’t know what to wear.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them.
“Fancy? How fancy?” She could hear the excitement in her mother’s voice. “Is this a date? Because if it’s a date, you really should ask your . . . companion . . . what he . . . or she . . . is wearing. You don’t want to clash.”
“It’s not a date, Mum. It’s a college event. Dinner at the new president’s home.”
“Oh. How nice. Have you met him yet? Is he single?”
“Mum. He is a she—and, yes, she’s single.”
Silence on the line.
“How old is she?”
Grace sighed. “I dunno—maybe forty-six or -seven? I didn’t ask.”
“So, you’ve met her?”
Grace had to hand it to Agnes—she had the prosecutorial instincts of a U.S. Attorney.
“Yes. I’ve met her a couple of times.”
“Are you attracted to her?”
“Jesus, Mum.”
“Do not blaspheme, young lady.”
Grace took a deep breath. “I did not call to discuss Abbie. I need advice about what to wear.”
“Her name is Abbie?”
Blood in the water. How could I be so stupid?
“Where are her people from?” Agnes was all over it now. “Has she been married before? Will I get to meet her at Thanksgiving?”
I want to die . . . Maybe I should just wear the fucking Moose frock and be done with it?
“Mum.” Grace tried again. “Forget about Abbie. I need advice about what to wear. The invitation reads ‘cocktail attire,’ and I don’t know what that actually means. That’s why I called. You know my wardrobe choices—what should I wear? I don’t wanna show up looking like a doofus. Please. I’m running out of time. The thing starts in half an hour.”
Her mother sighed. “I suppose it’s pointless to suggest you wear a dress?”
“I’d say the odds are about as good as they were for Kolby getting that full rack of St. Louis ribs.”
“I take it that’s a no?”
“That would be a no. Correct.”
“Well.” Her mother seemed to think about it. “Do you have black slacks—and a decent pair of shoes that don’t look like work boots?”
Grace stifled her reflexive response. “Yes, to both.”
“Are the shoes black?”
“One pair is.”
“And they have heels?”
Grace walked to her closet and checked. “Little ones.”
“Those’ll work. Now, do you have a tailored shirt—preferably white? Something with a nice collar, long sleeves and decent cuffs?”
“I have that one you bought me on sale at Macy’s last year.”
“Perfect. Is it pressed?”
“Well,” Grace demurred. “I’ve never worn it so it still looks pretty good.”
Her mother let that one pass. “It’s September, so you could get away with a jacket—as long as it’s tailored and matches the slacks.”
“Yeah. I don’t have any that aren’t too lived-in. They all make me look like one of the Blues Brothers.”
“How about a vest—something short and colorful?”
Grace thought about it. “I have that Chinese-looking one I wore to cousin Serena’s confirmation two years ago.”
“That’s just right. Now all you need are earrings and a nice bracelet.”
Earrings? And the only thing she had approximating a ‘bracelet’ was a pair of gag handcuffs she and Denise wore one year to a costume party.
“I’ll see what I can find,” she told her mother.
“And, sweetie?” her mother asked. “It would be a very nice gesture for you to take Abbie some flowers. Nothing too ostentatious—maybe Peruvian lilies, if you can find them in orange or red.”
“Right,” Grace agreed, because it was easier. “Orange or red. Got it. Thanks, Mum. You really helped me out. I gotta run.”
“Have fun, dear. And remember to work your silverware from the outside in.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Yes, Mum. I remember. Talk to you later, okay?”
“Bye, dear.”
“Bye, Mum. I love you.”
Grace disconnected.
Peruvian lilies? What a ridiculous idea.
She wondered if they had any at Howard’s Florist . . .
# # #
CK was the first person she saw when she arrived at Abbie’s. The cocktail reception preceding the dinner was being held outside, so Grace headed straight for the scene of her recent tenure as an owl job artist. She hoped her dismal failure at that pursuit wasn’t a writ-large, flashing-light preview of the likely outcome of her other tenure pursuit, but she figured it probably was. Metaphors as great as that one were hard to dismiss—especially for her. She did her best to act blasé as she passed by reminders of events that had taken place there just a few nights ago. And she was careful to avoid the areas where the loose pavers were located. Although she was interested to see that all of the pots of geraniums she’d destroyed had been replaced with flowering plants that were more refined. She noted that they also were arrayed in heavy, cast-iron planters. She wasn’t sure if that decision had been part of a staging plan for the event, or a concession to the new president’s apparent penchant for breaking things. Probably both.
CK was immediately recognizable as she stood near the bar like a Technicolor tent pole. Stood out is more like it, Grace thought. Grace hadn’t been wrong in her suppositions about what CK would choose to wear. The physicist was decked out in a tunic top and loud checked pants that looked as if they could double as evening wear for a curling team. Her only saving grace for the absurdity of her getup was the fact that her pants were in St. Allie’s colors. She wore a pair of what Grace liked to call her happy-ugly shoes—but she at least made a grand concession to the gravity of the event by opting for black ones. At least, they appeared to be black . . . mostly.
Grace made her way toward CK as discreetly as possible. She did her best to try and conceal the bouquet of lilies—and to avoid looking at the trellis, which seemed to have been rejuvenated since the other night. She wondered how Abbie explained that one to the grounds crew.
Of course, CK noticed the bouquet of flowers immediately. She gestured toward them with her tall glass of—something. There were several slices of lime floating in her drink—a clear indication that this wasn’t her first round.
“What the hell are those for?” she asked, indicating the flowers. “Are we gonna lay something to rest after the dessert course?”
Grace was tempted to say, “Yeah. My prospects.” But instead, she told the truth. “They’re for Abbie.”
CK raised a pierced eyebrow. “Are you asking her to the prom?”
“Give me a break, please?” she pleaded. “This is bad enough already.”
She caught the eye of one of the bartenders. He was a tall, handsome man who looked more like a male model than a mixologist. “I’d like whatever she’s having.” She pointed at CK’s glass.
The bartender looked at CK. “Does she mean that?” he asked.
CK faced Grace. “It’s six ounces of Belvedere and a drizzle of fresh lime juice.”
Grace blinked. “On second thought, I’d love a glass of red wine.”
“Hit her with the burgundy, Derek.” CK winked at him.
“Sure thing,” he said. He picked up an unopened bottle of Domaine Dureuil-Janthial Rully Rouge. Grace gaped at the label. It was a 2013 Premier Cru.
“Damn,” Grace observed. “I guess it’s top-shelf everything at this gig.”
“No shit.” CK leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Although I will tell you that not everyone is getting the good stuff.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw them pour Lorrie’s glass from a bottle of Smoking Loon.”
Grace chuckled. “Her fame must precede her.”
“No doubt.”
Grace glanced down at her chest. “I wonder if these name tags are color coded?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me—especially if Lucretia Fletcher had anything to do with it. Mine is probably emitting toxic doses of radon.”
The bartender handed Grace her glass. It was a generous pour—at least a third of the bottle.
“Thank you.” She beamed at him.
“No sweat, Dr. Warner,” he said. “When you’re ready for a refill, you come find me, okay?” He pointed at his name tag. “My name is Derek.” He walked off.
“See?” CK commented. “Told you. Obviously, Abbie put you on a special list.”
Grace didn’t want to discuss anything related to where Abbie might ‘put her’—especially not after the other night. She thought she should’ve won an Oscar for the practiced nonchalance of her predawn exit from the president’s house the morning after.
Another bartender delivered CK’s refill. She was blond, gorgeous and about eight feet tall.
“Thanks, Pamela,” CK said. “Great will be your reward.”
“Where’d they get this waitstaff?” Grace whispered after Pamela glided off. “They look like they belong on the red carpet at the Scandinavian Film Awards.”
“Yeah,” CK agreed. “It’s clear they ain’t homegrown. Lucretia must’ve hired out to impress her new boss.”
“Where is our hostess, anyway?” Grace looked around the assembly of highbrow muckety-mucks and academic worker bees milling about the patio.
“Host, you mean,” CK corrected. “This is Mitch’s shindig. He’s over there, schmoozing Abbie’s parents.”
Abbie’s parents? Grace looked over at the small group CK indicated. Mitchell Ware, chair of the board of trustees, was holding forth in grand fashion—probably boring the Abbots to tears with his tired superlatives about the fabled history of St. Albans. M. and Mme Abbot looked like patrician pictures of polite disinterest. M. Abbot was tall and suave, with a slender build and wavy white hair. He was tastefully dressed in what had to be a Sartorialto creation. Grace recognized the distinctive cut because she’d once lucked out and acquired one of their hand-tailored jackets at an estate auction in Trois-Rivières. She’d had no idea how great her fortune was until she got home and researched the label. Since then, she’d become a true aficionado of the haute men’s fashion gurus who custom-made all of their suits. She had a plan to make one of Ochre’s captors an aspiring sartor, employed by the high-end Montréal house of couture. She had grand designs for how their multi-tiered dialogues about how shape, texture, color and the fluidity of form could breathe life into once inanimate rolls of fabric—transforming them into living works of art—and how it could mirror Ochre’s own path to legend.
Yes. Grace studied Abbie’s father. He stood with one hand casually inserted into the front pocket of his trousers—giving the appearance that he was comfortable—with himself, if not the circumstances. His poise reminded Grace of actor David Niven—a perfect gentleman who handled any situation with complete composure.
She decided she liked him.
Mme Abbot, on the other hand, was trickier. She looked more . . . formidable.
She was shorter than Abbie, and quite beautiful—like her daughter. She, too, was elegantly dressed. And she had stylishly cut, graying blond hair. That part was a surprise. Abbie’s darker coloring must’ve hailed from her father’s side of the family. But there was something else about Mme Abbot that differed from Abbie. Grace decided it was her dour expression—a shame really, since it distracted from an otherwise striking appearance. Unlike her husband, Madame did not look at ease or happy to be there. It led Grace to wonder if the disapproving set to her features was situational, or a more general feature of her disposition.
She reminded Grace of a classic Hitchcock woman—beautiful, but icy and aloof.
She took a deep breath and turned back toward CK. “Where is our honoree, then?”
“Right behind you,” a low-pitched, made-for-late-night-FM-radio voice replied.
Grace started and turned around to face Abbie—who was jaw-droppingly, show-stoppingly, death-defyingly gorgeous in a form-fitting black dress and high-heeled pumps. Grace stood gawking up at her with all the refinement of a small-town doughboy, getting his first look at the Eiffel Tower.
“Hail to the chief,” she croaked.
Abbie threw back her head and laughed. It made the tiny rubies that dangled from the ends of her Egyptian-patterned silver earrings dance and sway.
She was a perfect synthesis of high-class elegance and old-money refinement.
She also looked hot as hell . . .
Oh, yeah. She was all that and a bag of chips.
Grace thrust the bouquet of flowers at her. “My mother told me to bring these,” she explained.
Abbie gave her a look Grace hadn’t seen before. It made her insides go all soft and squishy.
“Thank you, Grace,” Abbie said. “These are lovely. Lilies are my favorite.”
Grace felt clumsy and awkward as she continued to stand there and stare stupidly up at Abbie like she was a magic obelisk that had just risen from the slate pavers. “Well,” she lowered her gaze, “it was either these or a wrist corsage.”
CK chuckled.
Grace shot her a dirty look. “What?”
CK stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Why don’t you two blow this pop stand and go get a room someplace?”
Grace’s eyes widened, but Abbie just laughed. “Believe me, CK,” she said, “I’d like nothing better.” She touched Grace on the arm. “Let me get these into some water and go make nice a bit longer. I’ll see you shortly.”
“Okay,” Grace replied. Her mouth was suddenly dry.
Abbie squeezed her arm before releasing it. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
She moved on.
Grace caught a trace of her scent as she passed—an oddly intoxicating blend of nutmeg and cedar. She nearly lost it when she finally got a chance to steal an unobstructed view of Abbie’s dress—and the provocative slit that extended halfway up one glorious thigh.
“This night is gonna kill me.”
“You’ll survive,” CK said. “But you might wanna drink up. Here comes Lorrie.”
Oh, great. Just what I need.
“Fuck,” Grace said.
“My sentiments exactly,” CK agreed. “If you ask me, somebody should put a canister of Tannerite up that bitch’s ass.”
Grace looked at her with disbelief. “Dude, I think you’re spending way too much time with my brother.”
Lorrie had now pushed her way through the crowd to join them.
“Hello, CK. Hello, Grace.”
Lorrie’s gaze raked CK up and down, then lingered longer on Grace. A lot longer. “Don’t you look adorable?” she said. “Like a sexy, androgynous schoolgirl, hawking ivy-league hair gel.”
“Is that a compliment?” Grace asked. She resisted an impulse to smooth her hair. It did tend to be unruly, especially when it was cut as short as she was wearing it for the summer.
“Duh,” Lorrie replied. “Did you miss the ‘sexy’ part?” Lorrie reached out to tuck a few strands of wayward hair behind Grace’s ear. “I love how the light catches these blond highlights. And the nerdy glasses are a perfect accessory for this evening.”
Accessory? Grace had advanced presbyopia and she always wore “nerdy” glasses at night—they gave her better vision than her contact lenses.
“I’m glad you approve,” she said. “I wasn’t really going for any kind of fashion statement.”
“Well if you had been, the message has been received—loud and clear.”
Are you for fucking real? Grace wondered why Lorrie didn’t just throw herself across a platter of canapés and shout, “Dig in, everyone!” The woman was a total horn dog.
She shot an anxious look at CK, who was watching their exchange with obvious amusement.
Will you please give me a damn hand?
CK finally took the hint. “So, are you having a good time, Lorrie?” she asked.
Lorrie immediately launched into her best, most invasive behavior—insinuating herself into the sliver of space between CK and Grace. “This party is simply the best. So many fascinating people. Have you met Abbie’s parents yet?”
Grace shook her head, but CK stepped right into the batter’s box.
“I have,” she said. “Her father’s kind of a Charles Boyer type, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes,” Lorrie agreed. “That’s a perfect analogy. I absolutely adored him in Love Affair with Irene Dunne.”
“Funny,” CK said. “I was thinking more of Gaslight.”
Lorrie knitted her brows. “I don’t think I know that one.”
“You wouldn’t,” CK replied.
Grace cleared her throat. “What about Mme Abbot?”
“A flawless beauty,” Lorrie gushed.
“A total douchebag,” CK corrected.
Lorrie blinked at her. “Do you really think so?”
“Are you kidding?” CK continued. “She makes Gwyneth Paltrow look like Millie Dresselhaus.”
Lorrie’s look of confusion was so pronounced that Grace had to take pity on her.
“Lorrie? It looks like you’re on empty. Let’s get you some more wine.”
Lorrie beamed at her. “Isn’t this Burgundy just the best? Leave it to Abbie to serve such exquisite wine.”
CK opened her mouth to comment, but Grace glared at her.
“It looks like they’re rounding us up. Why don’t you go inside and find our table, CK? Lorrie and I will be right along.”
“Oh.” Lorrie laid a restraining hand on Grace’s arm. “No need. I’ve already checked it out. All three of us are at the head table.” She beamed. “With Abbie, her parents, the dean of the faculty, and the board chair.”
The head table? Grace shot a panicked look at CK.
“Now whoever could’ve predicted that?” CK chuckled.
“Oh, Abbie thinks of everything. And she just looks amazing, doesn’t she?”
Grace nodded dumbly, unsure of what to say.
“That dress? Halston. Classic. And those Christian Louboutin shoes? Worth a king’s ransom.”
“I like the red soles,” Grace agreed.
CK snorted.
“I saw those earrings she’s wearing once in New York. Cartier—I’m sure of it.” Lorrie fanned herself. “Her late husband must’ve been positively loaded.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Grace said.
“Or maybe,” CK offered, “Abbie made her money the old-fashioned way—by earning it herself.”
Lorrie didn’t make any reply.
CK took that as encouragement enough. She drained her glass. “One more for the road, ladies?”
“Don’t mind if we do.” Lorrie hooked arms with Grace and turned her around to face the bar. “I think we have just enough time before dinner.”
# # #
Never in her life had Grace been more tempted to swap her place card with someone else’s.
Not only was she seated at the head table—the hand-lettered little card bearing her name sat proudly to the immediate left of the spot reserved for President Williams.
CK sat on Abbie’s right. Lorrie was next to CK—followed by Luc and Solange Abbot, Board Chair Mitchell Ware, and Dean of the Faculty Edwin Meeker.
Grace began to feel queasy.
Why not just slap me in stocks on the quad and paste a big damn scarlet A on my chest?
“Will you just relax,” CK whispered in her ear. “This is the safest place for you to be.”
“How do you figure?” Grace pulled out her chair and sat down. It was only then she noticed the flowers on the head table—red and orange Peruvian lilies. Her lilies.
“Because,” CK continued, “if Abbie feels confident enough to seat you right here, she must believe there is nothing to be worried about. You need to trust her.”
“I guess so.” Grace stole a glance at Abbie, who was moving through the room, touching base with all the guests at the other six tables. She also saw that Abbie’s parents, Solange and Luc Abbot, were making their way toward the head table. Luc Abbot pulled out the chair for his wife, and then took pains to introduce himself to Grace and CK.
“Hello,” he said, extending a slender hand to Grace. “I am Luc Abbot, Élisabeth’s father.”
Grace took his hand and shook it warmly. “Grace Warner, Dr. Abbot. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you,” he said. “You are a teacher at St. Albans?”
“Yes. I teach English literature,” she replied. “Badly.”
His blue eyes sparkled. “I somehow doubt that. Élisabeth has spoken very highly of you.”
“Oh. Um . . .” Grace was stunned. Abbie had spoken about her to her parents? “I’m flattered. But I fear she has exaggerated my . . . skill level.”
“Your humility does you credit,” he offered before moving on to CK.
Grace was moved by Luc Abbot’s clear overture at friendship. She began to wonder if maybe CK had been right. Maybe there was nothing to worry about?
Then she caught Abbie’s mother glaring at her from the other side of the lilies. She looked anything but accepting. Solange Abbot was making no effort to talk with anyone—not even poor Mitchell Ware, who was doing his level best to converse with her in broken French.
Give it up, Mitch, she thought. This lady wouldn’t give you the time of day if you were sporting a toque with one hundred perfect pleats. She’d be likelier to tell you to go suck an egg than ask you to explain how to cook one perfectly.
Lorrie and Edwin Meeker had now taken their places at the table.
The dean leaned toward Grace. “Thanks for coming, Grace. We really wanted Abbie to get to know some faculty who represent the future of St. Allie’s. You and Dr. Greene were the unanimous choices.”
Grace had no difficulty understanding why they included CK—even though she was teaching there on a temporary basis and would probably opt to leave as soon as her grant funding expired. She was certain the college would move heaven and earth to try and keep her, though. What CK would do was anyone’s guess. Grace figured she’d have her pick of about two dozen offers—all at schools with greater prestige and whopping big endowments.
For her part, she wondered how expansive the dean’s definition of “get to know” was.
Probably better not to think too much about that—at least for tonight.
“Thanks, Eddie,” she said. “I’m honored to represent the department.”
“Bryce tells me that you’ve got some stellar contributions to Borealis rolling in.”
Bryce was talking with the dean? Horses—not zebras, she reminded herself. “We do. Don DeLillo, Dorothy Allison, two poems by Isobel Van Dyk—and another submission Bryce doesn’t know about yet. Ann Patchett.”
“Really?” Eddie looked impressed. “How’d you finagle that one?”
“She was my dissertation adviser at Vanderbilt.” Grace shrugged. “I essentially blackmailed her.”
He smiled. “I doubt it.”
“Don’t be so sure. I threatened to announce on Twitter that she is the ghostwriter of my unpublished novel. She caved immediately and overnighted a short story to us.” Grace smiled at the dean. “Worked like a charm.”
“I’m sure Bryce will be thrilled with this news.”
Yeah. About as thrilled as he’d be to have his hemorrhoids excised.
“Thanks,” she said. “I think so, too.”
Eddie looked up as someone approached the table. It was Abbie.
“Forgive me for keeping you waiting,” she addressed them all. “And thanks for saving my seat.” She briefly rested a hand on Grace’s shoulder.
Jeez, lady. Like to live dangerously?
“I can’t take credit for that, Dr. Williams,” Grace corrected her. “Whenever anyone got too close for comfort, Dr. Greene would belch.”
“It’s true,” CK chimed in. “Belching on command is my real claim to fame.”
Grace nodded. “Not a lot of people know that about our resident MacArthur genius.”
Abbie took her seat. “I can see I got lucky with this seating arrangement.” She glanced at Grace. “Very lucky.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” CK bumped shoulders with Lorrie. “Our esteemed artist in residence here has offered to regale us with bawdy limericks from the old country.”
Lorrie looked perplexed. “What old country?” she asked CK.
“I dunno. Pick one.”
“How about Mongolia?” Eddie offered.
Grace looked at him. “Mongolia had bawdy verse?”
He shrugged. “It could happen.”
CK raised her glass. “I say we consider only bastions of dead languages.”
“You mean like St. Allie’s?” Grace asked.
Abbie chuckled.
“I have no idea what you’re all talking about,” Lorrie lamented.
Across the table, Luc Abbot chanted, “There was a young lady of Niger . . .”
“Who smiled as she rode on a tiger,” CK continued.
Eddie took up the charge. “They returned from the ride . . .”
“With the lady inside,” Grace continued.
“And a smile on the face of the tiger?” Abbie asked.
Luc began the applause. “Bravo. Merveilleux.”
“And to think I almost didn’t come.” CK clinked glasses with Abbie.
“I still don’t get it,” Lorrie sulked.
CK patted her hand. “Don’t worry, dear. Carbs are en route.”
White-coated servers arrived and began depositing perfectly bronzed, mini-brioche pastries on their plates.
“Poor little thing,” CK mused, holding her roll between her thumb and index finger. “Cut off in its infancy.” She looked at Abbie. “I think its mother was a bâtard, don’t you?”
“Un émigrés, for sure.” Abbie looked amused. “Based on those aspiring swirls, I’d say its father was an itinerant baguette.”
“Qu’il faut se méfier des métamorphes.”
It was Abbie’s mother.
“Oui, maman,” Abbie addressed her. “We should beware of shape-shifters. But tonight, we speak English—as a courtesy to our guests.”
Solange Abbot waved a hand. “Comme vous le souhaitez.” Abbie’s father touched his wife’s hand. “As you wish,” she amended.
Grace noticed a slight tightening to the set of Abbie’s jaw. She wanted to take hold of her hand, but she couldn’t. She wanted to lean her head against her shoulder, but she couldn’t. She also wanted to throw her down on top of the table and have her way with her, but she couldn’t do that, either.
“Would you like my butter?” she asked.
Abbie looked at her strangely.
“I’m not going to eat it.” Grace shrugged and gave her a shy little smile that she hoped no one else would notice.
Abbie’s expression softened. “Yes,” she said softly. “I’d love to have your butter.”
Grace passed her plate over so Abbie could discreetly transfer the two small pats of butter to her own plate.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I thought you could use it,” Grace added. “Consider it combat rations.”
“In that case, could I have your brioche, too?”
Grace laughed.
Abbie contrived to touch Grace’s fingers when she handed the bread plate back. To Grace, her touch was like the jolt from a 220 line.
It was ridiculous.
Grace was going down for the count, and they hadn’t even made it to the first course.
Handsome Derek was making the rounds. Grace noticed that he was artfully serving from two different decanters. She surmised that one contained the Rully Rouge, and the other the Smoking Loon. She waited for him to reach their table to test her hypothesis. Sure enough, she, Abbie and Luc Abbot were served from the same decanter—Lorrie from the other.
Statuesque Pamela followed behind Derek with a single decanter of white wine, proving that the special treatment must’ve been reserved for Lorrie.
Grace caught CK’s eye.
“Told you,” her friend mouthed.
“So, Abbie.” The beleaguered visiting poet leaned forward to command the new president’s attention. “I’m dying to learn more about your background. Why did you leave such a promising career in academe to pursue foundation work?”
Abbie sighed. “It was a pragmatic decision, actually. When my husband became ill, I needed a position with greater flexibility, to allow me to spend more time at home. It was a difficult decision, but really, the only one I could make under the circumstances.”
“I am sure the administration at Princeton understood,” Mitchell Ware added. “You were a real asset to the classics department there. I know they were sad to lose you.”
“Thank you for saying that, Mitchell. But I think you dress me in borrowed robes. I was more of an acolyte than a leader—basking in the shadows cast by real scholars.”
“You’re too modest, Abbie.” It was Eddie Meeker this time. “I read your first two monographs on Boccaccio and Petrarch. If those aren’t seminal works, I don’t know what are.”
Abbie smiled that million-dollar smile of hers. “I’m amazed you made it through those, Edwin. I rather thought they were tomes, destined to become doorstops.”
“I don’t agree.” Eddie raised an index finger. “You have a natural gift for exposition. The writing was excellent and the scholarship was superb.”
Abbie shook her head.
“You don’t have to flatter her, Eddie,” CK offered. “She already accepted the job.”
“I only speak the truth.” He looked at Abbie’s father. “You must agree, Monsieur Abbot?”
“Of course, I agree,” he said. “Our Élisabeth can often be timide . . . shy,” he corrected.
“Il y a beaucoup de choses qui n’ont aucun sens,” Solange added.
Grace’s French wasn’t all that great, but she got the sting of Abbie’s mother’s remark.
“You are right, maman. There are many things that don’t make sense.” Abbie regarded the rest of the table. “How about we make a pact to spend the rest of the evening focusing only on things that do?”
“Fine with me,” CK said. “I’ll start.” She held up her wineglass. “This is just about the best wine I’ve had since coming to Vermont.”
“Here, here.” Lorrie raised her glass of Smoking Loon. “I’ll second that.”
They all raised their glasses.
Grace happened to catch a nonverbal exchange between Abbie and her mother. It didn’t look friendly.
She glanced at her watch as discreetly as she could.
How many more hours of this did they have to endure?
# # #
After Father Beatty—everyone just called him Jimmy—delivered the invocation and Mitch Ware made his brief remarks welcoming President Williams, all attention shifted to the meal. There were four courses, all French and all superb. There was also enough ambient conversation and laughter to allow Grace and Abbie to exchange a few words.
They both took pains to speak in code, because Lorrie seemed especially eager to eavesdrop on anything they said to each other.
“How was your reentry from North Carolina?” Grace asked.
“It was touch and go,” Abbie replied. “At first, I thought the transition was headed in a positive direction, then it took a turn for the worse.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Grace commiserated. “What do you think caused the change?”
Abbie looked at her. “It was a regrettable misunderstanding. I’m happy to say that order was restored fairly quickly.”
“That’s always a relief,” Grace agreed. “It can be horrible when you think someone has mistaken your intentions.”
“I agree. Tell me,” she asked, “how are you feeling about the way the evening is going?”
Grace was surprised by the double entendre. “I think everyone is having a delightful time.”
“Are you?”
Grace nearly dropped her salad fork. She had to parse her words very carefully.
“I’m . . . enjoying the . . .” she looked at Abbie, “view.”
Abbie smiled at her. “Me, too.”
“Abbie?” Mitchell Ware called out to her. “We need you to settle a dispute. Your father says that France makes the best vodka. I say that Vermont does. What say you?”
“Oh, my,” Abbie replied. “I don’t know that I can settle this question. Anyone who knows me understands that I’m not a connoisseur of intoxicants.” Beneath the table, she pressed her leg against Grace’s. “With, perhaps, one exception.”
“Maybe you should try a blind taste test?” CK suggested.
“Capital idea, Dr. Greene.” Mitchell cast about for one of the Scandinavian stunt doubles. He caught Pamela’s eye. She approached the table. “Pamela, could you please bring us two shots each of Grey Goose and Smuggler’s Notch vodkas—straight up. Dr. Abbot and I are going to do a blind taste test.”
“Of course.” Pamela glided off.
How the hell does she do that? Grace wondered. It’s like she’s moonwalking.
“I have a feeling this will end badly,” Abbie said in an undertone.
“Why?” Grace asked.
“Because my father hates to lose and he’s a diehard Francophile. He’ll never be willing to admit that Vermont makes a better vodka.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about intoxicants,” Grace teased.
Abbie pressed against her leg again. “Believe me,” she said. “I know plenty.”
Lorrie must’ve noticed their exchange. “Tell me something, Abbie. Why do men get up to these ridiculous contests?”
“I’m sure I have no idea, Laurel,” Abbie replied.
“But surely, your late husband didn’t partake of such foolery?”
Abbie took a moment to reply. “He was much too sick for most of our years together. The small bit of energy he could muster went into his legal work—not games.”
Lorrie was either too stupid or too vindictive to back off. “It’s too bad you weren’t blessed with a longer life together.”
“Son mari était trop vieux pour elle. Elle n’aurait jamais du l’épouser.”
Abbie shot a stern glance across the table at her mother.
Solange addressed Lorrie. “My apologies. I said her husband was much too old.” She shifted her sights to Abbie like she was lining up a kill shot. “Élisabeth should never have married him.”
Grace could detect a subtle stiffening in Abbie’s posture and knew she was about to get up from the table.
She knew she had one shot at defusing this looming gunfight at the not-so-okay corral. As casually as she could, she picked up her wineglass and unceremoniously dumped half of it down the front of her shirt.
“Oh, dear god.” She noisily shoved her chair back from the table. “Look at the mess I’ve made.”
A flurry of activity ensued, with virtually everyone offering Grace his or her napkin and an accompanying amount of homeopathic advice about how to immediately neutralize red wine stains.
“Use white wine,” Mitchell Ware called out.
“Baking soda and vinegar,” Eddie Meeker suggested.
“Take off your shirt and suck out the venom,” CK cried.
Grace glared at her.
“Hey, it’s an idea,” she said.
Lorrie didn’t miss a beat. “I volunteer to help with that one!”
Abbie shot a look at Lorrie before glaring at Grace. She was strangely silent in the barrage of helpful solutions. She just sat there, staring at Grace as if she wasn’t really seeing her.
That can’t be a good sign, Grace thought.
Somehow, Pamela, the blond Tutsi, appeared at her side. “Let me take you someplace where you can deal with that stain,” she offered. Grace nodded, and shot a last, hopeful glance at Abbie before getting up and meekly following Pamela out of the dining room.
# # #
Grace was rubbing furiously at the stain, which had permeated a five-inch-wide swath down the front of her starched white shirt.
What kind of idiot am I? She rubbed more of the mysterious paste Pamela had given her into the stain. I ruin my best damn shirt, and for what? So Abbie can just sit there and glower at me like I’m some alien life form? Maybe she should’ve gotten up and gone ten rounds with that harridan of a mother of hers. More paste. It’s no skin off my nose.
Grace sat back and held her shirtfront out under the light to try and see if her efforts were resulting in any improvement. It was impossible to tell. The powder room Pamela had led her to was small and at the back of the house. The overhead light in here was amber-colored and of low wattage, and that made it hard to tell if she was making any headway.
This is ridiculous. I need to take the damn thing off.
She got to her feet and removed her vest, after first checking to be sure the adjacent sitting room was empty. She didn’t really need to worry—nobody would be coming all the way back here tonight. She had been tempted to drop breadcrumbs en route just so she could find her way back to the dining room.
She folded her vest and placed it over the back of her chair and unbuttoned her shirt the rest of the way. Once it was off, she could do a better job of attacking the stain. She didn’t know what she was going to wear the rest of the evening if she couldn’t succeed in lightening this up a bit. Right now, her shirt looked like the last act of Bonnie and Clyde.
Hell, even if I do get the damned stain out, it’s going to be soaking wet. Maybe I should just wear the vest? CK would without thinking twice about it.
And Lorrie would probably love it . . .
She rinsed the big globs of pulverized paste out and peered at the fabric. Maybe it was beginning to work a little bit?
She set about applying a fresh coat of the mystery glop and wondered what was going on in the dining room, and whether Abbie had killed her mother yet.
Dear god that woman was impossible. No wonder Abbie expressed ambivalence about the wisdom of taking a position so close to Québec. Grace wondered why she hadn’t sought employment opportunities in Tierra del Fuego.
She was startled when she heard a door slam. Pictures on the wall in the powder room shook.
Oh, fuck . . . somebody just came into the sitting room.
She quickly reached out and snapped the switch to turn the overhead light off.
Maybe if I’m really quiet they won’t know I’m in here.
Unless they have to use the bathroom . . .
Fuck.
Horses, not zebras. Horses, not zebras.
Whoever was in the next room started talking swiftly—and loudly—in French.
“C’est un vrai cauchemar! Je ne peut plus. C’est assez!”
Grace couldn’t quite follow. “It’s enough,” was about all she could make out. Whoever the woman was, she was pissed—that much was for sure.
“Je devrais avoir ma tête examinée! J’etais fou de penser que ca passerait bien!”
Grace could tell by the way the sound kept coming and going that the woman was striding about the room. It also sounded like she was picking things up and slamming them back down.
“Comment qu’elle peut venir ici et m’humilier? Rien que je fasse est assez bon.”
The angry voice was getting closer. Grace held her breath and tried to plaster herself against the back wall of the powder room, clumsily holding her shirt up against her bare chest.
Great. Just great.
“I don’t know why I thought tonight would be any different. She’s always this way.”
Grace looked toward the doorway in shock. Abbie?
Oh, holy shit . . .
“Papa es un faible qui ne resistera jamais á elle. Ridiculous. Pathetic.”
A hand reached inside the doorway and flipped the light switch.
Grace closed her eyes and waited for it.
“Oh! Mon dieu!” Abbie cried.
Grace held up her free hand and waved. “Hi there.”
Abbie looked stunned. “What are you doing in here?”
Grace nodded toward her wine-stained shield. “Trying to be decent. As you can see, I appear to have failed miserably . . . again.”
“Oh, dear god.” Abbie raised a hand to her head. “This whole evening is a nightmare.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I honestly cannot endure very much more.” Abbie was making no effort to calm down.
Grace tried to hush her. “Maybe try to lower your voice by a few decibels?”
“Why?”
“Because you probably don’t want people out there to hear you?”
“You think I give a flying fuck at this point—after that delightful performance by Mommie Dearest?”
“Abbie . . .” Grace held out a hand to try and placate her.
Abbie ignored the offered hand. “And, you—carrying on with that anemic coquette, right under my nose.”
“Hey, wait a minute. I did nothing to provoke or encourage that—the woman is like a hunk of Styrofoam. She can’t do anything but float on the surface.”
“Very clever, Grace.” Abbie jerked her head toward the front of the house. At least, Grace thought it was the front of the house—Pamela had led her down so many hallways, she really had no idea where they were. “Maybe I should go fetch her so she can explore your . . .” her eyes dropped to Grace’s chest, “verisimilitude?”
Grace had had enough of this bullshit.
“What the hell is the matter with you? I have zero interest in that faded sororitette, and you know it.”
Abbie closed her eyes and leaned back against the vanity. She didn’t say anything for the better part of thirty seconds—which was an eternity in the middle of an argument.
Finally, she gave a bitter-sounding laugh and opened her eyes. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
At least her voice was calmer . . .
“What?” Grace asked with feigned innocence.
“That.” Abbie pointed at her shirt. “The wine. You spilled it on purpose, didn’t you? To distract me from hurling a cheese knife at my mother.”
“That depends,” Grace said.
“On?”
“On whether you think it was a brilliant idea or an officious and inappropriate intrusion.”
Abbie thought about it. “Do I have to make a snap decision?”
“Well, while you deliberate, maybe you can tell me who won the vodka throw down?”
“Oh, that.” Abbie rolled her eyes. “My father complained that neither variety was appropriately chilled, so he was unable to make a clear choice.”
“Speaking of things that are appropriately chilled,” Grace indicated her bare arms and midriff, “it is getting kind of cold in here.”
“I dunno.” Abbie crossed her long arms. “I kind of like having you at a disadvantage.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Boy, you sure do rebound quickly.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, one minute you’re out there, spewing vitriol like a Sig Sauer on steroids—the next, you’re in here—dispassionately torturing a half-dressed innocent bystander.”
“Oh, I’m anything but dispassionate, I assure you.”
Grace wasn’t sure how to react to that one. “Torture is torture.”
“I’m torturing you?”
Grace nodded. “Pretty much.”
“How so?” Abbie asked.
“For starters, you’re a bit too . . . alluring.”
“I am?”
“I’d say so, yes.”
“Any suggestions about how I might alleviate that?”
“Well.” Grace thought about it. “You could consider leveling the playing field a bit.”
Abbie raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“It seems that I’m at a particular disadvantage, sitting here half dressed. So, as I see it, you have two options. You could either find me something to wear that isn’t marinated in red wine—or you could remove some of your own clothing in a bold demonstration of solidarity.”
Grace could see that Abbie was fighting not to smile. “These are the only options?”
“From where I’m sitting, yes.”
“I have another suggestion. How about you change your seat?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Grace replied.
“You’re not?” Abbie reached out, took hold of Grace’s arms, and pulled her up into a standing position. The powder room was small, so they were plastered against each other. “How’s this for a show of solidarity?” Abbie asked from very close range.
‘Solid’ was definitely the right word to describe the sudden condition of Grace’s . . . parts. She knew they were cruising toward certain disaster if they continued any further along this road. “We can’t,” she muttered against Abbie’s hair. “I mean it. I’ll get your dress wet.”
“I don’t care.” Abbie kissed her.
“You need to care,” Grace said, after they finally broke apart to breathe. “You have a house full of new employees—and bosses. I can’t let you throw that away on a whim.”
“This isn’t a whim, Grace. You know that as well as I do.”
“But we can’t, Abbie. Especially not here, and not now.”
Abbie leaned her forehead against Grace’s. “I know.”
Grace sighed. “I wasn’t kidding about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
Grace pushed back and smiled up at her. “Could you maybe lend me something to wear?”
Abbie kissed her on the tip of the nose. “Stay right here and let me go see what I can find.”
“Oh, I promise I’m not going anyplace.”
Abbie laughed and turned toward the door.
“Mon dieu!” she took a step backward. “Maman. Qu’est ce que tu fais ici?”
“I came to speak with you.” Solange Abbot stood in the doorway, blocking their exit. “To suggest we set our differences aside for the remainder of the evening. I see now it was a waste of effort.”
“Maman . . .” Abbie began.
Solange stopped her with an upraised palm. “There is nothing to explain, Élisabeth.” She gestured toward Grace, who stood there like a chippie, clutching her wadded-up shirt to her naked chest. “Tu es juste comme ton père.”
She turned on her heel and swept from the room.
Abbie and Grace exchanged miserable glances.
“Merde,” they said in unison.
# # #
The rest of the evening was a blur for Grace.
Abbie did manage to find her a tailored white shirt to wear, although the sleeves were about a foot too long. They both laughed at how many times she had to turn up the cuffs. If anyone suspected where the garment came from, no one asked her about it. Not even Lorrie, who seemed subdued for the rest of the night. Grace was relieved. She didn’t have the stamina to care much about what caused the change in Lorrie’s demeanor—but she suspected CK.
I’ll have to find a way to thank her for this, Grace thought. Maybe I should relax and let her keep hitting it with Dean in my guestroom.
No. CK’s act of friendship was great, but not that great.
After the meal, guests were invited to mill about outside and enjoy the warm evening before the dessert course. It was rumored there might even be fireworks on the quad after nightfall.
Hell, Grace thought. They’d have to go some to beat the ones going off in that powder room about an hour ago.
She had the good fortune to hook up with Grady outside. He was a guest at the dinner too, although he had been seated at another table for the meal. He looked very snappy in his lightweight suit and striped bow tie.
“How’s your night been?” he asked. He was holding a glass of white wine with a couple of ice cubes floating in it—probably a spritzer. Normally, Grace would rag him for having such a candy-ass drink.
“You really don’t wanna know,” she replied.
“That sounds ominous.” He looked at her with concern. “You not feeling well?”
“I’m okay. Just tired. You know how it is the week after a long break—the kids pretty much kick your ass.”
“Things go okay on the island?” he asked. “I hated to bail on you like that.”
Grace smiled at him.
“Things were great.” Better than great, she thought. She wondered how Grady would react when the news got out—as it surely would. “How’s the new baby?”
“Fat,” he said. “And loud—like every other woman in Karen’s family.”
“Oh? She had a girl? That’s great. What’d they name her?”
“Leaf.” He rolled his eyes. “Karen’s sister is a big Thomas Wolfe fan.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. Her firstborn’s name is Stone.”
“Look Homeward Angel?” Grace asked.
He nodded.
“I hope she never has a third one.”
Grady laughed. “I ran into your brother at Walmart. He said he dropped off some shiplap.”
“He did—but I’d call it potential shiplap. It’s maybe enough to do a small section of wall—like behind the dining table. That was Dean’s thought, anyway.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Grady sounded uncharacteristically unenthusiastic about the project. Normally he’d be all about discussing improvements to the cabin.
“What’s up?” she asked.
He looked at her with a guilty expression. “What do you mean?”
“You’re acting weird.”
“No I’m not.”
“Grady, come on. I know you. You’re just like me. You live and breathe to get out there and work on that damn cabin. What’s up?”
He took a drink of his spritzer. “Nothing’s up.”
“Dude.”
“Come on, Grace. This isn’t the place to discuss it.”
So, there was an ‘it’ to discuss. She knew it. There was only one reason for him to be so cagey—and it had to have something to do with Karen.
“I don’t agree. Besides,” she said, “my week has been so shitty, I could use a good diversion.”
He sighed.
“Are you and Karen okay?”
“Yeah.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s not about us. Not directly, anyway.”
“Well then, what is it? Come on, man. You know you can tell me anything.”
He met her gaze. His brown eyes looked wary.
“I got a job at St. Anselm. That’s partly why I went along with Karen for the damn labor vigil. They made the offer on Friday.” He reached out and took hold of Grace’s arm. “I really didn’t want to tell you like this, Grace. It was a long shot—and I never thought I had a chance at it. But it’s a tenure-track position, and I need to think about my family. You know? I can’t keep teaching here with no real job security. You know that well enough.”
Grace nodded sadly.
Of course, he was leaving. How could it be otherwise?
Grady and CK were her best friends on the faculty. Hell. They were her best friends period—at least in Vermont. Losing him would suck. It would be a tremendous blow to her in just about every way. There were few things she enjoyed more than her days out on Butler Island with Grady, working to transform that indifferent fishing shack into something worthy of HGTV.
“I’ll really miss you, man,” she said. “More than you’ll ever know.”
His eyes softened. “There are a lot of things about leaving here that’ll be hard for me—but leaving you, and all our times together at the cabin—that’ll be the hardest.”
Grace was doing her best to keep her focus on Grady and not herself. She was also trying hard not to cry. What she most wanted to do was go find a dark corner where she could sit down and wail about the cascading injustices in her life. “When are you gonna leave?”
“As soon as finals are over. Eddie said he could hire an adjunct to pick up my spring classes. I hated doing that to him, but they need me to start teaching a winter-term seminar in January.”
“Are you looking for a place in Manchester?”
“Karen is,” he said. “But I’d rather find something out toward Concord. Away from her mother.”
Grace squeezed his arm. “You’ll let me know how I can help? I mean it.”
“Sure.” He looked down at his shoes. “You can maybe help me clear out the cabin?”
Grace felt her heart sink. “You aren’t keeping it?”
He shook his head. “Karen wants to sell it. She thinks we can get a pretty penny for it if we put it on the market right away—before the season ends. Our hope is that it’ll give us a decent-sized cash down payment for a house. You know we’ve been living in college-owned housing here. The rent’s been so high we haven’t been able to save much toward buying a home.”
The last thing Grace wanted to do was make Grady’s news about herself. But it was becoming impossible not to feel like god’s favorite whipping post. Losing the cabin was just about the last off-ramp on her joy ride along the highway to hell.
“I know how hard this is gonna be for you, Grace,” Grady said apologetically. “It’s gonna suck for me, too. And I don’t think even I love it half as much as you do.”
She had a thought. “There’s no one in Karen’s family who wants to keep it? As a weekend place or a rental?”
He shook his head. “We already asked. I think family enthusiasm for the place waned once they learned the truth about how Uncle Martin used it as a trysting place.” He touched her on the arm. “I wish you could buy it.”
She sighed. “I do, too. But there’s no way. I’m up to my eyeballs in renovation expenses on the house. I nearly lost my shirt when Denise departed the pattern—it depleted most of my savings. Besides, there’s no guarantee I’ll get tenure—and if I don’t, I won’t be far behind you getting out of here.”
“Come on, Grace. You’re a shoo-in for it. Everybody knows that Blowjob is nothing more than a self-important windbag.”
Grace had to smile at Grady’s use of CK’s nickname for Bryce.
“I wish I could count on that, Grady. But you never know how things might turn out. I have to be prepared for any outcome.” Especially these days, she thought.
“Well, I just don’t see them letting you go. You’re practically a poster child for the new St. Albans ‘Integrated Instruction Module.’ They’d like nothing more than to clone you.”
Grace shrugged. She wasn’t sure how news of her getting caught, half-naked, in a clinch with the new president—by the president’s mother—would go over with the dean. And that was only if Abbie’s vindictive maman decided to make mischief. She also had Brittney to worry about. And Bryce—if Brittney chose to enlighten him about Grace’s cozy, weekend boat tour of the islands with Abbie. And then there was Lorrie—as crazed a loose cannon as she’d ever encountered. Not to mention anyone else who might have seen her doing the walk of shame when she snuck out of Abbie’s house at dawn the other morning.
Oh, yeah. She’d teed this one up nicely. By these calculations, she’d be packing up her own shit by midterms.
“Come on, Grady.” Grace squeezed his arm. “Get rid of that and let me buy you a real drink to celebrate your good news.”
He looked down at his wineglass. “I thought the drinks here were free?”
“Okay, then. Let’s allow the new president to buy us both a drink.”
When they reached the bar, Grace wagged a floppy sleeve at Derek.
“Hey, handsome,” she called out. “Hook a sister up?”
# # #
The event planners had to bail on the fireworks when a light rain began to fall. It hadn’t been predicted, of course. But in Vermont, weather predictions had the forecast integrity of fortune cookies.
Grace wasn’t really sorry. She knew she probably wouldn’t have any more private time with Abbie—not after getting busted by her mother. For her part, Solange Abbot disappeared and didn’t return for the rest of the meal, or the dessert. Her husband made apologies for her and said she had come down with a migraine—an effect of traveling down from Québec City that same day.
Abbie seemed to relax once her mother was subtracted from the equation. She moved among the guests with grace and ease, charming everyone with her keen intellect, personal warmth and good humor. When Grace could manage to step back and view her without the distortions added by her twin lenses of anxiety and attraction, she had to admit that Abbie truly was an exceptional choice for St. Allie’s—or for any top tier college. It was easy to imagine that under the leadership of President Williams, the little college that could might actually do—and by doing, accede to greater academic heights and more lucrative advancement prospects than anyone had reason to believe. Already, the normally cantankerous faculty was standing up a little taller and talking in guarded, although hopeful terms, of what all might finally be possible with a real academic at the helm.
Grace just wished—as she always seemed to be wishing lately—that she could find a way to remove herself as a variable in Abbie’s potential for success.
Damn you, Rizzo, for throwing us into each other’s paths.
But that wasn’t fair. Whether she’d first met Abbie on a plane bound for San Francisco, or in the parking lot at Price Chopper in Alburgh—the outcome would’ve been the same. At least, it would’ve been the same for her. She knew that now. She was in love with Abbie. That was the truth—plain and unvarnished. She had felt stirrings of it within about five minutes of meeting her—but she understood it without a doubt when she opened that cabin door and saw Abbie standing there in the rain—looking uncertain and undaunted at the same time.
Abbie’s bravery was a behavioral poser for Grace. She wasn’t used to it. She’d certainly never had much experience with it in her own adult life. Bravery had always been the provenance of other parts of the relationship domain—remote areas that Grace never had occasion to visit. But Abbie? Abbie was different. Abbie inhabited a realm where bravery was a first response—not a last resort.
It took some getting used to. It was an acquired taste—like learning to appreciate things that didn’t naturally occur together. Salt and chocolate. Vinegar and French fries. Grilled cheese and fig jam. Grace and Abbie.
Yeah. They were a walking paradox, all right—an explosive collision of diametric opposites. There was no earthly reason why they should work together.
And yet?
And yet, they did. In all those gloriously confounding ways that should have been celebrated as an eighth wonder of the world—next in line to the Lighthouse of Alexandria. Hell. They should be able to sell tickets. And offer concessions—comestibles that were testaments to all the other unlikely combinations that somehow worked.
She felt the familiar chafing of her spiritual hair shirt. None of this would ever happen. The hoofbeats were growing louder. And this time, they were zebras—not horses.
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly nine. She needed to make her goodbyes and head home.
Tonight, she would join Grendel on the back steps and howl in the rain.