Grace Doll (10 page)

I decide to drive directly to LAX. Three thousand should cover a last-minute flight and any other travel costs. I just need to get this over with.

My hands are cold and clammy, like my blood’s racing too fast to reach my extremities. The giant parking facility is packed with cars, but empty of people. I grab my backpack, lock the car and weave through lanes, eyes alert. LAX’s parking is notorious for crime and with what happened at Dad’s house, and Solomon breathing down my neck, I’m edgy.

Credit card in hand, I book a flight that takes off in four hours, and one that returns twenty-four hours later.

On the plane, the stewardess instructs passengers about safety, the pilot welcomes us onboard adding, “There’s a storm headed for Salt Lake City. We’re going to try to land before it gets there.”

That’s comforting.

I pull out my iPod.

The flight’s a bumpy two-and-a-half hours. As the plane descends through angry storm clouds, my blood starts to simmer in my veins. I wouldn’t be here, ready to hurl, doing this errand if it weren’t for Dad. And Grace.

The aircraft shudders. I grip the armrests. I’m going to die on this asinine trip and it’s going to be her fault.

Out the window there’s nothing but white and gray. She’s out there—somewhere. It’s just a matter of time now.

We land and my stomach begins to settle. I disembark the plane and weave through long extensions that stretch out from the main body of the terminal. Passengers lie stretched out on chairs, huddled in groups. I glance at the gates, every one of the signs read:

CANCELED

I can stay the night here, how bad could it be?

At the rental car desk, a puffy woman informs me I can’t rent a car because I’m only eighteen. Frustration squeezes my nerves.

I spend the next ten minutes standing in the terminal, figuring out my options, watching people walk out the sliding doors with their skis and luggage. Standing nearby is a guy dressed in a black parka, black pants, and turtleneck. He watches me. He’s doing something on his cell phone, but when he looks at me, it’s longer than a glance. Long enough to strip my nerves.

I head to the restroom to see if he follows. Too nervous to take a leak, I wash my hands for five minutes waiting for him to walk through the door. I fantasize about confronting him, slugging his face, sending him out cold on the tile floor.

He doesn’t come into the bathroom.

Back out in the terminal, I find the stranger three feet from the entrance to the men’s room, leaning against the wall. This time he’s talking on the phone. The moment he sees me, he shuts his phone and steps away from the wall.

Backpack in my sweaty hand, I toss it over my shoulder and exit the terminal, heading out to the curb in search of a cab. Snow falls in thick veils. Overhead, clouds are black, angry. Not far behind me, the stranger follows in my steps. Cold air bites my skin through the hoodie I’m wearing.
Should have brought a coat.
I flag a cab, get inside. “Midway.”

As the cab pulls away from the curb, I check over my shoulder out the rear window. The stranger runs down the pickup area, waving his hands at the line of waiting cabs. I sink against the cold seat and cross my arms over my chest.

We’re through the city in about fifteen minutes on the freeway, and heading toward a giant crack in the mountains. I don’t see any cabs trailing us, and I sigh. It’s unbelievable what lengths Solomon is going to. I should have known this would happen. This whole thing with Dad, Grace, and Solomon frustrates me.
Give her the box and be done with it.

The rocky peaks in the pass reach up and vanish into hovering clouds. Everything’s doused in white. It’s clear after twenty minutes that the driver isn’t going to say anything, so I pull out my iPod and plug in. Did Dad ever take this route?

We pass peaks dotted with cabins and houses, Park City, and then the mountain climbing seems to level out. My watch tells me we’ve been on the road for fifty minutes. Nerves in my stomach bunch.

I’m going to see Grace.

The driver pulls off the freeway at the green interstate sign that reads
Midway.
“Where to?” he asks.

I recite the address and he pulls the cab to the side of the road. He reaches into the glove box, pulls out a map. His fingers follow lines on the paper. Then he refolds the map and sticks it back into the glove compartment.

I don’t know how the driver can see where he’s going. All I see is dense white. I’m amazed at the endlessness of snow.

Should have brought a coat.

Inside my chest, my heart thrums. We drive past houses, in neighborhoods. We’re getting closer. Throat clutched, I tell myself to calm down. As anxious as I am to tell her off, I still can’t believe I’m going to see Grace Doll for myself.

“Any hotels in this place?” I ask, realizing I didn’t think about where to stay.

The driver shrugs. “No idea.”

He stops at a long drive closed off by an iron fence. A metal NO TRESPASSING sign hangs on the gate. The gate is locked with a padlock, and a thick stone and rock wall surrounds the property. No name on the snow-covered mailbox, just the number 23. I can’t see the house from the road and the driveway disappears in snowfall.

I pay the driver and get out. He’s gone in a cloud of white exhaust before the icy cold begins to invade the fabric of my hoodie, jeans and white Converse shoes.

Swallowing hard, I stare through the gate at the long, snow-packed drive.

I hang my backpack on one of the iron spikes then clear enough space through evergreen and brush to see the rock and stone wall, harsh and icy beneath my hands. My fingers are already numb. I hoist myself up. Losing my balance, I topple into thorny wet bushes on the other side. Skin pricked and cold, I crawl through the stems scratching my arms, cheeks, neck.

I snatch my backpack from the gate and head for the driveway. The snow is at least three feet deep with a hard crust my feet break through and then sink into with each step. My shoes slowly become soaked. A wet chill crawls up my legs. The skin on my cheeks and neck, where the scratches are exposed to frigid air, stings.

Car tracks have gouged the snow recently, but they’re almost gone. I can’t calm my pounding heart. Grace. I’m going to see her.

Up ahead is a one-story brick house with black shutters. The place looks like it belongs in a Thomas Kinkaid painting. A lantern on the porch burns honeyed yellow, but every window is dark. As my body is overcome with wet shivers, I have the fleeting fear that Grace is not home.

She’s like a hundred years old, where else would she be?

I continue trudging. My teeth rattle, my bones quake. I’m soaked to the skin with snow and sweat. Every breath clouds my vision.

The place is locked up like a vault.

My knuckles ache—from the cold, and from knocking on the door.

Nothing.

I pound. “Hey!”

My voice echoes, then evaporates into falling snow. My gaze searches the surrounding area but I don’t see anything through the veils of white. Numbness creeps from my fingers and toes inward and upward.

I pound again. Maybe she’s deaf.

Leaving my backpack on the porch I trudge through more snow, sinking to my thighs in the stuff. Wracked with spasms, I round the house in search of lights burning. Every window is dark.
You’ve got to be kidding me. I came all this way and she’s not here? What if she’s dead? Moved?

Realization chokes my lungs, heaving for air—thin air—
cold
air: I’m going to freeze to death and never see Grace.

Chapter Nine

~Grace~

I haven’t been able to think straight since we left the doctor’s office. In the passenger seat, Oscar reclines peacefully. He looks paler and more fragile since the appointment. So mortal. As I’ve wished countless times before, I wish again that I could share whatever exists inside of me that continues giving me youth.

“Stop,” he mutters.

I usually smile at his uncanny ability to sense what I’m feeling. But the inevitability of his life ending steals any comic relief he’s trying to offer. We’ve had this discussion so many times—if his health were better, he’d give me one of his twinkling grins—his way of saying everything is going to be all right. I see his smile in my mind, and close my eyes to hold the image in place.

“Eyes on the road,” he says.

I send him a glare.

Oscar clucks his tongue.“Trying to kill us both?”

“You can’t stop me from trying.”

The downturned corners of his lips lift a little. ”Now you’re being difficult.”

He’s right. And his gentle reminders are only meant to keep me from gravitating toward selfishness.

“I can be whatever I want.” I feel him looking at me but can’t bear to look back. Emotion tightens my throat. “Besides, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Oh,” he chuckles. “Is that so?”

I nod. “Not unless I approve.”

He laughs.

I pull in front of the gate, put the car in park, and get out. Snow hasn’t stopped falling since I took him in for his appointment. The cold, white blanket thickens every surface. I hate snow. If it weren’t for Oscar, I’d be gone from Utah and its paralyzing winters. But this is his home, and he wants to spend whatever days he has left here. After I unlock the padlock, I shove each gate open just far enough for the SUV to clear. Shuddering off the freezing air, I climb back into the vehicle.

“Tsk-tsk,” Oscar murmurs at my display of displeasure.

I slam the door, jam the transmission into drive.

“Tantruming is not going to change anything,” he says.

“Makes me feel better.” I step on it. The SUV doesn’t even give me the satisfaction of a fishtail. Still, I surge up the driveway faster than usual, enjoying a momentary act of rebellion.

Then I see him.

Someone hunched on the porch.

I take my foot off the gas. The sound of the car causes the intruder’s head to slowly rise. I can’t see his face, the hood of his dark sweatshirt and falling snow shrouds it.

“Who could that be?” Oscar asks.

Pulling the car to the top of the driveway, I stop but leave the engine idling so Oscar stays warm. “Wait here.”

“Where else am I going to go, sis?”

I get out of the car and shut the door. Zipping my coat, I cross my arms over my chest and march through rising snow to the porch. The closer I get, the more furious my heart pounds.

“Excuse me,” I start. “The sign reads no trespassing. You’re on private property.”

As I draw closer, the sharp angles of the intruder’s jaw become more apparent from within the recesses of the oversized hood covering his head. His eyes lift, meet mine. I gasp. The piercing eyes and squared jaw belong to Jonathan.

My pounding heart plummets to my feet.

Oh no
. I close my eyes.

It’s been eight months since Jonathan’s last letter. He’d told me he wasn’t feeling well.
Jon’s fine. You’re overreacting. This is some neighborhood vagrant or salesman who thinks himself above your sign.

I open my eyes and find the young man staring, those gray-blue eyes intense and sharp. His skin is white, nose violet from the cold temperature. He wears a brown sweatshirt, a pair of jeans. His arms seem frozen, clutched around his body. How long has he been sitting out here?

The resemblance to Jonathan is so strong, I can’t tamp out the anxiety building inside of me. Part of me refuses to believe what dreadful conclusion whispers through my heart.

Jonathan is still alive. He’s okay.

“You’ve trespassed on private property,” I repeat.

His pale lips part and his body starts to shake as if just opening his mouth has let the cold air invade him. He clears his throat. Coughs. White plumes of breath from his lips cloud his face. “I’m here to see someone.”

“Who?”

“A friend of my father’s.”

I suck in a deep breath of icy air.
Oh no.
“Who’s your father?”

“Jonathan Lane.”

Brain numb from the news, I don’t know how long I stand there trying to accept what he’s just told me.
Jonathan.
I’ve known this moment would come. For the sake of my sanity, I made the decision to not dwell on the reality. My head floods with muddy emotion, forcing tears in my eyes to start down my cheeks. Jonathan’s son watches me with veiled caution.

“Give me a moment,” I manage to say. “I’ll be right back.”

On shaky legs, I cross back to the car and open the door on the passenger side. Oscar’s eyes widen when he sees my tears. He’s wondering who the stranger is, why I’m crying. We’re careful of strangers—an ingrained habit.