Finding Grace (22 page)

I could hear my mother as I walked back through the house.

“Cello, really? How intriguing. My youngest plays the euphonium, you know. Such a bold and powerful instrument,
the euphonium—beefs up the brass section no end, don't you think?”

She turned toward me as I walked down the step.

“Ah, there we are. No fez, darling? No cheery bonnet, I see?” she said, winking at me.

Hiro laughed.

“Oh yes! Let's all poke fun at Rachel. Highly amusing, yes,” I said, smiling back just as cheerfully. “You'll keep.”

“Well, you go off and have fun then. Grace and I will hold the fort,” my mother said.

Hiro and I walked down to the main street, our hands brushing together occasionally. I liked it.

“Music is very important to me,” he said as we walked. “I think it … What is the word? Endurance? When there is nothing there is always music, do you know what I mean?”

I nodded. I liked music too. I wasn't sure what he was trying to say, but he was close to me and that was a buzz.

In the music shop, Hiro took me over to the machine with the headphones, then wandered around picking CDs for me to listen to.

“Here, this is Albinoni. Very sad and very beautiful. This sounds to me like a thousand broken hearts. You must listen to it loudly and let your heart break too.”

I closed my eyes and listened.

“Do you like that one?” he asked me, smiling.

“It's so sad!” I said, finding myself choked up.

“Isn't it? Strings are very good at breaking the heart.”

He reached forward and replaced that CD with another. “Here, this is Pachelbel. You will know this one already, maybe. I like this one because of its, umm … layers of sounds. This one lifts the spirit. It makes you feel strong.”

Hiro brought me more music. Before each piece he would tell me how it made him feel and what he liked about it. After each explanation I would close my eyes and listen.

On the way back, we stopped at the post office. I wrote down a list of all the phone numbers that might be Anna's.

Hiro walked back with me to my front door. He stood on the veranda with his hands in his pockets.

“Thank you so much,” I said. “That was lovely. It was a really nice gift. I don't know anything about classical music.”

He grinned. “I would like to show you more. There is so much to know,” he said. “Maybe I will play for you, also?”

“That would be great.”

Then he leaned forward and kissed me. He put his hand flat on the small of my back. His lips were warm. I may have even let a soft moan escape.

At university
, after my lecture, I stop by the cafeteria to see if there is anyone I know. Kate is perched in her favorite corner.

I sit with Kate and the pert girl with the funky glasses whose name has turned out to be Suzette (which I had always thought was a crepey type of dessert, but apparently not).

“So, have you realized your destiny yet?” asks Suzette as I sit down.

“Not yet,” I say. I throw my notes on the seat next to me.

“What's it to be, then?” asks Kate. “A brutally white lab coat or a caftan and lashings of chamomile tea?”

“What's all this?” asks Suzette.

I explain to her about Grace, and about how Kate thought that working with people was out of character for me.

“Really?” she asks, sitting back. “That sounds like an interesting job.”

“So what's this destiny you're after?” asks Kate with a gleam in her eye.

“Well,” I say, eyeing them closely for ridicule, “can I tell you what I really want to do?”

“Of course!” replies Suzette, leaning forward.

“I think I want to solve mysteries,” I say, smiling.

“Like a detective?” says Suzette.

“You could be one of those forensic psychologists—like in all those murder novels!” says Kate.

“You'd probably have to do heaps of degrees,” says Suzette, “and you'd have to be full of angst and never be able to sustain a fulfilling relationship.”

“But they always seem to be wearing funky suits under their trench coats, don't they?”

“Yes, and they always tend to be the only woman toughing it out in a man's world.”

“And they spend an awful lot of time thinking about dead people,” continues Kate. “It'd be rough trying to stay upbeat when you think about dead people all day and all night.”

“That's what I said,” says Suzette. “That'd be where all your angst comes in.”

“You could do angst,” says Kate brightly, patting me on the arm.

“Yes, but can you
maintain
angst?” asks Suzette.

“Sure, she can. She can do grim. I've seen grim.”

“Yes, but grim is different from angst, isn't it?” says Suzette. “Grim is more your, sort of, angst without philosophical dilemma.”

“Yes, but they're siblings in the range of dispositions— angst and grimness, don't you think?” asks Kate.

“No, angst is far more intellectual than grim. I would have said that grim is more like angst's half-witted second cousin.”

“When have you seen me do grim?” I ask.

“All the time in the café. You used to do a great grim when there was less cream of mushroom soup than cream of mushroom soup orderers,” replied Kate.

“That wasn't grim, that was concentration.”

“Well,” said Suzette, encouraged by this latest piece of information, “if your concentration looks like grim—that's a start, isn't it?”

“You'll still need a funky suit and a trench coat,” adds Kate.

I look at my watch and decide it is time to go home.

I walk into the house and am almost overcome by the volume of Edith Piaf. My mother is out back, walking up the pathway with Herb and Bill. Grace stands by her with her hands behind her back. She turns as I approach, and for a moment I think I see recognition flash across her face.

“Grace!” I say. “Hello there, turtledove.”

I walk up to her and pat her on the shoulder.

“Oh, hello, Rachel darling,” says my mother. “It seems these fellows know everything there is to know about camellias and gardenias and almost everything else pretty and pungent. So what do you think of that, then?”

“Grace knows who I am,” I say.

“Well, of course she does,” says my mother, “you've lived here for what? Ever so long. Anyway, William, what can you tell me about hydrangeas? I know some sort of soil is supposed to make them pink and some other makes them blue, but for the life of me I can never remember which.”

I leave the four of them to wander about the garden some more and walk back inside to get myself a cool drink.

I decide to ring all the numbers that might be Anna's. The first two are wrong numbers but the third is an answering machine. It might have been Anna's mother, but I can't say for sure. I feel really nervous but I leave a message anyway.

“Hello, this is Rachel. I used to live in Clements Street. I don't know if you remember me, or even if this is the right number. I'm looking for Anna who used to live next door. I was thinking about old friends. I just wondered how you were doing. Anyway, this is my number if you want to call me.”

I'm just hanging up the phone when I hear a tentative knock. Mr. Preston is standing in the doorway.

“Hello there, chum,” I say. “Come in, then. Can I get you something to drink?”

Mr. Preston accepts and joins me in the kitchen.

“I saw your brother the other day in the park,” I say, pouring some cold water into a glass. “He asked me out, the cheeky devil.”

“He did what?” says Mr. Preston. He reaches forward and takes hold of me by the arm. “And you refused, didn't you?” he says, glaring at me.

I look down at his hand on my arm. He lets go.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

He paces the kitchen for a moment.

“I don't want you to go,” he says. “He's much older than you, to start with. And he's not a nice bloke!”

“Yes,” I answer. “He thought that you would say that.”

Mr. Preston snorts. “That would be right.”

“What is this issue you have?” I ask.

“I do not have an issue!” he yells at me.

“Obviously.”

Mr. Preston sits down on the lounge.

“I told you a little bit about him the other day,” he says. He seems to have calmed down a little bit.

I sit next to him and wait.

“He's not good with women,” he says. “Actually, he's very good with women, and that's the problem.”

I take a sip of my water.

“Don't you see?” he asks me. “He must think I have some sort of design on you. I don't, by the way. But if he thinks it, he will try very hard.”

“I don't understand.”

Mr. Preston rubs his chin in an agitated way. He begins, “A long time ago—before … Anthony could see my interest in Grace, and as he had done so many times before, he set out to steal her from me. He never had any trouble attracting women, but this woman was a challenge for him, because he knew that I wanted her. He knew that I cared for her.”

He put both hands over his face and sighed.

“It started with small victories. He would ask her to lunch when he knew we had arranged to eat together. He would grin at me as he swanned out of the office with Grace
on his arm. He would bring her extravagant gifts. I didn't buy her anything—except once I bought her a gold bracelet. Then I was ashamed of myself for getting involved in his war. I became … angry. I couldn't have her. I had tried not to care for Grace. I tried …”

Mr. Preston went on. “More than anything, I didn't want Grace to become like the spaniel bitch that I couldn't look at, that I kicked away, that I despised. I couldn't have Grace, but I didn't want Anthony to have her either. He didn't care for her, he didn't love her, he just wanted to “win.' She was just a new spaniel bitch.”

I sat still, waiting for him to go on.

“You see?” he said, fixing me in his gaze. “It's just like Grace all over again. He doesn't
like
you, he just …”

I looked down at my glass. I spoke very slowly and very deliberately. “I didn't accept his offer. He's not my type. I think you are reading too much into this. I think you have all this anger with your brother and it's affecting your life.”

Mr. Preston nodded. Then laughed.

“How old are you, seventeen? Eighteen?” he said.

“Eighteen,” I replied.

“You know too much for an eighteen-year-old,” he said. Then he pinched me on the cheek.

“Alistair,”
said my mother, swanning in the back door. She had a bunch of rosemary in her hand and was fanning her face with it.

“Miriam,” replied Mr. Preston, and then they both laughed.

Normally my mother cooks, but not tonight. Tonight she sat on the couch with Grace and Mr. Preston and barked orders.

“Put some new potatoes in some hot water and put them on the stove on a medium-to-high heat,” she said to me. Then she turned to Mr. Preston without a pause. “Oh yes, I agree. Venice is lovely in the spring, isn't it?”

“Cut those carrots long-wise, darling,” she said a couple
of minutes later, and then turned back to Mr. Preston. “Of course,
everyone
gets sick in India, but I have a cast-iron constitution. My youngest is allergic to lychees, you know. Do you have children?”

Then she turned back to me. “We need some more wine out here, darling,” she said, then turned back to Mr. Preston. “What a shame for you. Terribly useful, children. A bit trying for the first couple of years, but terribly useful after that.”

I opened a new bottle of wine and brought it over to the coffee table.

“Just slosh that meat in the marinade, Rachel. No, slosh it—slosh, slosh. Like gold panning. You know how to pan for gold, don't you?” she said to me over her shoulder, and then turned back to Mr. Preston. “So, what happened then?”

“I left my wife. Or, she left me. We left each other, in any case,” said Mr. Preston, refilling his wineglass. He sat back and sighed again.

“Oh, what a shame. She sounded lovely,” said my mother. Then she called out over her shoulder. “Just a splosh of olive oil on those potatoes, my sweet one.”

I sploshed the potatoes as directed.

“So things worked out with Grace, then?” my mother asked Mr. Preston. My ears pricked up.