Grace Doll (24 page)

Arm quaking, I reach for the phone. A dial tone rings once. Twice. Three times. I clear my throat to loosen the knot.

“May I help you?” A man’s voice—not Rufus’. I’m sure he can see me in the camera. I face the lens—a black, emotionless, cold eye—and I breathe deep.

“I’m here to see Rufus Solomon.” There’s a long pause. I hold the eye of the lens in my gaze.

“Mr. Solomon isn’t accepting guests.”

“Tell him Grace is here.”

A longer silence now. Dense, indecipherable. I force my legs to resist fleeing. Parked at the curb, the cab driver turns off the engine of his vehicle. The night air is cold hissing over my skin. Minutes drag by. A car passes. Finally, the gates glide open. A shiver chases over my skin. Rufus. He’s looking at me through that camera, the panic and fear his gaze instilled in me years ago sickeningly familiar. A surge of fury and adrenaline rushes through my body.

I walk through the parted gates.

My head is blank. I haven’t any idea what I am going to say. He might kill me, but nothing he could do to me would be worse than what he has done.

I can’t dismiss Brenden’s face from my thoughts, or the hope I feel inside when I think of him. There’s something budding between us: a chance at happiness, at a normal life and more—real freedom.

Whatever Rufus presents, I’ll deal with. I did it before, and survived. I can do it now.

I’m not prepared when I round the bend of trees and bushes and my eyes lay hold on the Dollhouse. She’s been resurrected, only the garden and surroundings are lusher. As if she never burned to the ground. As though she, too, is immortal.

Old memories charge my mind. My gaze locks on the front door. Each step sends quavering anticipation up my limbs.

I stop in the vestibule and close my eyes. The only sound is water, trickling from the fountain. I lift my hand to the ornate, brass knocker—a roaring lion head— how did he find one exactly like the original? And pound it twice.

The thud reverberates through chambers of my memory.

The door swings open. I look into the eyes of a man with a leathered tan. The contrived look of cordiality in his eyes, the cocky way he presents himself gives him away: an actor. He wears black slacks, a crisply ironed striped shirt and tie. I didn’t expect Rufus to answer the door. He never answered the door.

A gleam of curiosity lights in this man’s eyes. He knows who I am. He tries to hide his excitement but I’ve seen that look too many times, and to my surprise, I feel the surge of an old power.

“Come in.” He steps back. I see the expanse of blood-red tiles on the floor. The curving stairway. The black iron railing. The view stretches all the way to the back of the house to French doors, the exit to the pool and gardens, purple now with twilight.

I step inside. A shiver ravages my skin. Even though I wear a khaki overcoat, fear nips every inch of my flesh and I feel naked.

“Follow me.” Without waiting for compliance, the man turns and strides left. So like Rufus to demand that his employees belittle visitors. I almost want to stay put.

I follow Rufus’ man, my eyes wide at the details Rufus has re-created with such perfection, I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time. Vases of white roses – everywhere. White throw rugs, identical to the waffle-weave pattern that had covered the red tile floors when I’d lived here. Imported Italian chandeliers whispering soft light. Photographs. Of Grace.

A rage of shudders shakes my core, making walking difficult. I continue into the step-down living room. My heart notches from a pound to thunder.

The sweet strain of Frank Sinatra’s voice surrounds me.
Someone to Watch Over Me
floats through the room. A sickening surge of nausea nearly chokes breath from my throat. He’s playing it for me. My gaze sweeps the white coved walls of the room where paintings and photographs of Rufus’ Grace adorn every inch of wall space, each image flashing a speck of memory.

A fire roars in the mammoth fireplace. In front of the hearth is a replica of the white sheepskin rug—Rufus had demanded sex from me there dozens of times. White lilies sit in a crystal vase on the glass coffee table. Bunches of white roses are everywhere, along with burning white candles, the scent in the room like a funeral parlor.

As if someone’s going to die.

The man crosses the wood floor until he reaches a giant black leather chair—the color matching the frames encasing Grace’s images. I catch the first glimpse of the back of Rufus’ head—hairless— peering over the top of the wing chair. I’m surprised he’s not facing me. He wants to. The air is hot and thick, as if he’s been panting. He wants to see me, yes, but he’s playing the scene, working the timing.

“Mr. Solomon, you have a guest.”

Ah, the games. I know very well Rufus is salivating, I practically feel the spit dripping in the air. He wants me, just like he’s always wanted me.

I cross to the chair. His man watches me with that thrill that lit a million faces whenever Rufus’ Grace Doll was in public. His eyes, like anxious fingers, are hungry to peel away my clothes.

The closer I get to the chair, the more I see the bubbled scarring on Rufus’ head. I slow, and stop four feet behind.
Get out of that chair, bastard, and face me.

My pulse speeds out of control. Sweat coats my skin.

An awkward silence fills the crackling air. Rufus’ man hasn’t taken his leering gaze off of me since I entered the Dollhouse. Now, he glances at his master, then at me. “Perhaps you could step closer, Miss? Mr. Solomon is—”

“He can turn around.”

The manservant opens his mouth but Rufus lifts a scarred hand.
God.
Seeing him. Those fingers, marred, yet still his fingers. His hands. Hands that did whatever they wanted to me whenever he wanted.

Rufus labors to his feet. I’m curious about his sluggish movements. I saw him stick the needle in his arm that night. He didn’t have the infusion as long as I did—maybe seconds, but surely he would have reaped some benefit.

His head appears first, then his body clothed in black from head to toe. Blood hurdles through my veins, anticipating his eyes meeting mine.

Our gazes lock the instant he faces me. I bite back a gasp. The creature standing in front of me looks like a mess of mottled skin over bone with eyes and mouth cut through scar tissue. One of his hands grips the wing chair, but that doesn’t stop his trembling—the ecstasy surging through him at seeing me. His breath skips.

“Rufus.”

His eyes squeeze shut, as if me saying his name is more than he can bear. He swallows, even though his mouth doesn’t close. Drool slides out one corner of his mouth.

His servant steps closer, whipping out a white handkerchief, extending it. “Sir?”

“Leave us!”

The man’s tanned face flushes deep burgundy. He nods, tucks away the handkerchief and quickly crosses to the exit.

“Take Maria with you,” Rufus commands, his eyes never leaving me. “You may have the rest of the evening off.”

His servant’s eyes widen for a moment, as if he’s surprised at the instruction. Then he vanishes through the arch that leads into the kitchen.

We’re alone.

I’m not afraid. Not of this—thing. He’s old. Withered. A moment I thought would never come is here. I’m living it, breathing it. Emotions ravage my soul. Anger. Revenge. Pity. But no fear. Determination flows through the marrow of my bones.

I remain silent.

His eyes stay with mine for seconds that stretch into sweaty moments. His wheezing breath hisses in, out, in, out, like a human respirator.

“Grace.” He whispers the name with reverence.

Desperation seeps into the air.
Stare all you want. Lust all you care to. You can’t have me.

“You…” His foot inches forward. He breaks into a fit of shakes and halts any further movement. “You’re here.”

With a quaking hand he reaches into the pocket of his black slacks—silky perfection identical to the fabric he’d adorned himself in years ago—and tugs out a white handkerchief, dabbing it at his gaping mouth.

“Why?” he asks.

I allow seconds to drip by like blistering water on raw skin.

“I’m doing something I should have done years ago.”

“Asking for my forgiveness?”

I force a laugh. “No.” I gesture to the walls where the face I share stares back at me. “I’d heard you had a shrine.”

“Nothing but a temple for you, Grace,” he murmurs, eyes raking me. ”You look…different. I’ll be damned.”

Yes, you will be.

His weak attempt at chit chat is so transparent I want to spit in his face. Rufus never chatted. I step closer. The move sends his slits-for-eyes wider, his body into another round of trembling. His fingers, anchored on the wing chair, dig.

“Why do you think I came here?” My tone is his Grace’s tone: milky seduction with enough little girl lost to urge his lust. A voice he’d spent hours and money with teachers making sure I internalized so that I ‘sizzled.’ I haven’t used this voice in years. After the fire I worked hard to speak so as to never sound like his Grace Doll again.

I hold his dark eyes. Emotions shade them: curiosity, wariness. He’s not sure who I really am or what I’m doing.

We share long moments of cautious quiet. Frank serenades on an endless loop. I slowly cross to the wall of windows that overlook the expansive backyard, pool, guest house and formal gardens, lit by small decorative lights. Rufus’ gaze burns through my clothing. I slow my stroll, skimming the French doors with my fingers. Even with what I’m doing, why I am there, I am amazed at how the Dollhouse has been restored to exactness. So easily the mood, scents, the overpowering feeling of her threatens to completely overtake me.

I watch Rufus’ reflection in the glass. He hasn’t moved, only pivoted, his attention riveted to me. I stroll to the closest gallery where Grace’s image hangs—the portrait I hated the most—the one Rufus had worshipped: me on the couch with only a tissue dress between my body and the eyes of the world. Anger bunches nerves beneath my skin. I will always hate him and resent him for what he took from me, what he allowed the world to see of me.

I move past the giant portrait, my eyes unable to look at anything other than Rufus Solomon’s Grace Doll. She’s everywhere.

Pristine. Perfect.

Unreal.

“You came here to torment me,” Rufus finally groans.

Over my shoulder, I look at him through lowered lashes.

His eyes tear into my back with a ravenous appetite. I stop at a grouping of black and white photographs of him and other Hollywood elite from the day. Seeing myself in the photos, surrounded by once powerful men and women who are dead now or mere forgotten shells closed away in some rest home somewhere, I’m in awe that I’m alive. On occasion my immortality hits me straight on, like now, with a breath-taking slap.

I unbutton my overcoat. Behind me, the air tenses around Rufus like lightning ready to strike ground. Slowly, the coat to slips from my shoulders down my back.

He sucks in a wheezing breath.

Yes, look at me. Want me.

I wear a black, sleeveless dress. My neck is bare. My arms and back are bare. My legs are bare but for black suede boots which hug my legs to the knee. I don’t have to look to know he’s devouring me; his gaze heats my skin like a spotlight.

Silence builds. I cross to the fire, stare at the languid flames. Warmth heats my face, arms, and neck.

“Take off those ridiculous boots,” he demands. “I want to see your legs.”

I break out in a laugh. “Really?” I face him.

The violin weeps in high strains. Frank’s voice pleads. Rufus weighs my words and performance. Even in his infirm body, I sense urgency to leap out of his skin and rush to me. “And take down your hair.”

Timing.
I clasp my hands and remain where I am. His fingers claw into the wing chair. He tries to step forward but can’t let go of the support. Rage causes his body to quake.“Look at me, Grace! This is what I became for you!”

Ready to leave him in his misery, I lay my overcoat over my arm, signaling I’m done—an old cue he taught me. His body breaks into convulsive shakes. With nothing to hold onto, he wobbles. His eyes search mine, desperate for me to come to his aid.

Power courses through my veins. All these years I’ve avoided this? Brenden is right—what can Rufus do but condemn himself as a deformed, delusional recluse?

Sinatra’s melancholy song drenches the moment with irony. I step closer to Rufus until his wheezing breath hitches. The closest we’ve been to each other since the night of that fire. His eyes light with a want so fierce and real, it nearly chafes my nerve.

“I came to show you that I’m no longer your doll.”I slip my hand into the pocket of my coat and pull out the vial. His eyes widen.

“The antidote?” he whispers. “You’ve had it all this time?”

I rip out the cork and toss the contents of the vial down my throat. The liquid is flavorless.

Rufus gasps. “Grace, no!” He lunges for me, coming to life like a hungry panther. “You can’t!” I dart behind the giant wing chair. My heart pounds.