Mourning Glory (36 page)

It was nerve-wracking and dangerous. Grace's heart pounded
with fear.

"He's trying to make us crash, Mom," Jackie
whimpered.

She held the wheel steady, determined to keep herself
together. Then, finally, he lifted one hand, gave them the finger and headed
off down the road.

"He's crazy," Grace mumbled.

"Don't mess with him, Mom. Please. He'll do something
awful. You don't know what he's like."

"And I don't want to know."

"Please, Mom. I'm not kidding. I'm so, so sorry."

"Are you really, Jackie? He messes with us, I'm not
going to roll over. I mean it."

She parked the car next to the yellow Honda.

"It better be gone by morning," she said, banging
her car door shut, as if the added sound was needed to buttress her courage.
"Leave the keys on the seat. I hope he got the message."

Jackie fished in her pocketbook, found the keys, opened the
car door and put them on the driver's seat.

"He'll be after the money, Mom," Jackie said.
"He won't give up."

Grace turned and faced Jackie.

"You make it sound like you're his partner,"
Grace said.

"Well, I'm not," Jackie pouted.

"Remains to be seen."

"You sound like you don't trust me, Mom."

"Do I? How perceptive of you."

She opened the door of the apartment and headed directly
into her bedroom, undressing quickly, throwing herself naked on the bed. By
then anger had turned to fear as she imagined what could happen if he carried
out his threats.

Confronting Sam would be a disaster for Grace. Everything
between them would end. He would quickly learn the truth about her and the grim
circumstances of her life. All her lies, all her sad, cynical manipulation of
his grief would be revealed. She would be unmasked as a phony, a cheat, a
gold-digging whore. It would be over. Kaput. The death of hope.

As for Jackie, Grace was bewildered by her actions. How
blandly she had acted her part, pressing her for information that she already
knew. It was depressing to contemplate. Her own daughter.

The pressure of all this horror overwhelmed her. She
confirmed to herself, yet again, that she was not built for subterfuge. It was
out of character for her. She detested the idea that she had created this
fictional persona to enhance her position with Sam. But then, hadn't Anne,
sweet, faithful, accomplished, wonderful Anne, blandly lived a lie for more
than two decades? Two wrongs didn't make a right, she told herself.

She was growing tired of this debate within her mind. Soon
her fear began to dissipate. She knew in her heart and soul that she loved Sam
Goodwin, loved him as she had never loved anyone in her life, loved him unconditionally
and was fully prepared to give him a lifetime of devotion. Did he feel the same
way?
Show me, Sam,
she cried in her heart.
Show me the power of your
love.
The idea calmed her and she crept under the covers.

How far afield she had come from her original intent! Life
was dynamic and unpredictable. She had been caught in a web of her own
creation. She speculated about what might have happened if she had told him the
truth from the beginning.
Oh, Sam,
she cried,
if only you could look
into my heart.

What had happened to Mrs. Burns's various caveats? And
Millicent Farmer's dictum? Ring around the finger? A fool's notion. None of
that seemed relevant anymore. Emotion had won over reason. Was that victory or
defeat?

It was time, she decided. Time for a full confession, time
for truth, for total honesty. There was no way to predict his reaction.
Certainly he would be shocked and confused and consider her deliberate lies a
betrayal of trust. How would she react if their roles were reversed? Would
there ever be room for trust again?

Then she remembered the evidence of Anne's infidelity, the
letters she still carried around in her pocketbook, ammunition at the ready.
Ready for what? Perhaps, as a last resort, she would show him how simple it was
to misplace trust, to be fooled, to be manipulated into believing deliberate
lies.

Anne had done it, and he continued to worship her memory,
continued to keep her spirit enshrined in his heart, Anne the betrayer. How
would he react to that knowledge?

The idea of such exposure filled her with dread and yet,
here she was, contemplating telling him the truth about herself. And didn't the
truth about herself, she rationalized, the absolute truth about her past, have
to include what she knew about Anne's infidelity?

There was only one reality for her—to tell him, at a
minimum, about her own lies. That was her resolution. If his reaction was to
reject her, then she would tell him about Anne, show him the evidence. Would
one betrayal cancel out the other? She wished she could tell Sam about her
options, let him choose. She was appalled at the stupidity of the idea.

What was she, after all, just a dumb, half-educated girl
from the lower middle classes of Baltimore.

She felt herself growing drowsy, and soon her thoughts
drifted to happier associations. Like being with Sam, making love, walking the
beach, enjoying the wonderful, isolated world they had created for themselves.
Concentrating on these moments, Grace found that she could keep all negative
thoughts and possible perils at bay. In such a tranquil state of mind, she
disappeared into the void of dreamless slumber.

She awoke to a sense of foreboding and, remembering the
events of the night before, she dashed into the living room. The studio couch
was closed, the bedclothes folded. She looked out the apartment window. The
yellow Honda was gone. Checking the time, she assumed that Jackie had taken the
bus to school.

Perhaps she had won her point with Darryl, despite all his
threats and bluster. Looking on the bright side, she considered that the
incident might have brought Jackie to her senses.

She showered and dressed and went off to meet Sam. At least
she had something wonderful to look forward to, she told herself, refusing to
allow ominous possibilities to spoil her prospects for the day.

In the car, driving toward Sam's place, she remembered her
resolve of the night before. She must tell him the truth. There was no other
way. Was it necessary to tell him about Anne? That was a separate question. No
debates this morning, she decided. She knew what she had to do. Let the chips
fall where they may.

Sam stood on the balcony off his bedroom and watched the
full moon rising above the ocean's horizon. Because of the light he could see
the turf churning at the edge of the beach and, in the distance, a cruise ship
moving its cargo of revelers southward toward the Caribbean.

He wished Grace was beside him. Even the salt tang that
twitched his nostrils couldn't completely eliminate the aroma of her flesh. His
taste buds, too, recalled the memory of the taste of her, particularly their
last good-bye kiss.

He still remembered Anne, of course, but in a more cerebral
way. His grief had receded and he no longer felt the same anguished feeling of
loss. The missing Anne, he assured himself, had become or was fast becoming
more of a historical fact than an emotional condition. Everything about her was
fading into a kind of mythology. Even the old, gnawing guilt about his
infidelity was losing its power.

Nor did he sense in himself any inhibiting constriction of
conscience about thinking of Anne in this way. Her presence in his living
reality was over. She had been replaced in her role by a new player with a
totally new take on how the part was to be played.

Acknowledging the fact of this replacement had been his
most difficult decision. Anne was over in his life. Grace was a new beginning.
At that moment, standing on the balcony, watching the infinity of the sea, he
rebuked himself for not facing the truth of the situation, for avoiding the
inevitable truth. What he feared now, most of all, was losing her.

He had wrestled with the idea that saying good-bye to Grace
every night was, in fact, an unnatural state. Although two months had passed
since Anne's death, he was now willing to believe that he had mourned her
sufficiently, that he had by his grief acknowledged their long marriage, and
despite his long catalog of infidelity he had done his duty by her.

He was well aware that he had deliberately avoided the
subject of a permanent arrangement with Grace, even marriage, especially
marriage. She had not pressed him. Indeed, at times it seemed that she, too,
was deliberately avoiding the subject. He wondered why. Perhaps she wasn't sure
their relationship had the stamp of permanence, or she had decided that the
difference in their ages was a drawback.

At first he had thought so himself, but after spending time
together, talking, making love, interacting, he was convinced that their
relationship was workable, pregnant with potential. Certainly from a physical
point of view they were enormously compatible. It was marvelous, a miracle. He
was, above all, a realist. The aging process was relentless. Down the line,
perhaps five, maybe ten years from now, if he were lucky, his powers would certainly
diminish, although new drugs held the promise of extending potency. Yet, even
with that, one couldn't ignore the body's inevitable natural breakdown.

But he knew, also, from his years with Anne, that the
physical aspect, specifically sex, was not the whole story of a relationship.
For him and Anne, money had been the leavening ingredient. It had made the
bread of life rise, made it tastier, more palatable, despite the absence of a
sexual component.

There was, of course, great truth in the idea that man did
not live by bread alone, yet few could deny the inherent joys of creature
comforts, of being totally free from the tension of material need. Money
enhanced life. Lack of money diminished it.

By the same standard, sex, aside from the issues of propagation
and survival of the species, enhanced life as well. Its practice gave
undeniable pleasure, both physical and psychic. At puberty he had recognized it
as a powerful and profound personal need. With Grace, from his point of view,
he had closed the full circle of that need. As long as it lasted their sex life
enhanced and embellished the joy of their relationship.

Certainly she had exhibited a sexual drive at least equal
to his, but he wasn't certain that its equality represented the same importance
to her as it did to him. Repetition might diminish its impact. She might grow
tired of him. They were, after all, only in the first flush of desire. At some
point, surely, the novelty would wear off and evolve into humdrum routine. He
feared that over time, as he aged, she might lose interest in him. Perhaps that
was why he had decided to wait before he suggested a more permanent
arrangement. The fact was that, fearing her rejection, he was too afraid to
ask.

Perhaps it was Bruce's telephone call from the airport,
coming at the precise moment when he was approaching a resolution about his
future with Grace, that had pushed these thoughts into the forefront of his
mind.

Bruce had not previously announced that he was coming. In
fact, Sam had just spoken to him two days earlier. There had not been the
slightest hint that he was coming to visit.

Their conversation, as always, revolved around the same
subject, the fear of his vulnerability, his involvement with Grace and the
implied disrespect of Anne, as well as the perennial subject, the preservation
of Sam's estate. The dialogue with Bruce was getting increasingly contentious.

Was this, then, his last ditch effort? Probably, Sam
groaned inwardly. And the coincidence of his calling at a time when Grace
wasn't in the house was equally ominous. In fact, the impromptu visit had an
emergency air, which was enormously troubling.

"Dad..." Bruce had come up behind him. Sam, lost
in thought, hadn't heard the taxi over the sound of the pounding surf, and
Bruce had his own key to the house, which reminded Sam suddenly of his son's
sense of possession over his father's property. At that moment he vowed to
change the locks. Sam turned and faced his son, who moved closer to embrace him
and kiss him on the cheek.

"I know you must be tremendously surprised, Dad,"
Bruce said, his features murky even in the moonlight. "I just felt that
this had to be done face-to-face."

"Well, here we are, face-to-face," Sam said, not
knowing what else to say. It occurred to him that he wasn't exactly overjoyed
at seeing his son.

"Can we go inside, chat in the den?" Bruce asked.

Sam shrugged his consent and followed his son down the
stairs to his den. Here, they had always had their more serious discussions,
another ominous note.

"Are you hungry?" Sam asked.

"Ate on the plane, Dad, but I could use a drink."

Bruce moved to the bar and, lifting the twenty-year-old
malt whiskey bottle, silently asked his father to join him. Sam nodded. He was
certain he would need a stiff drink to face what was coming.

Bruce poured out two generous drinks and handed his father
a glass, then took a seat in one of the two facing wing-backed leather chairs.
Another ominous note, Sam thought, taking the opposite chair.

"Very lawyerly," Sam snickered, looking at his
son, who had not even removed his jacket. He took a deep swallow of his drink.
"It must be pretty important to bring you cross-country."

"It is," Bruce said, halfheartedly sipping his
drink, then putting the glass down on the table beside him. He cleared his
throat. Sam noted the complete absence of the amenities, the usual small talk
expected between father and son; but then, he decided, they had disposed of
such questions in their earlier conversations on the phone. Sam recognized that
he was not being forthcoming either, having not asked after his son's wife. A
deliberate avoidance, he acknowledged to himself, thinking suddenly that he had
never really agreed with Anne's assessment. Sam had never liked her.

"I don't know how to put this, Dad," Bruce said.

"How about straight." Sam said. He studied his
son, his features more like Anne's than his own, the high forehead, straight
nose, square cleft chin, a strong face with Anne's blue-gray eyes staring out
at him.

"This is your most vulnerable time, Dad," Bruce
began. He was obviously nervous, trying to follow a scenario that he must have
worked out for himself in advance. "Considering the circumstances, it's
perfectly natural. I'm not faulting you at all. You must understand that. This
is coming out of genuine love and concern for your future."

"And yours," Sam interrupted.

"Dad, please, don't be unkind. I don't want this to be
hurtful. I just want you to face the reality of the situation."

"What situation, for Christ's sake, Bruce? Enough
prologue. Let's get down to the cream cheese. What the hell are you talking
about?"

Bruce lifted his glass for another dainty sip of scotch.
His hand shook as he lifted, drank and put down the glass. He cleared his
throat again.

"Grace Sorentino," he said hoarsely.

Sam had, of course, expected it. Despite their attempts at
secrecy, he had always known that his son's resourcefulness would eventually
ferret out her identity.

"Okay," Sam said. "So you know her name.
Good for you. Yes, Grace Sorentino. She's a dear friend. And, I might add, she
has been extremely helpful and understanding..."

"I'm sure of that, Dad."

Sam detected a note of sarcasm.

"What's going on here, Bruce?"

"Do you know much about her?" Bruce asked.

Somewhere in the distance, deep inside himself, Sam could
sense an odd disturbance begin, like distant thunder. He was instantly wary.

"I know all I want to know," Sam said, feeling
his throat constrict.

"And you're not even remotely ... well ...
concerned?"

"What are you talking about Bruce? She's a lovely
person."

"And apparently you're quite involved with her."

"Am I on the witness stand, Bruce?"

"Don't get defensive, Dad. Please. I told you, I'm
trying to be protective, not harmful."

"Well then, get to the point."

"Are you comfortable with what you know about
her?"

"Where are you heading, Bruce?"

Suddenly all sorts of warning flags went up in Sam's mind.

"We had to know, Dad," Bruce said. "It's you
we're thinking about. Oh, I know you don't believe that. And I'm not here to
tell you what to do. All I want is for you to know..."

"Know what, dammit, know what?"

"About this person."

"Person? You know her name and she's still referred to
as a person, more like an object than a real person. Oh, I can see where you're
leading me, Bruce. You realize that this is none of your damned business?"

Bruce uncrossed his legs and took out an envelope from his
inside coat pocket. Sam, his agitation growing, watched as he slipped out a
paper from the envelope and opened it.

"It is our business, Dad. Just don't get emotional.
Look at it from our point of view. We had to hire someone, a very reputable,
discreet person. You wouldn't tell us anything. How could we protect you?"

"Protect me from what?"

Sam reached for his drink and swallowed it in one gulp. He
noted that his fingers shook.

"Grace Sorentino," Bruce said, reading from the
paper he held in his hand. "Age thirty-eight."

"Well, there's a revelation. You think I don't know
that?"

Bruce did not look up from the paper.

"She has a daughter age sixteen, nearly seventeen.
Jackie."

"Your boy really earned his fee," Sam sneered.
"Do I have to listen to this crap?"

"She lives at Palm Court in West Palm Beach."

"So?"

"Dad," Bruce said, shaking his head, "she
was recently fired from Saks Fifth Avenue, where she worked at the cosmetics
counter for three years." Bruce sighed. "Apparently fired for
insulting one of their best customers." Bruce looked up. "She sold
cosmetics."

Surely a sin of omission, Sam reasoned, refusing to allow
himself to be shocked or show surprise. Was there anything sinister in her
refusal to tell him about that? She might have wanted to keep busy, keep her
hand in. Perhaps it was a kind of hobby. He cleared his throat, which had
suddenly become constricted. He knew, of course, that Bruce had thrown down the
gauntlet and tried to steel himself against the bad news yet to come.

"A few weeks ago she blew another job at a beauty
salon, Mary Jones. Same story. Insulted a customer," Bruce continued.
"She is currently on unemployment insurance."

"So?"

It was the only word he could get out without revealing his
real feelings.

"This place where she lives, Palm Court..." Bruce
continued, his tone even and lawyerly, holding any obvious negative expressions
in check. "Not very up-to-date. I don't want to be a snob about it, Dad,
but it's not exactly first class. I have photographs. It's pretty grungy. Would
you like to see them?"

"No, I don't think that will be necessary. Fact is,
I've never been there," Sam said, his heart sinking, forcing a posture of
nonchalance, knowing it was transparently phony. He got up, crossed to the bar,
poured himself another drink and carried it back to his chair. He didn't offer
one to his son.

"Born in Baltimore," Bruce continued,
concentrating on the paper in front of him. "Grace Frances Sorentino is
her full name. Attended Baltimore Junior College, dropped out after a year.
Both parents born in Sicily. Mother dead. Father a barber. Lives above the
store in the apartment where she grew up." He read it perfunctorily, not
looking up. "I'm sure you know all this."

"Of course," Sam whispered. His heart was
breaking. He wanted to cry.

"Married Jason Lombardi. Apparently he dropped out of
high school. She was nineteen. Mr. Lombardi seems to have been a hustler of
sorts. He left quite a paper trail of bad debts, various judgments against him.
A pretty bad apple." Bruce shook his head. "They were divorced six
years ago. He's behind in his support payments. Rather messy."

"So she's had a lot of bad luck," Sam said
bravely, wondering if he was effectively masking his denial. He wanted to
question the report, wanted to tell his son that it was nothing but a pack of
lies. There was some mix-up here. It wasn't his Grace Sorentino. Not his Grace.