Saving Grace (29 page)

Grace looks at her watch. ‘It’s only five in the afternoon in Connecticut,’ she says.

‘Let’s be honest,’ says Patrick. ‘Now that we know, it would be rude not to call.’

‘I
s that Anne Lindstrom?’

‘Yes?’ The voice on the end of the phone is cautious, cool. Before Grace moved to America she had the deep misconception that all Americans were superfriendly, would instantly go out of their way to help. She hadn’t met the New England Yankees, but swiftly grew to recognize the Mayflower WASPs, the ones with stiff, gracious smiles, who were polite, but never warm, unless you were one of their own.

‘Mrs Lindstrom, you don’t know me, but my name is Grace Chapman. I am trying—’

‘Grace Chapman?’ The voice is now warm, intrigued. ‘
The
Grace Chapman? Ted Chapman’s wife?’

Grace is embarrassed. ‘Yes.’

‘I was just reading about you in
Country Flair
! What an honour! What on earth can I do for you? And please, call me Anne.’

‘Anne. I’m trying to find someone who was in a photograph taken at the Near and Far Aid gala back in 2010, when you were the chair. I don’t know if you know her, but I was hoping you might be able to point me in the right direction. Her name is Betsy McCarthy.’

There is a sharp intake of breath, then silence.

‘Anne? Are you there?’

The voice is now cold again. ‘What do you want with her?’ There is almost a sneering quality. Grace knows, instantly, that the story isn’t good, but that she won’t get anything more out of Anne unless she explains, at least a little.

‘Anne, I don’t know you, but I have to ask you to keep this to yourself, at least for now.’

‘Okay.’

‘My husband has an assistant who goes by the name of
Beth
McCarthy. Without going into too much detail, she has fairly successfully ruined – or maybe I should say, stolen – my life. Today I found out she goes by a series of other names, “Betsy” being one of them. I’m trying to find out more about her. I’m trying to stop any further damage being done.’

Anne’s voice is quiet. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘This isn’t the first time she has ruined people’s lives. You need to talk to Emily Tallman. Let me get her number for you. Can you give me five minutes just so I can let her know you’re going to be calling?’

‘Of course. Thank you so much.’

‘I won’t discuss this with anyone. If you went through anything like what Emily went through, I know just how devastating this woman is. I’m sorry. Good luck. If there’s anything at all I can do, please let me know.’

‘Thank you.’ Grace is overwhelmed by the kindness of this stranger. ‘Thank you.’

E
mily Tallman’s number goes straight to the machine. Grace doesn’t leave a message, fearful of being misunderstood, of not being called back. Instead, she and Patrick sit on the sofa, drinking more and more vodka, trying to figure out what happened to Emily Tallman. There were photographs of her with her husband, Campbell Tallman, and then there weren’t.

There were records of a house being sold to Emily and Campbell Tallman, a big, rambling house on the harbour in Southport, and then, less than two years later, selling it for less than they bought it for.

Emily Tallman’s address comes up now, in Southport. There are no names associated with her. What happened to her children, Grace asks herself, for the former address lists children – Daisy and Ben. The view of her home is one of a pretty little cottage on a quiet side street, not big enough, Grace thinks, for two children.

A quick search shows Campbell Tallman living in Norwalk, the children listed at that address.

‘I’m intrigued.’ Grace turns to Patrick. ‘Why are the children living with him? And what does this have to do with Beth?’

‘You know what I think? I think it’s time to go home. America home. I think the only way to get to the bottom of this is to go and see her. And anyone else you might find. I wish I could come with you, but I’m always here for you. You can phone me anytime. You aren’t alone anymore, Grace.’

‘You’re an amazing friend, do you know that?’

Patrick smiles. ‘I’m also an amazing lover. Just in case you were wondering . . .’

Grace doesn’t smile this time. She just stares at him, knowing she ought to look away, but there is that jolt again, so unexpected, so discombobulating.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, knowing she is flushing. ‘Excuse me. I’m just going to the bathroom.’

In the bathroom, she is stunned at what she sees in the mirror. Her eyes are glittering, her lips full. This is not the sylphlike Grace that she was before, but nor is it the bloated, unhappy Grace of a few months back. Although bigger, tonight she is beautiful.

Perhaps, she tilts her head as a smile of delight plays on her lips, perhaps it has nothing to do with my size and everything to do with how I feel.

I am drunk, she thinks. It has been years since I have been drunk, and what fun it is. I am drunk, and I am beautiful.

These past few days are the first time that she has felt beautiful in a very long time. Today might even be, she thinks, the first day in her whole life that she has felt beautiful on the inside, where it counts.

And there is a man waiting for her outside, a man who has, she knows, always desired her. She has always treated it as something of a joke, something to be trifled with and teased, until tonight. When all of a sudden it doesn’t seem funny at all.

‘Y
ou seem . . . jittery,’ Patrick says, raising an eyebrow at Grace, who is concentrating very hard on making it back to the sofa in a straight line. She sounds sober, she knows, but she has had enough to drink that her inhibitions are now below what they would normally be.

Patrick brushes her hand with his own as Grace stills, looking at their hands together on the sofa. Without thinking, without realizing what she is doing, she strokes his hand, turning his palm over and tracing it with her fingers.

Looking up at him, Patrick’s smile has disappeared. They stare at each other.

‘I think I need some fresh air,’ she says. ‘Do you want a walk?’

T
hey stand just outside the entrance of the hotel, saying nothing, as people weave their way around them. They do not look at each other, the air between them thick with all that has not been said.

A girl shouts down the street after her friends and falls into Grace, pushing her up against Patrick, who steadies Grace but doesn’t let her go. They both smile at the girl’s loud apologies as she disappears off down the street, turning back to each other as the smiles on each of their faces slide off.

‘Do you not think . . . ?’ Grace whispers, Patrick’s face now inches from her own. ‘Do you not think that now might be a very good time to kiss me?’

‘Are you serious?’ he whispers back, even as his face moves imperceptibly closer to hers. ‘Are you drunk?’

‘Yes,’ she says as her lips brush his. ‘And yes. But not so much so that I don’t know what I’m doing, or that I’ll regret it in the morning.’

His mouth opens to meet hers as Grace melts into his arms.

W
aiting for the lift, they kiss again, ignoring anyone who might be passing, Grace feeling a passion and excitement she’s not sure she has ever felt before.

‘Get a room,’ leer a crowd of young men leaving the hotel’s restaurant, and it is to Patrick’s room they go, Patrick fumbling to get the door open, pulling Grace back into his arms as he kicks the door shut.

‘Oh God,’ he groans, slipping the dress over her shoulders, Grace embarrassed, for a moment, at how ample her bosom has become, then sinks into lust as Patrick slips off her bra straps with reverence, moving from one breast to another, his lips, his tongue, hungrily suckling, nipping, licking as Grace sighs with an otherworldly pleasure.

She reaches down to undo the zip on his trousers, pulls him out, no longer aware that this is Patrick, taken into another realm with the feelings sweeping through her body. Her turn to lift his shirt over his head, marvel at his body, the strength, the firmness.

What bliss is this, this body, this man, she thinks, stroking her hands up and down his torso, pulling down his trousers, his underwear, sinking to her knees to help him get them off, then taking him in her mouth as he gasps.

Then she is pushed back on the bed, Patrick moving down her body, his head between her legs, expertly going down on her until she clasps his hair between her fingers, her back arching as the waves take her over.

And then, he is on top of her, inside her, kissing her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. It is only then that she realizes he is crying, tears welling in his eyes and dripping onto her chest.

‘What is it?’ She gasps, placing a hand on his chest to stop him. ‘Do you want to stop? I’m so sorry.’

‘No,’ he says, smiling through the tears. ‘It’s just . . . I’ve waited so long.’

‘Oh, Patrick.’ She pulls his head down to hers and kisses him, tasting the saltiness of the tears on his lips.

P
atrick is right: she isn’t alone anymore. Grace, who, despite husband, daughter, friends, has felt alone all of her life, seems to not be alone now that Patrick has reentered the picture, the irritating elder ‘brother’ she inherited somewhere in her eighteenth year.

Her childhood truly was spent largely on her own and when she now thinks of her marriage to Ted, which she hasn’t done nearly as much the last few weeks, she sees herself as alone in that marriage too.

Not that she doesn’t want it back. They had found a way to make it work, Ted with his writing, with Ellen taking care of him; Grace with Harmont House, her cooking, her lunching and socializing in New York.

But how empty it now seems, looking back. Of course she was going to be on her own much of the time, married to a writer, and more, one so much older than her. She hadn’t ever felt, all those years, lonely. She hadn’t felt in need of a partner, someone who was more on her wavelength, someone who made her laugh.

Ted hadn’t ever made her laugh. That hadn’t been their dynamic. He made her think, made her happy, she had always thought, but laughter? Fun? That had never been a big factor in their relationship.

She turns, examining Patrick’s profile in the car as he pulls onto the motorway on their way back to Dorset. It is a profile she knows almost as well as her own. He has always been my brother, she thinks, startled that she is not looking at him in the way she ought to be looking at a true sibling. She is looking at the curve of his chin, the softness of his lips. She is looking at his strong hands expertly steering the car, his hair, longer than she had ever seen it, gently curling over his collar.

‘I know you’re staring,’ Patrick says, never taking his eyes from the road. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that was rude?’

‘I was just thinking how grown-up you are.’

He shoots her a confused glance. ‘You’re always accusing me of never having grown up. Make up your mind.’

‘No, I meant physically. You’re really a man.’

‘Please tell me that this moment, today, in this car is not really the first time you have noticed that.’

Grace flushes. ‘Oh God.’ She drops her head in her hands with a sheepish grin. ‘I think it actually is.’

Patrick shakes his head as he reaches over to take her hand. ‘Better late than never.’

T
hat night, Grace cooks dinner. With an affectionate nod to her adopted home, she makes chicken and dumplings, followed by apple pie, which sends Patrick off in rapturous praise.

Lydia watches them, saying nothing. They are careful not to touch each other, not to give anything away, unaware that the chemistry between them is electric; that even a blind man could tell there is something going on.

‘I’m off to bed, you two,’ says Lydia when the table has been cleared and Grace and Patrick are standing by the sink, finishing off the dishes. ‘Make sure you turn off all the lights.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ they both say in unison, and laugh, giddy in the first spell of lust, Patrick sidling up to Grace as Lydia disappears up the stairs, pulling her in and lowering his lips to meet hers as her arms snake up around his neck.

‘God, you are gorgeous.’ He nuzzles into her neck. ‘You’d better be sneaking into my room tonight.’

‘I haven’t got the nerve.’ Grace laughs. ‘What if your mother catches me? You come sneak into mine.’

‘Done.’ He smiles, taking her by the hand and starting to lead her up the stairs as Grace hesitates.

‘Emily Tallman,’ she says. ‘Let me just try again. One more time, then we’ll go up.’

U
pstairs, Grace emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, to find Patrick lying on her bed.

‘You really do have to go home,’ Patrick says. ‘I know you don’t want to, and I certainly don’t want you to, but Emily Tallman isn’t picking up the phone and she isn’t responding to your messages. The only way you’re going to get an answer is to go. You haven’t seen Clemmie in over six months. Grace, you know it’s time.’

Grace nods. She is strong enough now to deal with whatever might be waiting for her.

She misses Clemmie. Desperately. Their regular phone calls do nothing to assuage her guilt at leaving, even though she has always known it was the only thing she could do.

As for Ted, now might be the right time to see him. He is with Beth, it is true, but Grace knows him better than anyone. He falls hard for his obsessions, but they do not last long. When they are over, when he has moved on, he comes out on the other side loving Grace more; needing her more.

And then there is Beth.

Grace shudders as Patrick looks at her with concern. ‘What?’

‘The thought of seeing her. All these months away I’ve built her up into this terrible, evil creature. The thought of seeing her now completely terrifies me.’

‘It terrified you before because you were so vulnerable. You’re not anymore, Grace. And you’re not alone. I do see how you’ve demonized her, and I see that you don’t have to do it anymore. I promise you, you don’t have to be frightened. I may not be there physically, but I’ll be with you every step of the way.’