Grace Doll (14 page)

No coat. No backup jeans
. Could I be anymore unprepared?

I rip off my tee shirt and toss it on the bed.
Not on the bed,
Mom’s voice echoes. I almost laugh but the echo of her voice hurts. I snatch the tee shirt and glance around. No dirty clothes hamper, so, what? I enter the bathroom: a sand-colored, tiled space so clean it’s institutional except for black towels and teardrop lights. I drop the shirt on the tile floor and strip off my boxers. Flick on the shower knob, wait for the water to heat. A charcoal sketch of Grace, framed in black, hangs on the wall. I recognize the style. I know the artist.

Jonathan Lane.

His scrawled signature sits in the right-hand corner. My fingers graze the glass. Her sapphire eyes are the only color in the charcoal. I stare at the drawing until the room steams, clouding my vision, bringing Katherine’s face to mind.

So many questions I want to ask, but I can’t read her. Is she standoffish or just in mourning?

I shower and try to abate disappointment from fogging my head. After I get out and dry, I glance at the sketch. Grace’s eyes watch me, sending a tremor just under my skin. I’m confused at the reaction.

I brought two pairs of boxers, so I pull on a fresh pair. I can’t parade around like this. With a sigh, I reach into my backpack and find a clean, crumpled shirt and slip it on.

The room piques my interest. I cross to the large table where bolts of fabric are stacked like a pyramid. Nice textures, colors. I skim my fingers over them.

Curious, I move to the closet, quietly open it. Dresses and coats hang in perfect alignment. The lower area is filled with cubby holes, each with perfectly stacked sweaters, blouses, scarves, belts and gloves. Somebody likes clothes.

I shut the doors, careful not to make a sound, just in case she’s got her ear to the door.

I go to it and crack it open—don’t hear anything, but there’s still a light burning from the living room so I pad quietly to the entrance. The room’s empty. There’s a large wet spot in the carpet where the milk spilled.

She clears her throat behind me and I turn. Her eyes are huge, and quickly skim me from head to toe.

“I only brought one pair of jeans.”

“Oh.” It’s dark in the hall, but I swear the color in her cheeks deepens. “I might be able to scrounge up an old pair of Oscar’s sweat pants.”

“That’ll work.”

Like a dreamy vapor she floats through the dark corridor and opens a door at the end of the hall. She flicks on a light. Stairs lead downward. Wall sconces in the hall are lit to dim, casting a snowy glaze on every surface.

Within moments she’s back, a folded pair of navy sweatpants in her hands. They’re cold when she hands them to me.

“He won’t mind?”

Her tentative smile causes my heart to swoop. It’s the first time she’s smiled since I got here—and she smiles just like Grace—with a fresh beauty that causes my breath to hitch. “He hasn’t worn them in years.” Her voice is light, lyrical—like Grace Dolls’. “I just can’t bring myself to throw anything away.”

“Th-thank you.” She’s tied my tongue in a knot. And I’m sweating again.

Her brows lift forming delicate arches, accentuating her eyes. “Perhaps…you should get dressed?”

“Yeah.” I step into the sweats and pull them up. They’re too short, clearing my ankles by four inches. “Wow,” I laugh. “At least I’m decent.” Am I imagining that her eyes sparkle?

She crosses her arms over her chest but then unfolds them. She strokes strands of her hair.

“The resemblance between you and Grace is—it’s mind-blowing.”

Her eyes narrow for a second, like she’s not sure she appreciates the compliment. She rounds my shoulder and continues into the kitchen. I follow her. “Do people ever tell you that you look like her?”

“Sometimes.”

“I think you look just like her. Maybe it’s because of all that’s happened with the safe deposit box and Dad’s picture, but she’s in my head.”

“Picture?” At the sink, she wrings out the cloth she used to sop up the milk.

“The one Dad had in the safe deposit box.”

Her hands go still. “What picture is that?”

I hold up a finger, indicating I’ll be right back, then I jog down the hall to the room where my backpack is. Thankfully, I put the photo in the backpack or it might have gotten ruined by the snow or milk.

My gaze locks on the face in the picture. Grace looks—happy? Content? What is the emotion loosening the tension in her brow, lightening her eyes, spreading her lips wide in an expression of…

Freedom?

Katherine’s folding the dishrags into perfect squares on the countertop when I return. I extend the photo to her. Her eyes widen. She dries her hands and reaches out, then snaps her hand back.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

Slowly, she extends a shaking hand for the photo. She gingerly plucks it from the opposite side as if she’s making sure not to touch my fingers.“Have you ever seen it?” I ask.

She blinks rapidly. Is she holding back tears? Of course she is. She’s looking at a photo of her grandmother—or mother— who’s dead.“Do you know why he’d keep that photo in a safe deposit box?” I ask.

As if clearing away an unsettling memory, she shakes her head.

“He had me draw it once.”

Her eyes flash to mine. “He had you draw this photo?” she murmurs, eyeing the picture again.

“Yeah. I was thirteen. He had it locked in a drawer in his office at home. Maybe it was taken somewhere special. It had to have meant something. Do you want it?”

She extends the photograph to me. “If he kept it locked away, it must have meant a lot to him. You should keep it.”

I take the photo. “Maybe it’s worth something.”

Her eyes turn cold.

“Look, I realize she was your—whatever relation Grace was to you—but that photo…the fact that it meant something to Dad…doesn’t matter to me. If you want it, take it because I’d sell it just to spite him.”

Her brows crease. As if she has to work her mind, body, and soul into believing my words she cradles the photograph to her chest, studying me. “You really do hate him, don’t you?”

I don’t respond. Can’t. Her gaze tumbles emotion into me and I cross my arms over my chest, clear my throat.

Finally, she exits the kitchen, heading to the living room. She crosses to the fireplace stopping at the edge of the hearth. Is she mourning her loss? Does she miss Dad?

Flames stretch and crackle, the orange hot reflection colors her skin. Without another glance at the picture, she tosses it into the fire. Lavender blue sparks mingle with the orange flames. The photograph curls in on itself. Grace’s beautiful face burns to black. A pang of remorse races through me.

She takes a deep breath. The tightness in her brow and lips begins to fade.

“Did you hate her too?” I ask.

Flames pop and snap. Her eyes don’t break from mine, and my heart notches to a pound, waiting for her answer.

“Yes.”

Chapter Fifteen

~Grace~

Brenden tries his best to pretend he’s not shocked by my admittance, but as an actress I studied faces. Having been married to a monster, I studied nuances behind expressions. The skill never left me. It always feels good to admit the truth. Even if I’m admitting something I don’t want to talk about. It’s been so many years since I’ve even thought about my life as Rufus’ Grace Doll that this moment is more freeing than I would have ever believed.

Like I used to feel when I was on set.

Heat from the fire warms my back. Red flames dance in his eyes, shadowing his cheekbones, lips. I realize I’m staring at his mouth too late: his lips curve up slightly. My gaze moves to his eyes again.

“That look on your face—that’s what her picture was about.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never seen it in any other picture of her. It’s freedom.”

I’m surprised. Pleased. He’s more intuitive than Jonathan was—my heart flutters. Jonathan had loved that photo for the same reason. He’d taken it the first day we’d reunited after Oscar and I returned from living overseas.

“She looked free,” he says.

“I didn’t notice.” I turn and face the flames, but the heat is too much. Heat from the fire, heat from Brenden. Heat from the truth.

I cross the living room—but why? I’ve nowhere to go. The staged move throws me off guard. I’m reacting to him like we’re two actors rehearsing a scene. I’m surprised that I step into the moment with so little provocation.

“What about her expression in the picture makes you say that?” I query.

He eyes the distance I’ve created. How many people would notice such a thing? “I don’t know, she always had a guarded look. Like she didn’t enjoy being who she was.”

“She loved acting, but she hated being Rufus’ possession.”

“Makes sense. When Dad asked me to draw her, I was kind of disappointed when he showed me that picture, to be honest.”

“Why?”

“I’d only seen glamorous photos—the famous ones. I thought one of those would have been cooler to sketch. Now, I’m kind of glad I got to sketch that one. Privileged. ”

I’d sat for Jonathan enough to know how tedious the process could be. But the idea of sitting for Brenden—of being the object of his attention and concentration—sends ripples of wonder through me. “How lovely that you draw. I bet you made Jonathan very proud.”

He lifts a shoulder. “That sketch was the one he really wanted, and it was the one he didn’t get. I entered it in a contest and it sold to a collector. Dad didn’t talk to me for three months.”

“That doesn’t sound like Jonathan at all.”

Brenden’s jaw knots. “Yeah, well, we’ve already established that he was different around you guys than he was around me.”

“Yes but three months?”

“He didn’t want me to sell it. I have to admit, it was cool making money on a piece. Did Grace ever mention Rufus Soloman?”

My stomach hollows. “Yes. Why?”

“He bought the sketch.”

I don’t know how long I stand without breathing. Rufus’ name used to make me retch. I’d vomit on the spot. Rufus Solomon, the man who took me from my family when I was thirteen, changed my date of birth to suit his purposes and made me immortal so he could use me forever. With concentrated effort, I’d learned to control my reaction finally getting to the point where my pulse would skip, maybe I’d sweat a little if I came across his name. This mention of him now is unpleasant, my reaction more intense than I expect.

“How did you know he bought the sketch?”

Brenden shifts feet. “Solomon was looking for Grace.”

“Yes, I knew that—
she
knew that.”

“Who told her, Dad?”

“Yes. Rufus always thought Jonathan had set fire to the Dollhouse that night. That the whole thing was a set up.”

“Yeah, well, the man’s still psychotic about it. The day of Dad’s funeral he asked me to meet with him.”

My heart begins a slow, panicked pound in my chest. “What for?”

“He offered to pay me to tell him if I knew anything about her—don’t worry—I didn’t tell him anything. I wouldn’t. Dad and I may not have gotten along, but I wouldn’t do that.”

The room seems to shrink. Suffocating me. My head spins. I suck in air, reach for something to hold onto to steady myself but there’s only open space. Brenden’s face tightens with concern. He steps closer, and his presence washes over me in a tidal wave of want and need.

At the same time, an old fear rises inside of me building, swarming. Rufus’ obsession with me had been legendary, but like all Hollywood legends, the rumors of his fixation faded after the fire. Still, Jonathan had remained a fixture in the motion picture industry long enough to know that Rufus’ obsession never died.

Brenden’s gaze locks on my face. “You okay?”

This doesn’t mean anything to you anymore. No one owns you.

“I didn’t say anything to him, I promise.” Brenden stutters emphatically.

I swallow. Nod. But will he say something to Rufus now? Tell him about the girl who looks just like Grace? Grace’s daughter or granddaughter he’ll say because that’s the only answer that makes sense. Then Rufus will know I’m alive. He’ll know because he made sure Grace couldn’t have children. A child would have changed her body, marring in his perfect doll.

On shaky legs, I turn and head into the darkness of the hall.

Another staged move.

An exit leading nowhere.

Chapter Sixteen

~Brenden~

The grandfather clock ticks away the minutes. Will she come back? I didn’t mean to upset her talking about Solomon. But the man is a heinous douche bag.