Coming Home (The Santa Monica Trilogy Book 2) (3 page)

Logan grabbed her arm. “You okay?”

“Yes. Thanks.” Her pulse skittered.

“You sure?”

“I’m fine.” She stiffened her spine. “You can let go now.”

Logan withdrew his hand and she stepped away.

He cleared his throat.  “You were saying...?”

She concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, this time keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the sidewalk ahead. “At some point, my mother must have decided she’d had enough. Maybe she suspected something. Maybe something happened to clue her in. I mean, how else would my grandfather have known?”

“So that’s it? She just up and left your father?”

“They’d been together for four years by then. And healthwise, she wasn’t doing well. She died less than a year later. DKA—diabetic ketoacidotic coma.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “Anyway, my grandfather blamed everything on my father. Told him to stay away. Threatened to out him if he tried to get in touch with me. As far as I knew, both my parents were dead. End of story.”

“Until you applied for a passport.”

“Right.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

“It took a while for the PI to find him. And then my grandfather had his heart attack.”

“I remember. Right around Christmas, senior year. You were pretty shaken up.”

“It was touch and go for a while. But in the end, he did fine. Three stents, some new prescriptions, a low fat diet. Strict instructions to reduce stress.”

“I’m sure that went over well.”

She shook her head. “I kept putting things off. Didn’t want to rock the boat. But mostly, I was afraid. I had no clue how my father would react to hearing from me out of the blue. If things didn’t go well...” She broke off. “I figured it would be much harder to turn someone away in person. So I went there over spring break.”

“What happened?”

“We talked. I came back, confronted my grandfather.”

“What did he say?”

The words came back to her, as harsh and ugly today as they had been eight years ago.
If it weren’t for that faggot, your mother would still be alive.

Grace took a deep breath. “He basically confirmed what I already knew. Said he’d do the same thing again. We argued. Said some things that couldn’t be taken back.” She sighed. “My father asked if I’d consider coming to New York. Med school decisions were due April 15. I waited until the very last minute to accept. I thought maybe you’d consider moving with me...”

“You never asked.”

“Not in so many words. I tried talking to you about grad schools in New York, but every time I did, you’d change the subject.”

“I had an offer from Caltech. The top name in addiction research agreed to be my PhD advisor. I couldn’t turn that down.”

“So that’s it. Even if I’d told you everything back then, you still would have gone to Caltech, and I still would have moved to New York.”

Logan frowned. “I guess.”

The street dead-ended in San Vincente, seven blocks from where they’d entered. They turned around and started back.

After several minutes, Logan broke the silence. “So, was it worth it, moving there?”

Grace chose her words with care. “I got to know my dad.  Turns out he’s a good guy. So is Peter, his partner. I stood up at their wedding a couple years ago.”

“And now you’re back in L.A.”

“Yes.”

“Why? If you were so happy in New York?”

“I didn’t say I was happy. Just that my father and I got to know each other. Got a chance to build a relationship.”

“So why did you decide to return?”

She hesitated. “You said you read about the divorce.”

“Yes.”

“Life became impossible. Harry—my ex-husband—wouldn’t leave me alone. And then his father was arrested, and all hell broke loose.”

A car drove past them. She watched it turn a corner and disappear.

“I flew out around Thanksgiving, for my grandfather’s funeral. My first time back since college. We never did make peace. I guess you could say stubbornness runs in the family.” She tried to smile, but the effort fell flat. “My grandmother’s alone now. Eighty years old, and not doing too well. I figured it was time to come home.”

Logan caught her hand in a warm clasp and drew her to a stop. “I’m sorry about the circumstances, Grace. But I’m glad to have you back.”

The words, coupled with his intimate tone, made her flush. She tugged on her hand, relieved when he let go.

“So,” she said, picking up the pace. “Enough about my dramas. What have you been up to?”

Not the smoothest of segues, but it seemed to work. Logan followed her lead and launched into an entertaining verbal tour of campus politics.

He managed to distract her so successfully that she didn’t notice they had returned until he drew to a stop before her grandparents’ gates.

“Here we are.” He removed his sunglasses and turned those intense blue eyes her way.

“Yes.” She hesitated, then extended her hand. “Thank you for lunch.”

Her return to formality seemed to amuse him. He engulfed her hand in a warm grip and used it to pull her closer as he leaned down. His lips hovered over hers for an endless moment before finally making contact, soft as a dandelion puff, gentle as a sigh. And then it was over, and he was pulling back, grinning. “Dinner next time?”

She blinked, trying to make sense of what just happened.

As kisses went, this one had been light, brief, undemanding.

If only she knew what Logan really wanted. Did he mean the kiss as a perfunctory gesture between former lovers fumbling for new footing as friends? Or was it a testing of the waters, a prelude to greater intimacy?

The very thought made her tense. If that’s what Logan was after, he was in for a rude awakening. She had no intention of allowing any man close enough to exploit her vulnerability. Maybe someday she’d feel sufficiently strong and confident to take the risk again. But now? No way.

“Grace.” Logan’s voice prompted her to put the brakes on that unnerving mental detour. “You okay?”

“Of course.”

“About dinner...”

She stepped back. “I’ll call you.”

He studied her, as if trying to gauge her sincerity. “Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“I’ll program in my number.”

She watched his hands as he entered the information. Recalled the feel of those fingers on her skin. Wished she weren’t so afraid.

This was Logan, her first love. The man who had introduced her to the pleasures of the body. He had never given her any reason to fear him. If anything, he’d been too reluctant to engage in any confrontation. Rather than argue or stand in her way, he’d simply let her go.

In the past, she’d thought that was because he cared more about his precious career than about her. But in light of today’s conversation, she could see how that assessment wasn’t necessarily the full story.

Yes, he was arrogant, and occasionally insensitive. When it came to communication, he could certainly use a few lessons. In the end, though, he wasn’t the villain in the story, any more than she was.

So why couldn’t she quell the anxiety that had been her near-constant companion for months? At least long enough to follow through on this physical attraction, which despite the intervening years and distance, hadn’t faded?

It was irrational, and yet there it was, looming between them like an unwelcome chaperone.

She wondered if she’d ever get past this. In all likelihood, if and when she did, Logan would have moved on to someone who didn’t tense up every time he came near. She ignored the pain that thought triggered.

“Here,” he said, handing the iPhone back to her. “After tonight, my evenings are free for the rest of the week.”

The words were out before she could bite them back. “What’s tonight?”

“Have dinner with me,” he grinned, “and I’ll tell you.”

The following morning, Grace nearly made it out of the house before her grandmother’s voice called to her from the dining room. 

Sighing, she turned back. “Yes, Grandma?”

“Aren’t you going to have breakfast?” Ruth King sat at the massive mahogany table, the Sunday paper spread out beside a plate of congealing eggs and toast. A front-wheeled walker stood within easy reach.

Grace could hear the housekeeper moving around in the kitchen—the sound of running water, the clatter of silverware and dishes.

“I’ll grab something later,” she said. “I want to go running before it gets hot.”

“You have a hat?”

“Right here.” She pulled on an old baseball cap that she’d grabbed from the back of her closet, and threaded her pony tail through the opening at the back.

“Sunscreen?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was going to take some getting used to, this living under her grandparents’ roof again. As an adult, she’d gotten used to the freedom of not having to account to anyone for her whereabouts. If it weren’t so amusing, Grace would probably be annoyed at her grandmother’s attempt to keep tabs on her. As if she were still the same adolescent who’d moved out more than a dozen years ago.

The fact was, the balance of power had shifted in the intervening years, though her grandmother had yet to acknowledge that. Grace tried not to be impatient. It was no doubt hard to be left widowed at eighty, to have the health and independence you’d taken for granted suddenly curtailed by a hip fracture. Going from ruling the country club set to relying on your housekeeper for assistance with activities of daily living had to be a difficult adjustment. Grace didn’t want to compound the situation by insisting on an immediate redrawing of  boundaries. Eventually they would have to work out some new rules to govern their relationship, but Grace was willing to wait a bit. Give herself a chance to settle in. Give her grandmother time to adjust to the changed reality.

In the meantime, Grace had other things to focus on.

Completing her residency and transitioning into a clinical faculty position, for one thing.

Figuring out what to do about Logan, for another.

As she picked up her pace along the familiar dirt path that ran alongside the Brentwood Country Club, Grace felt a surge of optimism on both fronts.

Too bad she hadn’t anticipated the past catching up with her and throwing a monkey wrench into her well-laid plans.

###

It happened during the first group therapy session she was scheduled to co-facilitate. They had gotten through the introductory remarks, established the ground rules of confidentiality and respectful listening, and solicited a list of goals and expectations from the participants.

Toward the end of the ninety minutes, one of the women who had remained silent through most of the session spoke up. Her story was so hauntingly familiar, that Grace felt she was hearing her own trauma retold. The same cycle of intimidation, denial, blaming, coercion, and escalating violence, culminating in a final assault that had sent her fleeing. The identical feelings of guilt, fear, shame, and anxiety.

Like this patient, Grace had done all the things rape victims were cautioned not to do. She’d washed away the evidence, spent hours scrubbing her skin raw in a futile effort to expunge the memory of the event.

Later, she rationalized her actions by telling herself that the last thing she needed was to draw additional public scrutiny by reporting Harry to the police. The press was already slavering over his psychiatric history and previous brushes with the law, speculating on his role in the Blackwell scandal, and questioning whether the divorce was merely a legal ploy to hide marital assets from federal investigators.

She considered herself lucky to have escaped. Fortunate to have been able to arrange a transfer to L.A., where she could finish out her residency in relative peace and safety. She was even grateful for the financial investigation. Anything that placed such onerous burdens on Harry’s time and attention was bound to provide additional protection for her.

But in the end, she couldn’t outrun the emotions. Couldn’t box them up and shove them in some dark corner of her mind.

As she sat beneath the fluorescent lights and murmured encouragement in her empathetic therapist’s voice, Grace felt her own pain welling up, like heated water rising through fissures in surrounding rock, building up pressure until it spewed from the earth’s surface as a geyser.

Later that afternoon, as she emerged from the medical plaza building into the warmth of the afternoon sun, Grace had to stop for a moment and close her eyes.  Behind her, the automatic doors whooshed open and closed, expelling blasts of cooled air.

Someone jostled her elbow in passing.

“Are you okay, miss?”

She glanced at the security guard hovering nearby.

“Fine, thank you,” she said. Even though she was anything but.

She started walking, as if putting some physical distance between herself and the scene of such raw emotion would provide some psychological detachment too.

Wrestling her demons into submission would require more than distance, of course. She knew that despite her best efforts, they might continue dogging her, rearing their ugly heads at the most inappropriate times. In group therapy, when a patient’s experience cut too close to home. On a weekend stroll with an old flame, when he hinted at wanting more than a meal and conversation.

What she really needed was to regain control. Take concrete steps to close the door on that harrowing chapter of her life and move on.

The first step was seeing the ob/gyn for a three-month follow-up. In the immediate aftermath of the rape, the one thing Grace had not neglected was post-exposure prophylaxis. With Harry’s track record, she couldn’t be sure of anything, and when it came to her physical health, she wasn’t taking chances. Within seventy-two hours, she’d taken the morning after pill, a cocktail of antibiotics against gonorrhea, chlamydia, and trichomonas, and started on a twenty-eight day course of triple anti-retroviral therapy. Time now for the repeat tests, to make sure the medication had worked.

As for step two....She still hadn’t called Logan about dinner. She dug out her iPhone and scrolled down until she found his name. Her thumb hovered for several moments in indecision.

Should she do it? 
Could
she do it?

She pressed the green call icon before she lost her nerve.