Loving Grace (3 page)

She mostly puffed, did not inhale, and
watched him step off the sidewalk and join some friends. She was
standing by a knee-high ashtray, her back to the crowds, when she
heard a voice stand out amid the dozens. Though looking over the
lots and at the closest buildings, her ears and body were attuned
to it in a way that brought her dulled senses alive.

It was distinctive, deep, and sexy. Something
smooth and velvet that just stroked up her spine. Normally she
heard inflections, accents, pitches and tones, but every word he
spoke, though not loud, was distinctive amongst the others. It
stood out under the laughter and shrill sounds of some college kids
talking about hitting another club.

“You’ve worked so hard, Noel. You deserve a
night out before the showing,” a woman said.

“I’m here, Elisa.”

A man cut in, “This is more your thing, ‘Lis,
but I shouldn’t have accepted the invitation. The two of you are
getting engaged, and with Noel’s paintings finally catching
attention—”

“Nonsense, Bryce. You’re a partner.”

“Yes,” the man with the enticing voice said
dryly, “I paint. That’s the extent I care to be involved. You two
will run the money end.”

“Gee thanks.” The female laughed.

“Babe, if I’d wanted to celebrate the
upcoming engagement, we’d be back at the loft.”

The man, Bryce, chuckled. “I’m out of here. I
really do have an early morning meeting. Elise, show the man a good
time, however he wants it, you’ve been trying to get him to pop the
question for a year.”

There were some protests but Grace caught
sight of Bryce walking to a low-slung sports car. He was one of
those wavy haired men who reminded her of William; suave, urbane,
and stylish.

She puffed on the cigarette feeling her eyes
and nose burn, glancing at the door and wishing Winestead would
make his move.

“Do you really want to go back to the loft?”
the woman was saying. “You stay cooped up there painting all the
time.”

“Painting wasn’t what I had in mind.” The man
returned sexily.

“All right. But only after we have one
drink.”

They were by the door when she heard the man
mutter dryly, “Don’t let me twist your arm for sex, Elisa.”

“You see nude women all the time, love. My
holding out now and then should be a challenge.”

Grace dropped the cigarette in the ashtray,
turning in time to get a back view of the guy, Noel. She saw
longish curly black hair, a tall man with broad shoulders and
fairly impressive build. He had on a long black leather coat, so
she couldn’t see much but black boots. The edge of the woman was
visible before the door closed; petite, also black hair, long and
straight to her hips, wearing a short silk dress in vivid red.

No sooner had the door shut than Winestead
came out, his arm around his mistress, who was laughing and rubbing
his chest. Grace pretended to scratch her chin and got three
shots.

Shit! She stepped down off the sidewalk
intending to get some at his car, and soaked her whole foot in the
gutter. Sighing she forced herself to walk idly toward the lot,
keeping her eye on the couple while ignoring the squish between her
toes. They were getting into a dark green Mercedes. She hurried to
pass, getting another shot before going on to her own car.

“Yuck!” She got in and unzipped the boot,
using tissue to dry her toes and the inside of it. “Seth, you owe
me.” She put the boot on, sat back and made another call, pulling
out and heading home before recalling he had asked her to follow
them to a hotel.

Chapter Three

A busy week later and Grace had put the favor
out of her mind. Except for finding out from Seth that he’d
collected his money, she was too deeply buried in work to even
worry about it. She desperately wanted that Christmas vacation,
since Seth usually had plans through the entire holiday. She went
in early, stayed late, and took loads of work home, not realizing
it was Thanksgiving until she looked at her personal calendar.

She called Seth. “What are your plans for
this evening?”

“Dinner with some friends. You?”

“I’d planned on working actually. I just
didn’t want to leave you alone if you had none. I should have known
you’d be stir crazy by now.”

“Yep. Look, Grace, you can come too. I—”

“No. Thanks for asking. I’ll order in, and I
know you’re taking off for Christmas somewhere.”

“Going to Florida with a lady friend.”

She smiled. “I was going to get caught up. So
that I could take off too.”

“Grace, taking a vacation? Surely, it is the
season of miracles.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you.” She
laughed. “How’s the work? Got enough bread and butter?”

“No. And I had to turn down a job I’d love to
have taken.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Some fiancée of a painter wants him
shadowed.”

“Another cheater?”

“She suspects. I never heard of the guy, but
I did some checking. Noel Hawthorn. Sounds like someone who sailed
on the Mayflower....”

“Noel...” Grace slid her books off her lap
and rubbed the back of her neck.

“The lady is hot, so if the guy does cheat
he’s a fool. Not just pretty but blow me away kind of
beautiful.”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway, my curiosity is working overtime,
particularly after meeting her. The money is attractive, but it
always intrigues me when guys step out on a woman like that. She’s
smart, chic, and damned near every guy’s dream.”

“I thought strippers and porn queens were
that.”

He laughed. “All right, I know when you’re
being cute.”

“So can’t you follow the guy in your
car?”

“I could, but this cast...and the meds. Shit,
I just can’t move around, do my thing.”

Grace chewed her lip, having had dreams of
that voice on and off, wondering why she cared if the guy was
cheater...Yet, curious too.

“So, she wanted you to watch his loft?”

“How’d you know he lived in a loft?”

Grace flushed, glad to be simply on the phone
and not looking at Seth. “You said painter, all I know of those
types, is that they live in lofts... Usually.”

“Yeah. He does.” Seth rattled off the address
in an off-handed manner. “Damn... someone’s at the door. Call you
later.”

Grace clicked off the phone and got up,
pacing around the room, telling herself how stupid it was to be
haunted by a sexy voice. Yet she dug around, found the Sunday
paper, and began reading the Arts section, scanning galleries,
showings, until she found Noel Hawthorn’s name. She folded it and
went to the bedroom, laying across the bed on her stomach, scanning
words like visual feast, ambrosia for the mind, and brilliantly
real.

One quote said, Noel Hawthorn has taken
female imagery to a higher level. His simplistic names, Rose, Lily,
Daisy, belie the stunning mastery of his work. Where others have
given us the female nudes in every shape, size, position and style,
Hawthorn makes us see nature and beauty meshed in the most
elemental way—An Eden for the eyes and delight for the senses.
There is no mistaking this for erotic illustration; it leaves no
doubt that Hawthorn has captured woman as that mysterious creator,
nurturer, at one with the ambiance of nature.

Grace read several others that explained Noel
Hawthorn painted his women apparently floating in a sea of petals
or dappled by the shady branches of a tree. His next ambition was
to finish a series of paintings with the names of animals,
depicting what he said was the instinct and soul of woman that he
found both protective and fierce.

Grace snorted and rolled to her back, letting
the article fall to the bed. She stared up at the ceiling musing
that, other than the usual masters, she had liked very little of
the art she’d viewed in some of the local galleries. Abstracts were
not her thing, and she decided whatever higher sensitivity those
who loved all art were born with, apparently escaped her, because
she was not moved, or transported—unless it was a landscape or
portrait she related to.

She was no expert, though she had toured
museums and picked up an occasional magazine. She was not that
curious or stirred by the vocation. She supposed she was unrefined
and unenlightened, but it didn’t bother her much.

Was he cheating on his girlfriend? Why did
she care? So he had a nice voice, a sexy one...a smooth and dark
one...so what?

Grace jumped up and made herself go back to
her work. She really didn’t care. She had to finish this up, go in
for a week, and then she would have a whole month to do
nothing.

Chapter Four

Thanksgiving was over. February through April
they would be slammed with work, and Bernard and Helen were more
than happy to finally see her take some of her vacation around
Christmas. Grace cleaned up her desk and left it neat and orderly
before stopping in Rosa’s office. Today the young woman had on a
jade green velvet dress; impossibly high stiletto heels and her
riot of jet curls were threaded with some kind of gold cord.

“I’m off. Have a nice holiday.”

“You too.” Rosa turned from the filing
cabinet, her coral lips gleaming and her olive skin shimmering with
naturally flawless skin. “I bought you a little something.” She
gestured toward the box on the spare chair.

Grace noticed she had on eyeliner and a gold
shadow that enhanced her dark green eyes. “Thanks.” She smiled and
reached in her purse for the gift certificate she had gotten Rosa,
to the new restaurant she knew the woman loved.

Rosa thanked her and added, “I filled the box
with magazines. Figured you’d be lying on the beach somewhere,
while we’re here freezing our asses off.”

Grace laughed. “I’ve never been actually. I
don’t even have real plans other than to keep driving toward the
sun.”

They chatted a few moments, with Rosa talking
about her large family and their holiday plans. There were eleven
including stepsiblings and Grace was always entertained hearing
about their antics. It was hard to imagine a loud and boisterous
group of people who loved, fought, and played as much as Rosa’s
family did. Most of the time they had more drama going on than a
soap opera.

Grace left the office and made a quick trip
to the apartment before leaving on foot to the deli for lunch.
Passing a popular diner, she glanced casually through the glass,
and spied a face on the TV screen—actually, it was that hair, a
tangled mane of blue-black curls framing an impossibly handsome
face.

She was through the door before she realized
it, absently ordering a meal and sitting down at a table near the
TV. It was difficult over the clank of forks and conversation, but
that smooth voice reached her while his face held her
transfixed.

It was obviously a tape from one of his
showings. He had, since then, become a shooting star in the art
world. His own gallery, located right here in old town had just
opened. Grace did not taste the tuna on rye, nor the tea...the
sound could have been down and she would have heard that sexy husk.
Now, she had a face, an image, of chocolate bedroom eyes with thick
black lashes, and a strong nose with flared nostrils, wide brow and
broad cheekbones. An exotic face, almost full lips. When the camera
pulled back, he was framed with the backdrop of one of his
paintings. His body would disturb any red-blooded woman’s
dreams.

Oddly enough, when she left, Grace could
recall the details of the painting too; a nude woman with jet hair
and snowy skin, lying on her side. The figure was nearly covered by
red rose petals. It had been vibrant, beautiful, and the critics
were right, the essence was not sexual, but a purity and lush
innocence.

Grace mentally shook her head and unlocked
her apartment door, seeing the answering machine blinking. She
tossed her keys and was pulling off her coat even as she pushed the
play button.

“It’s Seth. I have a six-o clock flight out.
I wanted to remind you to keep a check on my place for as long as
you’re in town. Please? My cameras and equipment are insured but
you know, the neighborhood and all. If you decide to leave town,
it’s all-good...I’m probably freaking for nothing.”

There were two more messages; from Farley
reminding her the month’s paycheck would be directly deposited for
her, and to have a nice holiday. Another was a charity.

Grace got her shower over with and dragged
the box over to the settee to see what Rosa had bought her. She
undid the gold wrap and smiled at the antique frame. So perfect and
tasteful. She really did like that young woman.

Setting it on the side table, Grace reached
down and pulled out a handful of magazines. She sighed thumbing
through them, not one person with ordinary brown hair and straight
brows and an ordinary figure. Most were rail thin and all had
voguish, funky, or gorgeous hair, their eyes seemingly as perfect
as their lips.

Making a trip to the tiny bathroom, she
stared at her face under the bare bulb, red marks on the side of
her nose from wearing glasses so long today, and bland, bland
bland, from lack of color and that winter blotch.

“Crud!” She crinkled her nose, wondering if
she lost her bloom, if she had ever had a bloom to start with.
“This is stupid...I’m on vacation. I’ve got a good job, good
health, money saved up....”

Sleep was fitful, trifling, hardly more than
resting her eyes and rolling from her side to her stomach, then to
her back. She woke at five out of habit and tried to block out the
muffled street sounds. But no matter how long she lay there, she
could not go back to sleep.

Face washed and teeth brushed, Grace was
still in her robe when the sight of the magazines littering her
floor began to irritate her. She took them over to stack on her
shelf, muttering when one slid from the bottom. However, before she
could stick it back on the shelf—the article list on the cover
caught her eye.