Island Girl (48 page)
Authors: Lynda Simmons
It had been there before, popping in when we were canoeing, refusing to be ignored when we were making love. I recognized it immediately as hope. That nasty four-letter word that could make a fool of anyone, put the idea in my head that maybe Mark had been right all along. Maybe I was being hasty with my poisons and my Ice Floe. Maybe with a more relaxed lifestyle and the right meds, I could be Ruby awhile longer after all. And Mark and I could spend a few years making up for all the ones we’d lost.
Still afraid to face that thought, to give it room to grow, I ignored Hope’s smiling face and set to work writing my vows. And tried not to think about what Mark might be planning for his.
“All finished,” he said, coming into the kitchen with the bucket and mop. “Jocelyn can start painting any time.” He poured himself a soda and sat down beside me. Put an arm around my shoulder, kissed me. Made me glad all over that he hadn’t listened to me that first day. That he hadn’t gone back to the city where he belonged. “I’m starving,” he said. “You want one of those hot dogs from the clubhouse?”
“You go ahead.” I held up the file. “I’ve got vows to write.”
“Don’t remind me.” We both turned at the sound of high-pitched squeals, watching Jocelyn and her friends at the gate, trying to fend off the mockingbird with paint rollers and brushes. He seemed to know Jocelyn and left her alone, but the rest were fair game. And he would not stop just because the girl with the stop-sign red hair said so.
But as soon as Grace ran over, the bird flew up to the top of the tree. As though the silly thing trusted her to let only the best kind of people into his yard. “Hurry,” she said to the girls. “You have to get away from the lilac.”
The girls dashed through the gate and straight into the house. All of them talking at once while they dropped tins of paint, bags of rollers, and armloads of drop cloths in the middle of the kitchen. “She picked a great color.” “Show them the chip.” “Do we have to stir the paint after they shook it?”
Mark held up his hands. “Hold everything. I’m going for hot dogs. Who wants to come before we start?” And as quickly as that, they all trooped out the door and down the stairs again. Blessed, blessed silence restored.
Grace did her trick with the mockingbird again, standing by the gate so he wouldn’t attack Mark and the girls on their way out. But she didn’t go straight back to the blanket. Instead she stood a moment longer, looking down the street the other way, toward the dock.
Thinking of what? I wondered. The baby robin we had yet to discuss? The deckhand I had yet to forgive? For all that she was laughing again and working on projects, Grace was still stiff with me, still cryptic when she came home from biking, or helping Mary Anne. I didn’t even know if she’d ever found that black something cuckoo. Everything would straighten itself out eventually, I was sure of it, but if I could help things along . . .
I strolled over to her bedroom door. Pushed it back a little and was about to step inside when I heard footsteps on the stairs, the back door flying open.
“Forgot the paint chip,” Jocelyn said, squatting down to root through the bags on the floor. “Got it,” she said, and glanced over. Saw me standing by Grace’s door. “You’ll never figure out that password.”
I leaned a shoulder against the frame. “I don’t suppose you’d give it to me.”
She laughed. “Dream on.”
“You really do think the worst of me all the time, don’t you?”
“It’s hard not to.” She looked me up and down, stuffed the paint chip into her pocket, and started for the door. “But my dad likes you, so maybe there’s something I’ve missed.”
“I love your father. You know that, don’t you?”
“I hope so, because I know he loves you.”
She turned around, came back toward me. “He got all sappy when we were playing Frisbee the other day. Said he’s loved you from the first moment he saw you at some protest rally.”
“That’s nice to know,” I said, and walked away from Grace’s door.
“I guess.” She studied me a moment, then folded her arms and leaned back against the counter, a move so like her father I almost smiled. “He also said you’re difficult to know, but if I give you a chance, I might come to like you. If not, at least I’d respect you, but I’m not sure about that.”
“Because I snoop on Grace’s computer?” I sat down at the table. “You have to believe me when I say that everything is done with Grace’s best interest in mind.”
“And you have to believe me when I say that sometimes you screw up. Like selling the business. That was a screwup for Grace.”
“Jocelyn, you’re wrong. It was hard on her, I know, but I had no choice. And she’s adjusting beautifully.” I pointed out the window to where she was juggling Styrofoam balls for Mary Anne and Carol. “Look at her. She’s having fun, she’s moving on.” I turned back to Jocelyn. “I know my daughter. And I know this was for the best.”
“If you say so.” She walked back to the door.
“Aren’t you interested in knowing how I feel about you?”
“Sure,” she said in the offhand way of adolescents, then turned and smiled at me. “And don’t hold back.”
This time, I did smile. “I think you’re foul-mouthed, precocious, and extremely bright, just like Liz was. I also think you have your father wrapped around your finger. If you weren’t devoted to him, I’d be afraid that you would be a terrible influence on Grace, exactly the way Liz was. But you love your dad, and you haven’t gone out of your way to make his life miserable, so I’m hoping you’ll show more sense than Liz as you grow. I’m curious to see what kind of woman you’ll become, and I hope it’s one your father will be proud of.” I rose and crossed to where she stood. “I don’t know you well enough to like you yet either, but for Mark’s sake, I’m also willing to look for a reason.”
She considered a moment, then said, “Okay, here’s the deal. You won’t pretend to be my mother, I won’t pretend to be your daughter, and we’ll be polite to each other, for my dad’s sake.”
“I can do that.”
“You won’t go in my room or look through my backpack. And you will never, ever look on my computer for any reason whatsoever.”
“Just as you won’t go through my dresser or look at my files. And you will never, ever open my purse for any reason whatsoever.”
She smiled again. “I can do that.”
“One other thing. You won’t encourage Grace to engage in dangerous behaviors.”
And the smile was gone. “Define dangerous.”
“Anything that will result in her getting hurt emotionally or physically.”
“This may surprise you, but I love Grace too. I’m glad she’s going to be my sister and I won’t let anything hurt her. Not even you.”
I was a little taken aback but pleased. “Then we should get along just fine.”
She held out a hand, her face solemn as we shook on our deal. “You want to see the paint color I chose?” she asked, and as she held out the paint chip I could feel myself starting to like the kid already—even if her room was going to be Festive Coral Rose.
“Your dad will love it.”
“I think so.” She shoved the chip back in her pocket. “Gotta go. Hot dogs await.”
She stopped halfway out the door and looked back at me over her shoulder. “Did you mean it when you said I could wear anything I want to the wedding?” I nodded. “And can I be Grace’s personal shopper too?” That one took a moment, but again I nodded and she gave me her first unguarded smile. “I am soooo looking forward to this.”
I watched her trot down the stairs and pause at the blanket, taking time to admire the topiary centerpieces, the plantabledaisy table favors, even the god-awful feathered guest book. She laughed at something Mary Anne said and I realized I had a lot to learn about Jocelyn. Oddly enough, I was looking forward to it.
“Ruby, come out here and give us your opinion,” Mary Anne called.
Fortunately, she wasn’t looking for input on the guest book. The topiary centerpieces were the issue—ribbon or ivy around the dowels. Apparently brides lose sleep over things like that.
“I vote for ribbon,” I said before Mary Anne had time to list the benefits of ivy. “All in favor.” Jocelyn raised a hand. Grace smiled and did the same. A small victory, but I’d take it.
Grace rose and walked toward me. Then someone screeched at the gate and she was gone again, keeping the mockingbird at bay so the girls and Mark could get back into the yard. They came to the blanket bearing hot dogs and cans of pop for all.
“We need mustard, relish, and ketchup,” Jocelyn called, and was on her way up the stairs when another screech drew everyone around.
I expected to see a tourist with a camera, but it was Lori from Algonquin, red-faced and frantic, as though she’d ridden all the way over at top speed. But this time Grace didn’t work her magic with the mockingbird. She stood watching Lori bat the bird as she struggled through the gate. “Go and help her,” I whispered.
“No,” she said, and turned her back, heading for the house. Mark went to the gate instead. The bird didn’t stop his attack for him, of course, but Mark was big enough to block the way so Lori could make it up the walk relatively unscathed.
She looked close to tears now that I saw her up close. “Thank God, you’re here,” she said, shoving hair out of her face and trying to catch her breath. “I’ve been calling and calling, but there was no answer. So I took a chance and came over.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “The phone must have come unplugged when we were cleaning up the storage room.”
Grace and Jocelyn carried the condiments past us to the patio table. Lori looked from me to Grace and back again. “I wanted to ask her something.”
I gestured to Grace. “She’s right there.”
Lori walked over to the table. Grace ignored her. Took the lid off the mustard, put a spoon in the relish. Lori touched her arm. “Grace, I need to ask you a favor.”
Grace jerked away and called to the group. “Come and get it.”
The girls and the craft circle descended on the table. Grace turned and walked back to the house. Lori followed her to the steps. “Grace, please. Marla Cohen is at my place right now, and she’s making me crazy. I can’t do anything right. She keeps saying, ‘Grace did things this way, and Grace did things that way.’ I told her I’d see if you’d come over and help. Show me what she likes.”
Grace stopped at the top of the stairs. Turned her head slowly, like a queen. “No,” she said, and went inside. Lori started to cry, sudden heaving sobs that stopped the voices at the table and drew Mark over to the stairs. She had everyone’s attention except Grace.
“Grace, don’t be so rude,” I called, and went after her, leaving Mark outside to deal with Lori.
Grace was in her room, lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling. “What are you doing?” I demanded. “Lori needs your help. You know how difficult Marla can be.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why won’t you help her?”
She rolled over, putting her back to me. “Because I’m not a hairdresser anymore, remember?”
Jocelyn came to the bedroom door and squeezed in beside me. “Grace, are you okay?”
“I’m not a hairdresser. I can’t help her.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I said, but Jocelyn took hold of my arm, urging me to follow her out. “What are you doing?” I asked when we reached the kitchen table.
“Making sure Grace doesn’t get hurt.”
The bedroom door closed. Something slid across the floor. I tried the handle. She’d barricaded herself in with a chair. “Grace, you open the door this instant!”
“Leave me alone.”
“You should probably do as she asked.” Jocelyn turned to leave. “And while you’re at it, keep telling yourself that she’s doing just fine.”
LIZ
Day three. Nine A.M. and still no call from Champlain or their fucking lawyer.
If I didn’t hear from one of them by five o’clock that afternoon, Sideshow Legal would have two choices: register the goddamn petition and have a judge throw it out a week later. Or forget the registration, admit defeat, and try to get Mitch out of town before Hal found out there wasn’t going to be any money after all. Either way, Klaus Vandergroot came out the winner courtesy of Jim Hodgeson—the real lawyer.
“Fucking bastards,” I muttered, and threw the little blue ball at the wall. It dropped with a thud on the floor. “Why won’t they call?”
Nadia shrugged. “You said yourself, is like game. Seeing who closes eyes first.”
“Blinks,” I said evenly. “Seeing who blinks first.”
“That too.” She picked up the ball and sat down beside me. “I know is hard and you are reaching end of rope, but just for today—”
“Say it and die,” I snarled, staring her down through narrowed and painfully sober eyes.
Wisely, she closed her mouth. Put the ball in my hand. And when the phone in her room started to ring, she went to answer it. Leaving me alone for fifteen glorious minutes, during which I squeezed that ball, willed my own phone to ring, and tried not to think about Car Bombs.
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