Grace Doll (13 page)

He’s Jonathan’s son.

I stand in the hall, staring at the closed door. I hear him moving around and try to relax, try to believe that everything will be all right, that my carefully constructed and guarded world will remain quiet and protected now that Brenden is here.

Tomorrow will be better. The storm will stop.

Then what?

I can’t move, listening. Foreign sounds. Normally, I’d be in the office sewing or in the living room playing the harp, maybe watching a documentary or listening to music. But Brenden’s presence has immobilized me body and soul. I can feel him—penetrating the walls of the house. Like the heater is turned up. Like water has burst through the pipes, flooding me with sensation. My heart thrums.
Stop this. You know better. Stop now.
But my commands go unheeded by a body programmed to listen to the genetic stimulation of a girl stuck at seventeen.

My bedroom is next to the room Brenden occupies. I lock the door.
He’s your best friend’s son, not a criminal.
Still, I undress quickly, and when the air hits my nakedness, the warm tingle racing over my skin submerges want deep into my flesh.

I slip on silk pajamas and a silk robe, tying the sash so tight I almost cut the air from my lungs. Having fabric cover my skin only intensifies the song of desire humming beneath my skin with warmth, with friction. Lowering to the bed, eyes on the wall, I listen to the occasional muffled sounds coming from the other side.

At some point, I take a deep breath and glance at the clock. It’s eight-thirty. Holding my breath, I tiptoe down the hall. Even with the door closed,
he
presses out at me. I sit in the chair at the rear of my harp and the moment my fingers make contact with the tight strings, it’s as if with each strum, tension oozes from my shoulders, neck, arms, and my soul.
Forget he’s here.

But he’s male. Jonathan’s son. And there’s something about the fierce look in his eyes that makes it impossible to keep myself sequestered. And Jonathan sent him, so I should be able to talk to him, shouldn’t I? I don’t have to be afraid.

Suddenly, he’s in the doorway. My fingers freeze on the strings. The brown sweatshirt is gone, he’s in a gray teeshirt, the same color as his eyes. Both hands are buried in the front pockets of his jeans. He’s not wearing shoes, but he has on black socks. A ripple breaks loose inside of me—something about him wearing socks—like he feels at ease here in my house—makes me squirm and melt.

“Can’t sleep?” The rasp of his voice rolls into the room like a mystical carpet, inviting and dangerous.

“No.”

“It’s a little early, I mean, the night’s just getting started, right?” His tone and the suggestion weaves tingling thrill through my ear canal, down the tender side of my neck, spreading out through my arms and legs. His eyes—with their directness—ignite me.

“That was beautiful,” he says. “Can I listen?”

I can’t relax. “All right,” I say, tone cooler than I intend. I won’t be able to play now, not with him watching.

He crosses to the chair by the hearth, then glances at me. The chair is only four feet away, whereas the couch is ten feet away. “Wouldn’t you prefer the couch?”

“Uh.” He glances at the chair, couch, then at me.

Brenden sits carefully on the couch and even with the distance, I feel like I’m in the room with a tiger. Tension purrs in the air. My hands shake holding the strings.
Stop this ridiculousness now.

Go away!
But I can’t kick Brenden out—he’s Jonathan’s son—and I need that vial.
You can do this, sis,
Oscar told me when I put him to bed.
It’s time for you to let go.
I’d nodded, but only to put his concerns at ease so he’d rest. Inside I’d known being near Brenden would be as tricky as corralling a herd of wild horses.

I knew that the moment he’d extended the empty mug to me.

But, letting go of decades of conditioning is like walking blindfolded into the ocean.

“I’m really sorry if me being here is an inconvenience,” Brenden says.

This will be good for you,
Oscar told me before I left him. He’s right. Part of me knows he’s right, another part of me is afraid to open this door to anyone.

I release the harp, keeping my eyes on them. An empty black silence chokes the room. “It’s not an inconvenience,” I say. “I’m so sorry about Jonathan.”

“Yeah…”

“Are you hungry?” I ask, hoping he is so I can leave the room.

“No.”

I am.
Starved.
But not for food. I’m astounded that feelings so long repressed leap inside of me with a vigor I know is precarious.

“When did Grace pass away?”

A pit gnarls in my stomach. Squeezing any words about the past from my mouth is dreadful. Uncomfortable. After another deep breath, I turn my chair so I face him. Those eyes cut through decades of self preservation. Behind him, out the window, the blizzard continues to dump snow, the ground growing higher and higher, burying us deeper and deeper.

“You were an actress,” Oscar’s said over and over again, “you spoke to kings and scoundrels.” I’d hated the pretenders with such loathing, it had taken me years to forget the Grace Doll Rufus had created and find my real self.

The hardest part has been reconciling the two.

“Do you mind if we talk about Jonathan?”I ask.

He takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to hide disappointment. His hands fist on the arms of the chair. “I told you, he and I weren’t close.”

“That doesn’t sound like Jonathan.”

“Maybe it was the age difference, I don’t know. We just never…bonded. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me more about this—you, Oscar. How hard would it have been?”

“I’m sure he had reasons.” If Jonathan had explained what had happened this moment would be much smoother for Oscar and me, that was certain.

“How would you know?” he snaps.

I swivel in the chair and face the window, watching him through the reflection. He’s not going to let this go. I can’t blame him, and he does deserve some answers. He catches me watching and another round of confusion tightens his features.

“How often did you see him?” The pain in his tone means he’s bracing for the answer. I can’t tell him the truth: As often as Jonathan could get away, he would.

“Occasionally.”

“Did she—Grace—know he was in love with her?”

I swallow. The pain in his eyes is achingly raw. “Yes.”

We watch each other’s reflections.

He lowers his head. The action reminds me of Jonathan and my heart hurts. In the beginning I’d tried to talk myself into loving him, but even guilt, years, and loyalty couldn’t light the spark of a wick that didn’t exist. When he’d finally understood that, he’d wept.

I clear my throat of impending emotion. To his credit, Jonathan never asked me for what I wasn’t able to give him—a cross he carried with silent dignity I hope Brenden can understand someday.

“Does that news surprise you?” I ask. “He was your father, after all.”

“He may have been my father, and he may have married Mom—and Judy—but he loved Grace.”

I face him. “Surely he loved your mother.”

He stares at me, anger darkening his face. If he knew it was I his father had loved and longed for I don’t know what he’d do.

“Like I said, I didn’t really know him,” he murmurs.

“This is too soon.”

“It’s not going to hurt any less tomorrow or in five months.” His voice slices the cold air. “I’ve lived with this for eighteen years. It sucks.” His eyes flash with resentment.“It’s his fault.”

“What is his fault?” I ask carefully.

“If he and Mom had stayed together, she would have had a better life. He could have been there for her while she was sick. He should have been there.”

“She’s lucky she had you.”

He shifts as if he’s swamped with emotions he’s not comfortable showing me. “He got it back in the end. Nobody was there for him.”

Oh Jonathan.
My heart pinches and I avert my gaze to the storm raging outside the window.

“Don’t feel sorry for him,” Brenden sneers. “He deserved it. You get out of relationships what you put into them, and he put in zero.”

Brenden may never understand the man I knew. I’m saddened—Jonathan was a good person, a hero to me. But his attention—the completeness of our relationship—came at the expense of his family.

Talking about Jonathan isn’t doing anything but deepening Brenden’s disappointment and my guilt.

“I need a drink.” I rise and cross to the kitchen. What I really need is that vial.
A way out.
Dr. Lemarchal’s words haunted me for years. As Oscar and Jonathan aged, I’d often wondered what would happen if I consumed the contents of that vial. Dredging up the past blankets me in an old weariness.

I’m tired and ready to let go.

Brenden’s cell phone vibrates. From the corner of my eye, I see him pull it out of his front pocket, then shove it back. Who’s calling? Girlfriend? The phone continues to beg for his attention. “Are you sure you don’t want something?” I ask, reaching for a teacup.

He shakes his head. Everything inside of me sparks to attention when he looks at me. Thankfully, he remains in the living room. But he’s still in full view.

Hands shaking, I make myself hot milk and stir in some honey.

I return to the living room and sit. The hot drink usually soothes me. Not now. Steam drifts into the air, and it seems to magnify the heat bubbling between Brenden and me.

“Is that hot milk and honey?” His tone is sharp.

“Yes.” I sip. “Would you like some?”

“No.” Bitterness cracks in the air. “Dad used to drink that stuff.”

My stomach sloshes. He’s right. It was Jonathan who introduced me to the soothing drink. Unspoken accusations dart into the air and I feel like I’m the target. I can barely endure the reprimand in his eyes and am ready to open my mouth, defend myself when he rises and crosses to me. Fear tangles with excitement. There’s so much confusion inside of him, it seems to pound through his flesh with each step.

“Were Grace and my Dad lovers?” he demands.

Seconds pass hard and heavy between us, our gazes connected without a blink to break the tension. Sweat drenches my skin.
What a question.
His closeness challenges me, and I stand. His scent swirls through my head, making me dizzy. That old, sleepy yearning he’s awakened stretches to life deep inside of me. Ghost-like desires so long dead in their fragile existence brush the contours of my body in whispers. My limbs numb. The teacup my hand careens forward, splashing hot milk down the front of him.

He jumps back.

We stare at each other, neither of us sure what to do next. I snatch the empty cup off the floor and dart to the kitchen. I plunk it on the sink and grab hold of the counter to steady my weak knees. Catch my breath.
What a fool
. Cheeks flushed, I snatch dishtowels and return to the living room.

He hasn’t moved. “You can shower and change in the bathroom,“ I suggest. Fire flushes my skin from head to toe. I kneel down and dab the towels into the wet carpet and avoid looking at him. He remains statue-still.

“Were they lovers?” he repeats.

My hands pause on the damp rags. Heart pounding, I meet his gaze. “No.”

The room squeezes in around us. Air thickens to unbearable.

Then he’s gone.

I gulp in a breath. Maybe now my skin will cool, my pulse will slow. But I doubt it. This reaction, this uninvited ecstasy and heat, is the reason I’ve stayed away from men and relationships. A side effect from Dr. Lemarchal’s treatment—a disabling desire that overpowers me when I come into contact with a man I’m attracted to.

Attracted to.

I hear the guest bedroom door close.
Fool, fool, fool.
The sound of water flowing through the pipes causes my mind to conjure an image of Brenden pulling off his shirt.

My fingers ache, the joints whiten from plunging the towel into the carpet. The hope that my heart will stop pounding vanishes as I find myself listening to the sound of the shower running.

Chapter Fourteen

~Brenden~

I’m not sure what to do with my milk-stained clothes. I figure I’ll find a laundromat somewhere in this rinky-dink town. Or maybe she’ll will let me use her washer and dryer.

Katherine. She’s Grace’s doppelganger from head to toe. I still want to know how the two of them are related.

I’m just relieved we’re not.

I step out of my jeans, leave them on the floor. My stomach drops. I only have one pair. Instinctively, I look around the perfectly kept room even though I know I’m not going to see another pair of jeans. I should have brought a backup.