Grace Doll (21 page)

My only calls and texts are from Solomon and Judy.

Ugh. Judy.

I have to face her when I get to the house. Since I don’t want to, I dial Dick Ridgeway.

“Brenden. What can I do for you?”

“I just got back in town, you know, from doing that thing for Dad.”

“How did the trip go?”

“It didn’t happen.” My gut churns saying the words. “The person who was supposed to get the item isn’t alive anymore.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. What happens now?”

“As far as the money goes, you just won’t have access to the full amount until you’re twenty-one.”

I’m relieved I’m still entitled to the money, even if I’m carrying disappointment over what didn’t happen. ”Okay. Thanks. I guess we’ll be in touch.”

My stomach growls and feels sick simultaneously.
You left her
. I have the driver drop me off on Westwood Boulevard. The tantalizing scent of refried beans and deep fried shells leads me to Poquito Mas.

I order, and hope that eating takes my mind off of her. I take a table by the window and stare out. But all I see is
her
, those two black bags at her feet, looking like a child dropped off in the middle of a third-world country.

My order arrives. I shovel in what I normally like to savor. The food sits like a brick in my gut. I’m really just killing time because I don’t want to go back to Dad’s. I left town with the intention of dropping off the box and coming back to any future my imagination conjured. Somehow, while I was there, I failed at the one thing Dad wanted me to do, fell for a mysterious girl I know nothing about, and made a fool out of myself.

I pull out my sketchbook. The drawing from the airport faces me. Just looking at her makes every joint holding my bones together ache. The next two hours are spent sketching her as I last saw her—so I never forget. The image wallpapers my memory.

The sun’s heading toward the edge of the ocean when I’m finally done. I sigh, stare at the drawing—my most abstract yet—and know I won’t finish filling it in. Details will only remind me of what I’ll never touch, taste, feel.

I catch another cab and head to Dad’s, ready to face off with Judy.

Chapter Twenty-Five

~Grace~

My memory’s sharp as a blade. I’ve never been to Jonathan’s, but I remember him telling me about when he found the house, fell in love with it, and made an offer on it. And I remember the address.

Jonathan hadn’t told me much about Judy. I imagine he didn’t think I could relate to either of his two marriages. There were lots of things—like Jonathan’s marriages and women—we didn’t discuss.

He only mentioned Brenden because he wanted me to know he had a son. It wasn’t so much that he was happy to be a father, but more of a delivery of news:
Celia had a boy. His name is Brenden
. Even then, I’d sensed that he’d wished it had been me by his side and the realization swamped me with sadness for him.

The one-story house is hidden by bushes. Not what I imagined Jonathan living in and calling home, though he sent me photos through the years. When his artistic nature rambled off track in horticulture and he’d taken creative license with his shrubs, he’d sent pictures. The year he repainted gray the wood siding a deep brick shade, he’d sent pictures.

I knock on the door with a nervous stomach.
Timing.
I’m going to find the right moment to tell Brenden everything, and I hope that moment presents itself here.

The door opens and I’m looking at a woman with a bright red pixie haircut, large green eyes, and a heavy nose, bulging at the tip.

“Yes?” She holds the door like a shield, her face peering out from behind it.

“Is Brenden here?”

Her gaze scans me, eyes discerning. She seems to decide what to say based on my appearance rather than my question. “Who are you?”

“A…friend.”

She examines me critically, suspiciously—as if I’m a door-to-door salesperson. Then, without any explanation, her face brightens. I assume I’ve passed her test, for her tight hold on the door relaxes. The door swings wide, revealing her five-foot three inch frame dressed in a long emerald housedress made of velveteen. Down the center, a single zipper runs from her neckline to her hip line. She tilts her head, her gaze now firmly locked on my face.

“He’s not here, but you are
very
welcome to come in.” She gestures for me to enter, then closes the door behind me.

I can smell Jonathan here—faintly—and I smile. My only regret is that I’m seeing his home without him. Regret causes my fresh loss to gape open inside me.

“I’m Judy Lane. Brenden’s step-mother.” She extends her hand and bright pink painted nails flash. I shake her hand and she holds mine, covering it with her other. “You are simply stunning. Really. You remind me of Grace Doll, does anyone tell you that?”

“Occasionally.”

“Well, it’s as obvious as the red in my hair. Like Lucille Ball. Do you know who she is? I bet you don’t, you’re a different generation.”

“I know who she is.”

Her brow arches. “Well, smart then. Come in. Have a seat.”

I follow her, my gaze sweeping the interior of the house: dark wood floors, walls painted honey-brown, photos covering the main hall which leads to more rooms. The living area is white with gold accents. Not classy, more garish, and I have to figure that’s Judy’s influence. Jonathan preferred traditional styling.

Judy flutters to a white couch and settles into the fat cushions like a cat. “Go ahead, sit.” She waves her arm at the matching loveseat. “How do you know Bren?”

“From school.”

“Really?” Something about the rugged cut of her face is familiar. “I’ve never met any of Brenden’s school friends.” She whips out her cell phone and before I can blink, I hear the click of a camera. “You don’t mind if I take your picture? I have to have something to hold over his head.”

I’m surprised, and try to ignore the queasiness I feel. “Your home is very nice.” I steer the conversation elsewhere, for Brenden’s sake, and for mine.

“Thank you. What’s your name, dear?”

“Katherine.”

“Ah.” She nods. “Are you named after a family member?”

“No.” Why is she asking me odd questions? I wish Brenden would arrive. What if he doesn’t come here? Asking will make it obvious that I don’t where he is, she might get suspicious. And I don’t want to cause trouble for him.

“Brenden told me about your husband’s passing. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The woman’s expression remains bright as a Christmas bulb. “How nice of you to think of my deceased husband.” She runs her painted nails through her hair, as if conscious of her appearance. “It’s only been two weeks. I miss him so…” Her fake eyelashes flutter. Perhaps she’s holding back tears, but I see no glistening in her eyes. Dabbing at them with her bright-painted nails, she sniffs.

I’m uncomfortable with her unconvincing performance and I regret my timing. I should have made sure Brenden was home before coming here.

My gaze wanders the room: the French abstract painting over the white brick fireplace, the Oscar on a side table. Other than the Oscar, there’s nothing of Jonathan in this room.

Jonathan.

“My husband won that Oscar in 1949 for
Paradise Found
.” Judy’s tone isn’t informative, it’s more like she’s telling me something I should already know. “Have you seen the movie?”

“Yes.”

She says nothing, just watches me. A shudder skims my spine. She points to another Oscar that sits on a bookshelf. “He won that one there for Lifetime Achievement. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Grace Doll?”

“Occasionally.”

“You talk like her, too. Your voice is practically identical.”

The air in the room is suddenly cold and thin.

“Was your husband an actor?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.

She throws her head back in a laugh. The innards of her white teeth flash with gold fillings. “
Dieu!
You still have it. Still the actress!”

My neck prickles with heat.

Her eyes lock with mine and for a long, heated silence, she says nothing. “I’ve spent my inheritance trying to find you, Grace,” she says. “And here you are, in my living room. After all this time, after all the expense, you came to me. How ironic.”

The hairs on my body stand on end. My heart fumbles. I glance at the entry hall, wondering if there’s anyone else in the house witnessing this bizarre moment.

“I was my Papa’s only girl. When he passed away I was seven years old. But I made myself a promise, that I’d vindicate his good name. Yes, he won a Noble Prize, but that’s not what he will be remembered for. His greatest achievement is you.”

Dr. Lemarchal’s daughter?

I rise.

“No, sit, sit.
S’il vous plait
. We have so much to talk about and, after all these years there’s no way I’m letting you out of my sight before I let the world know you’re alive and, most importantly, that you’re still young and beautiful.”

Confusion and fear gnash inside of me. A cold sweat slicks my skin.

“Don’t bother trying to come up with some story,” she says, waving her hands in the air. “I had years to learn everything there is to know about you. I know that Katherine Grace Doll is your full name. Have you gone by Katherine all these years?”

“It’s your opinion that I look like Grace,” I say. Either the woman is crazy or she really is Dr. Lemarchal’s daughter. Both options frighten me. “But I find it rather—sick—that you’re carrying on like this.”

She laughs again, shaking her head, but her eyes are dark. “I bet you’re wondering how I know? Jon didn’t tell me. He took your secret to his grave. Nothing cracked that loyalty—damn him. I’m not going to go into the lengths I went to try getting even one shred of your whereabouts from him. It’s none of your business. I finally realized whatever he’d done to protect you was impenetrable—and then Celia died and Brenden moved in. I knew if there was ever going to be a crack, it’d be there—between Brenden and Jonathan. I was right.”

My insides chill. I stare at her, pulse screaming through my veins to run.

“When I first opened the door, I thought you really were one of the Brenden’s friends. But…” Her eyes skim my face sending an eruption of goosebumps down my back. “No one has eyes like yours. And your face—no wonder Rufus Solomon immortalized you. Pictures don’t do you justice.”

I avert my gaze, feeling the rush of bile gurgling in my throat. At the same time I feel so cold, I start shivering.

She leans forward on the couch, like she senses my fear. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Maybe she sees me shaking. It doesn’t matter, her performance isn’t real. I don’t believe her.

“I only want to create the legacy my father deserves. His colleagues scoffed at his discovery of immortality. They refused to give him the credit owed to him. Even after keeping those cells alive for thirty-four years! He never got over that. And that damned Rufus Solomon—I bet he saved his own skin before trying to save Papa. Imagine! The world could have done without a wretch like him, but my Papa?
Oiu.
He wasn’t a quack and I’m going to make sure the world knows it. His legacy is you—a multibillion-dollar dream for anyone who wants to live forever.”

I stand and start toward the door. Behind me, I hear the rustling of fabric, footsteps. I reach for the doorknob. “Tell me what happened that night. Why didn’t Papa survive?”

My throat locks, bombarded, memories gush into my head.

The door opens and Brenden is there, blocking the way out. His eyes widen with surprise seeing me. Relief oozes through my body at the sight of him. Judy comes to a halt beside me.

“Is that your cab?” he asks.

I open my mouth but all I can think is to flee. I push past him and run.

“Don’t let her go!” Judy screams. “Stop her, Brenden.”

I’m halfway down the brick walk when Brenden takes hold of my right arm. He swings me around. My knees shake, and the quaking rambles through my limbs, filling my body with luscious desire until I collapse against him.

Concern knots his features. Judy lopes behind him and stops at his side.

Brenden glares at her. “What did you do to her?” he shouts.

“I didn’t
do
anything!”

I’m caressed by his scent, weakened by his strength, lured into total submission. His arms slip beneath me and he carries me into the house. My head screams silently,
no
! But my voice is buried beneath craving.

Yes. Like this.

Brenden gently lays me on the couch Judy had been sitting on. He sits next to me. “What happened?” he asks.