Grace Doll (20 page)

She smiles for the first time in hours. The sight rejuvenates my optimism.

“I don’t drink them at the same time, silly.”

How to proceed? What to say? Mom used to say honesty was the best policy.

“Did I do something wrong back there in the airport?” I ask.

The long pause she takes to answer nearly rips me apart. “No.”

“Was it the drawing?”

“Yes.” Her gaze turns to mine. “It wasn’t about the quality, you’re a wonderful artist.” She studies me. So many facets in her eyes. So many emotions. I’ve never seen a face so expressive and mesmerizing.

“I’m sorry—whatever it was that you didn’t like about it.”

“You spend a lot of time apologizing,” she says. Is that awe or annoyance in her tone? She looks straight ahead, her profile cold and unreadable.

“I guess I never thought it was a big deal.”

“It’s admirable,” she murmurs. “It’s not something I can do.”

“Why? It’s just two words, and they purge you.”

Her hands tighten on the armrests. “When I was young, I never felt validated after apologizing. Certain people in my life made it difficult. So I stopped.”

“You’re
still
young. I guarantee life will throw you plenty of opportunities to be validated. Trust me.”

She smiles, feminine, inviting. “It’s true,” I laugh. “Right? We’ve got years for all the validation we want.”

Her laugh lights the area around us. I want to kiss her—on the mouth—but I’ll start on her cheek and make my way over.

I lean toward her. Her rapid breath teases my heartbeat into an eager pound, her chest rising and falling to the rhythm of my heart. I’m so close her breath slips into my parted lips. I expect to see surprise in her eyes—maybe warning. Instead, her blue gaze is heavy-lidded, almost dreamy.
This isn’t a dream. I’m going to kiss you.

Her scent drifts into me.

“Brenden.” Her whisper floats around my senses.
No, don’t wake me. This is my dream.

“I can’t,” she says.

“Why?”

She swallows. “I don’t have relationships.”

“It’s a kiss. Not a relationship.” But that’s a lie. I’m not here on Dad’s errand anymore, I’m here for her. For me. The realization that my heart has changed fills me with thrill and desire. For us.

“I don’t kiss,” she whispers.

She can’t be serious. No, she’s just being seriously harsh to send me a clear message, and it hurts more than I want to accept. But the look in her eye confuses me—regret—and conviction. I’m pressed into the seat by disbelief. What happened to this beautiful, healthy, vibrant girl to make her want to choose life without relationships? We’re silent for a long, long, time. The deafening roar of the plane engine fills my head. Does this mean she’s resolved to never have love? The thought is like the riptide, pulling me into dark suffocation.

“How…” Words crawl out. The comment stings my brain into dullness. “Is it because you’re in mourning?”

Her expression is vacant. Dead. “I’m taking care of Oscar,” she says, resignation heavy in her voice. “You, of all people, should understand what that means.”

“What about when Oscar’s gone? What then?”

She turns away. I know how it feels having to accept fate, to face being alone.

My hopes and fantasies take her answer like a sledgehammer to my heart. When Mom was dying, I wanted comfort I couldn’t have. I didn’t want to feel alone.

Gently, tentatively I lay my hand over hers, bringing her face round again. Her hand trembles beneath my palm, and the shuddering moves. Fascinated, I reach over with my left hand and gently cover her wrist, just in time to catch the traveling vibration up her arm. Her eyes close, her head falls back against the seat. Her body soon looks as though it’s gone completely lax. Beneath her shirt, the rise and fall of her chest grows more rapid.

“What happens when I touch you?” I whisper.

Her lips part, but she says nothing. Her eyes remain closed. Euphoria draws over her fine-boned features like she’s in the middle of a blissful dream.

I lean close.“Tell me.” I squeeze tighter hoping to urge the words from her lips.

“Let me go. Please.”

Whatever is happening to her whether it’s pleasure or pain, I can’t, in good conscience hold her prisoner so I release her. Her body appears to regain strength.

What can I say after this? She wants nothing to do with me, and I’ve humiliated myself. Still, the question: What’s going on? pounds in my brain. Whatever it is, I’m going to figure it out.

~Grace~

The warm comfort from Brenden’s hand streams through my arm in an electric current, igniting, stimulating, building into a frenzy. A parched desert dares to bloom. It’s difficult to allow myself to enjoy these feelings. The struggle is immense, like a butterfly stuck in a cocoon that won’t give.

You can’t run away from this forever.
Both Oscar and Jonathan told me that over and over again. Up until now, the easiest reaction has been to avoid—which I’ve done with great success. Until Brenden appeared.

He planted hope inside of me.

I remember this euphoria. Once, it was new to me, teasing with innocent possibilities. Then I met Rufus. Any innocence I possessed was demolished beneath his hands.

It took every ounce of will I could gather to ask Brenden to let me go. I wanted to turn to him and fold myself into his body, giving myself to ecstasy. But I can’t use him for my own pleasure, that would make me no better than Rufus.

He’s been stony since. I can’t expect anything else, and this is better for us both. I have to make seeing Rufus my first priority once we’re in Los Angeles. Anything involving Brenden will have to wait until that’s resolved.

Tidy as that thought is, Brenden shines at me like a spotlight. I don’t want to ignore him. Complicating the issue is the possibility that he has feelings for me—why else would he try to kiss me?

My romantic naiveté is a reality that hasn’t changed even with decades of living. An atrophied muscle that has left me with the thoughts, the wonders and fears of a seventeen-year-old girl. How many girlfriends has Brenden had? The mysterious, quiet, artistic type would stir endless interest from females—that I’m certain of.
Go ahead, ask him. This is part of letting go of past fears and embracing a new frame of mind.

“Are you seeing anyone special?” I ask.

His eyes widen at my out-of-the-blue question. “No.”

“I’m surprised, I guess.”

“Yeah, well, what did you think? Did you want the honor of being the first to cut me down?”

“I would do no such thing.”

“You just did. But, hey, it’s okay. I got it. Message taken.”

“You don’t understand.”

His face snaps in close. “Then clear it up for me.”

I swallow. “I—“

He resents me for taking his father away from him. He’s already hurting. I can’t tell him the truth. Then I see the flickering of hope in his eyes—because I don’t say anything more. I remember what no admittance means; that there is still hope for the dream. I hate myself. Unable to bear him waiting for my answer, I turn and look out the window.

* * *

When the flight attendant announces that we’re approaching LAX, my nerves string tight. Out the small rectangular window spreads a vast mosaic of concrete buildings and houses, dotted with the occasional cluster of trees, expanses of grass. Blue swimming pools shimmer beneath the sun like tiles.

Further West, the Pacific Ocean stretches on in endless sapphire. The city is huge. The sheer magnitude of its size is daunting. I’m in awe. I remember stretches of unblemished land, growing cities with acres of fields in between.

Can I do this?

The aircraft lands and Brenden and I deplane in silence. I frequently check to see if we’re being followed. Brenden, I notice, keeps his gaze straight ahead.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” I ask.

He shoots me a stormy look. “Hell. Yeah, I am.”

“Because I didn’t let you kiss me?”

He shakes his head, snorts. “Because you didn’t
want
me to kiss you.”

I wanted you to kiss me. I couldn’t let you. Just like I can’t tell you why—not yet, anyway.
His body moves stiffly, I can tell he’s even more upset that I haven’t repudiated his comment.

We move along with hoards of passengers. I can’t shake what feels like millions of pairs of eyes watching me. I’m glad to have Brenden by my side regardless of how he feels about me.

Outside, taxis are lined up at the curb. A wintery noon sun blinds my eyes so I slip on sunglasses. Brenden does the same—his pair has reflecting lenses.

He faces me. “Guess this is it.” He extends his hand, then retracts it. “Oh wait, you don’t want me to touch you.” There’s sarcasm in his remark, but I know he’s only using the tone because I’ve hurt him.

My heart beats nervously. “You’re leaving?”

“You don’t need me,” he says, staring at me with my own reflection in his sunglasses.

Yes, I do. I’m overwhelmed. Frightened. I came to do this alone, but I wish you could be with me.

“Because of that kiss? That’s silliness.”

“There was no kiss. And, no, I’m not leaving just because of that.”

“Then what? I hurt your pride so you can’t get past it?”

“That’s a load coming from a chick who can’t say I’m sorry.”

“What should I say I’m sorry for?” But I know. I’ve hurt him. I should apologize. The two words numb my tongue.

After a long while, punctuated by horns, the boom of plane engines soaring overhead, recorded announcements about loading and unloading, he shifts feet, dips his head. “I’d better go.” Then he turns and strides to one of the waiting cabs.

Stop him. Tell him the truth before it’s too late.

I’m unable to move, watching his cab pull into traffic. It disappears in a herd of cars.

“Miss, can I get you a cab?” The black, uniformed taxi attendant asks. I nod. The next moment I’m in the back seat of a yellow cab that smells like skin, sweat and cologne have soaked through the upholstery.

“Where to?” the cabby has a thick, Middle Eastern accent. His dark eyes examine me through the rearview mirror like he knows me. A look I’m familiar with. A look that reminds me that what people see in me is Rufus Solomon’s Grace Doll.

Not my Grace Doll.

“Where to?” the driver asks again.

I have no idea if the hotels that once graced town are still in operation. Some locations I left behind and never want to see again. I have to see the Dollhouse, even though the idea sends revulsion ricocheting through me.

Rufus had rented a bungalow at the Hotel Bel Air for our honeymoon. I never want to see that place again. I’d also attended parties at the Garden of Allah, the Brown Derby, Ciros and The Copacabana.

“Is there a respectable hotel you can recommend?” I ask.

His brows draw together. “Lady, where do you want to go?”

“The Roosevelt.”

The driver nods and pulls into traffic. I take a deep breath, preparing for an assault of feelings. I’d been to the Roosevelt, but only once and it had been for an after party celebrating one of BMB’s films. Nothing horrifying happened there, that’s why the memory floated beneath the surface. I try to deal with what feels like the very soul of the city rushing through my blood, percolating my anxiety.

I’m astounded that just being here, even with changes that have left the city unrecognizable—not to mention the decades I have lived away from all of this—in spite of all of that, I feel insignificant, like I did years ago.

No one owns you.

Even though I have to face Rufus by myself, I wish Brenden was with me. His wounded face is fixed in my mind. I let him go without telling him the truth. I need to clear up what I’m certain is confusion in his mind, and the vial has to be in my possession.

I search every cab we pass in the hopes I’ll see him, but that’s not possible. He has a good five-minute lead on us.

“Take me to 1515 Roscomare Road in Bel Air first, please.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

~Brenden~

I shouldn’t have left her like that. I can’t get the image of her standing on the curb, alone, out of my head.
Don’t kid yourself. She gave you the brush off—no, a shove off. She doesn’t want or need your help.

Then why can’t I remember anything but the exposed look in her eyes?

Checking my cell phone for her call is an instinctive reaction, and futile. I didn’t see her use a cell phone once, and I don’t have her number. Even if I did, I’d be an idiot with ‘kick me’ tattooed on my forehead if I called.