Blessing in Disguise (58 page)

He wasn’t talking about it, but Hannah was certain she knew what was bugging him.

Grace.

Why couldn’t he tell her? At least just to get it off his chest. Was it because he blamed her, at least partly, for their breaking up?

But what if somehow Dad and Grace got back together?

Aren’t you sort of
hoping
they will?
a voice inside her asked.

She hated the whole idea—it was repulsive—but deep down, just the tiniest bit, didn’t she actually miss Grace?

With her head against Daddy’s belly, she could hear it rumbling. Was he hungry? It wasn’t yet dinnertime, but he’d eaten only half his sandwich at lunch. And he’d been losing weight. His pants were so baggy, they’d be falling off if his belt weren’t holding them up.

What if Daddy got sick,
really
sick, from this? Men his age could have heart attacks.

“I’ll start dinner in a minute,” she told him, hoping her concern wasn’t showing. “Spaghetti and meatballs, just the way you like them.”

“No hurry. Soon as I get the fire going good, I’ll give you a hand.” He ruffled her hair, and then was lumbering aimlessly about the old pine-floored kitchen, straightening a cookbook that was sticking out unevenly from its shelf, rubbing a smudge of grease with his thumb from the bottom of a copper skillet hanging over the stove.

“Daddy ...” She wanted to tell him that today was too warm for a fire. But then she thought better of it. “Do you ever wish things had turned out differently?”

“What things?” He was distractedly leafing through a manual for the new coffee maker he’d just bought.

“You
know
what I mean.” Hannah fixed him with what she hoped was a commanding look. “You and Grace.”

Jack gave a deep sigh. “What made you think of her all of a sudden?”

“Daddy, look at you, you’re a wreck! I’m worried about you.”

He smiled as if he was touched by her concern, or thought it amusing, one of those cute things kids say that fathers like to repeat to their friends.

“Relax, kiddo, I can take care of myself,” he told her. “You’ve got enough on your plate without taking on my problems.”

“So, there
is
a problem!”

“You’re getting to sound like a lawyer. Should I start putting away for law school?”

“Daddy, you’re just sidestepping the issue. I
know
you miss her. You’re like Patrick Swayze in
Ghost,
mooning after Demi Moore without being able to touch her.”

He laughed, tossing the manual down on the counter. “Listen, why don’t
I
get dinner started and let you finish your poster?”

“In other words, this is none of my beeswax, right?”

“Did we forget to buy pasta?” Now he was rummaging in the cupboard above the toaster.

“Wrong shelf; check the one below. Daddy, you didn’t answer me.”

“Found it.” He waved the package of spaghetti over his head. Hannah couldn’t help noticing how shiny his eyes were, and the tiny muscle leaping in his jaw. Then he was standing at the sink with his back to her, cranking on the water, loud as Niagara Falls as it gushed into the big pasta pot ... almost loud enough to mask the sound of a grown man struggling not to cry.

Hannah felt like crying herself. She felt so sorry for him.

And so ashamed of herself.

“Miss Truscott, I’m such a fan of yours! ... And, oh, would you make that out to Amelia? Happy Birthday to Amelia from Christine ... and from
you,
of course.”

Grace dutifully scribbled the inscription on the title page of her book—one of more than a hundred she’d autographed over the past two hours—ending with “Best Wishes, Grace Truscott.” She smiled as she handed it back to the Chanel-suited matron in front of her table. The line at one point had stretched all the way back to the register, but now, thank heavens, it had dwindled to only a dozen or so. She glanced at the antique pendulum clock on the wall of the bookstore. Two-twenty. Only ten or so more minutes to go.

She couldn’t wait.

The cramp that had started in her hand now had spread up into her forearm. Her neck hurt from craning up at people from the dignified but too-low wing chair in which she sat. And the floral arrangement on the Queen Anne-style writing desk in front of her, with its profusion of phlox and stephanotis, was making her eyes itch.

But how she felt was not the point. She had to be
on
—careful to smile, say thank you, ask for correct spellings of names, look as if she recognized that man she didn’t know from Adam who’d said, “Remember me? We met at that writers’ conference in Phoenix, two years ago. You gave me such wonderful advice about finding an agent. ...”

Grace could recall when she’d loved doing signings, even when only a handful of people showed up and two of them were her publicist and her editor. It was not so long ago when she’d have felt honored beyond belief to be signing books at stores that were overheated or cramped, where they gave her a pen that leaked ink all over her fingers, and where they had a filthy broom-closet of a bathroom.

But right now she was tired and thirsty and wanted to go home.

She straightened her jacket, a man’s checked sport coat, which she wore over a gold silk tunic and slim black slacks (her Catskills-comic look, Lila called it). Would it be okay for tonight as well, Lila’s party? No, not dressy enough.

At once, she was reminded of the blind date Lila had lined up for her this evening, which she’d agreed to in a moment of weakness. It was only a party, Lila had reassured her, just the bunch she liked to hang out with getting together at her place, no pressure, nothing heavy.

Okay, fine; so, then, why did the prospect of washing her hair when she got home seem vastly more appealing than going off to meet some man she didn’t even know?

“Would you make that out to Hannah? Hannah Gold.”

Grace’s head shot up.

At the head of the line, holding out a copy of
Honor Above All,
and looking smartly casual in jeans, and a tapestry vest worn unbuttoned over a denim campshirt, stood Hannah.

So pretty,
Grace thought. Hannah’s long dark hair was woven into a French braid, nicely framing her face. And those cheekbones—what most women wouldn’t give for those!

“Hi, Hannah.” She made herself sound casual, as if Hannah’s dropping by was an everyday occurrence.

Had Jack sent her? What did she want?

Since the morning that Hannah had brought Chris home, nearly four months ago, Grace hadn’t laid eyes on her. Now the only sign of there being a problem was the tiny line marching up Hannah’s forehead between her two dark, unplucked brows.

“I read in the paper that you were going to be here,” Hannah said as Grace signed her book and handed it back. “Congratulations—I hear it’s selling really well.”

“I can’t complain.”

“I could’ve gotten a copy from Dad ... but I wanted to see you, and this was the only way I could think of.”

“Well, here I am.”

“Grace, listen—can we talk?” Hannah dropped her voice, darting a glance at the store’s silver-haired proprietress, who stood at her elbow greeting an old customer. “I mean, I can wait until you’re done here, if you don’t mind me hanging around.”

“Okay. I should be done in just a few minutes.” She was careful to scour all expectation from her voice.

But as Grace signed the last few books, all she could think of was how much Hannah reminded her of Jack, in the way she was now running her fingertips across the spines of books lining the bookshelf at the front of the store, exactly the way Jack always did when in a bookstore or a library, as if greeting old friends.

It seemed an eternity by the time she was finished and stood chatting with the owner. She remembered to thank the clerks, who’d been so attentive, bringing her Perrier and gently hurrying along the customers who wanted to hang around and shmooze. Finally, she was looking around for Hannah, who was nowhere to be found.

Grace, her gaze sweeping past the rows of mahogany bookshelves, felt strangely let down. And then she caught sight of Hannah, leaning up against a brass-fitted rolling library ladder, reading from a slim volume.

She looked up as Grace wandered over. “I loved this one. My dad published it—it’s about this poet in China who gets imprisoned for being anticommunist. It’s sort of an allegory.” She put the book back, and together they walked outside.

It was mild, too warm even for the sport jacket Grace was wearing. They strolled down Madison Avenue, past chic overpriced boutiques displaying clothes for women who had little else to do but shop. As they were passing a cafe with tables set out on the sidewalk, Grace said, “It’s like the daffodils coming up—you know summer’s just around the corner when you see tables on the sidewalk. Are you hungry? I’m starved. You have no idea how much of an appetite you can work up just signing books.”

“I guess I could eat something,” Hannah mumbled.

Don’t do me any favors,
Grace felt like snapping. But Hannah, she realized, was, in her own way at least, trying to be nice.

“How’s everything?” Grace asked when they were seated. How long, she wondered, before Hannah would mention Jack?

“Okay.” Hannah drummed her fingers against the checked tablecloth while she squinted down at a menu she wasn’t really reading. “Ben’s an asshole, but that’s nothing new. He finally told me what happened, that he was the one who finked on me to Daddy about my pregnancy scare. Listen, Grace, I’m sorry if I acted ... stupid. No, that’s not the right word. I was a bitch. I was just looking for an excuse to blame you.”

“I won’t say it didn’t hurt.”

“I really
am
sorry.”

“I understand.”

“You’re not mad at me?” Hannah glanced up quickly, then back down again.

“I
was.”

“But not now?”

“I was more angry at the situation than at you. It’s not easy playing ‘stepmom.’ By the time you think you’ve got the rules figured out, you realize you had it all wrong and have to try and start all over. Sort of like ‘Go directly to jail, do not collect two hundred dollars.’ ”

Hannah smiled—a slow, rueful smile. “Grace, can I ask you something personal?”

“Shoot.”

“Are you back with Chris’s father?”

“God, no.” Grace felt her cheeks burning. Hadn’t Jack told her? Or was the subject of Grace off-limits these days?

Hannah shrugged. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.” She became absorbed in peeling the paper off the straw that had come with the iced tea their waiter had just set in front of her. “How’s Chris doing? Does he still have that dopey dog?”

Grace nodded. “Chris visits him every other day or so, and on the weekends. His father hired someone to walk Cody when he’s not around.”

“Sounds like a pretty good compromise.”

“It’s a toss-up between his dog and his computer, but I’d say Cody has the definite edge.”

“I always wanted a dog,” Hannah said, “but my mother was afraid it would shed. Do you think Chris would mind if I visited sometime?”

Was she hearing right? “I’m sure he’d love it. Why don’t you ask him?”

Hannah nailed her with a hard stare. “I didn’t think you’d want me around. I mean, I was really awful.”

Grace’s heart ached. God, if only she and Hannah could have talked like this
before.

“How’s your father?” Grace said impulsively, hating herself for it the moment the words were out.

“Terrible,” Hannah said, folding the paper from her straw into neat accordion squares. “He’s miserable all the time, and he’s always bitching at everybody over the littlest things. You want to know what I think? I think he misses you, but he won’t admit it. And he calls
me
stubborn.”

Grace absorbed this wonderful new revelation as if it were a drug she’d just been injected with. All at once she felt giddy—lightheaded, almost—a state of grace was what the nuns in Catechism used to call it. Or maybe, in her case, it was just Grace in a state.

“I miss him, too.” Grace sighed. “But maybe it’s for the best. We’re just so different. And we both have so many other responsibilities. ...”

“Like me and Chris, right?” Hannah gave a wry smirk. “You know, Grace, I never thought I’d be the one saying this, but I think you and Dad are blowing it. Why should you care so much what Chris and I think of you two? Not,” she added, “that I have all that much against you—not these days, anyway.”

“What changed your mind?” Grace asked, though she couldn’t help feeling she was setting herself up for a fall.

“I don’t know. All I know is, he wasn’t like this when you were around.”

“Well, he ought to be happy about how well the book is selling.”
Nice try, Truscott
—
can’t you do any better than that?

Hannah wasn’t falling for it, either. She was giving Grace her best how-lame-can-some-people-be? look.
“You
know what I mean,” she said. “Of course he’s happy about all that other stuff ... but you’ve seen enough corny movies, I’m sure, to know this isn’t how it’s supposed to end. Jeez, who would pay seven-fifty for
this?”

Grace started to laugh, and then, with her partially shredded napkin, she was dabbing at her eyes. A peculiar happiness stole through her, not enough to make up for losing Jack, certainly ... but enough to let her enjoy this particular moment, the warmth of the sun on her shoulders, the delicious coolness of her iced-tea glass against her palm ... and the company of this funny, frank young woman seated across from her.

“You made it! I was beginning to think you’d copped out on me. Either that, or you met some irresistible hunk on the way over.” Lila had to shout to be heard above the din.

“Sorry I’m so late. I had to pick my dress up from the cleaner’s, and then Chris showed up and I remembered I hadn’t thawed out anything for dinner.” Grace had to flatten herself against the vestibule wall to squeeze past the closely packed bodies.

Lila looked even more outrageous than usual. Her spiky platinum hair sprinkled with glitter, and a comet’s tail of glitter brushed below each brow. Over her gold lamé leggings, a crushed burgundy velvet top that looked like something Sir Walter Raleigh might have worn ... and on her feet a pair of red satin Chinese slippers embroidered with dragons. Huge earrings dangled from her ears. The sight of her was like a tonic, Grace thought.