Blessing in Disguise (27 page)

She herself, just two years before, in the face of Mother’s nearly hurling herself from her wheelchair onto the floor in protest, had completely neglected her classes at GWU to campaign for Adlai Stevenson. Still bitter over his defeat, she wasn’t going to let herself get carried away by some other liberal idealist who, in the long run, was bound to fade into oblivion.

But on that day in 1954, as the ex-fireman from Queens, New York, stood and addressed the floor, Cordelia, despite herself, had felt her cynicism begin to melt. Tall, angular, almost scarecrowish, the sleeves of his creased suit jacket not quite covering the bony wrists of his enormous hands, he’d made her think of Jimmy Stewart in
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.
And when he spread his arms in an impassioned gesture, opening himself wide to the attack his words would surely provoke, she found herself scooting forward onto the edge of her seat.

“There is something very wrong going on in our country right now,” he began, his voice somewhat raw and unschooled, yet somehow more powerful than that of Sam Rayburn, Speaker of the House. “Deep down we all know it, but we’re afraid of sticking our necks out, so we’ve kept quiet about it. Well, I, for one, won’t keep quiet any longer. This witch-hunt being conducted by Senator Joe McCarthy supposedly in the name of patriotism is
wrong,
plain and simple. ...”

She didn’t remember the words that followed, only the ringing silence that fell over the floor and gallery when he finished.
He’s committing political suicide,
she remembered thinking, and it was then, she realized, looking back—long before Betty’s uncle managed to wangle her an introduction—that she’d fallen in love with Gene. He reminded her of her father, in a way. Though Daddy was an old time Georgia Democrat who’d have moved to Iceland before admitting that integration was a good thing, he’d seen it coming, and, back in the days when Negroes were relegated to merely sweeping the floors and polishing the marble of banks, he’d promoted Eldon Roantree to be a teller. Daddy, if he were alive, would have approved, in his own hidebound way, of this brave but surely doomed Eugene Truscott.

But then, not long after Gene’s speech, Edward R. Murrow had come out against McCarthy on national television. And more and more voices joined theirs. She would not forget, however, that on that day no one on the House floor came forward to support the freshman Democrat from Queens, and in the silence that followed there had been the sound of only one person clapping.

That person, she remembered with a faint smile, had been she. ...

“Cordelia?”

Her eyes flew open, and there was Gabe seated across from her in the leather club chair that had been Daddy’s favorite. Smiling, looking perfectly at ease, clearly not expecting her to jump up and play hostess. No, he was not Gene, but he was kind and decent, and, as the scene with Beech had brought home to her, he was adept at handling tough situations.

Watching him scoot the ottoman over so she could put up her feet, she felt tears spring to her eyes, and realized it had been a long, long time since anyone had thought of her as needing to be coddled.

“I’m tired, Gabe,” she sighed.

“I know.”

“How is it
you
look fresh as a daisy, and I feel like old trampled sod?”

He laughed, and settled onto the oversized ottoman alongside her outstretched legs. “ ‘But in the mud and scum of things there always, always, something sings.’ ”

“Emerson?”

He nodded. “He’s right, you know. Things that seem black at the time can sometimes turn out for the best.”

“I doubt if anyone at that party had any idea just
how
black.”

“I know you better than they do,” he said, probably sensing her confusion. “I know when something is wrong—even when you’re smiling.” She felt his hand wrap itself about her ankle, as casually as if he were feeling the thickness of a branch, but she sensed that his touch meant more than that.

Cordelia shivered. “I’ve raised two daughters,” she confided to the embers turning to ash in the marble fireplace, “and it now appears I haven’t done a very good job of it.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Oh, Gabe ...” She turned to look at him, feeling a new wave of anguish. “It’s not just tonight, what happened with Sissy. It’s Eugene—I can’t shake the feeling that, if he’d lived, things wouldn’t have turned out this way.”

“You’re punishing yourself, and you don’t deserve that.”

“Then why? Why are all these awful things happening to me? Why should I have one daughter who’s helpless, and another who’s aiming to stab me in the back? Oh, heavens, how I’d like to turn
both
those girls over my knee!”

Fired by grief and anger and a kind of desperate exhaustion, she jumped to her feet and darted over to the walnut secretary, where she kept the articles about Eugene and every one of his speeches, compiled in several leather-bound volumes, and also every word Grace had ever had published. Snatching up the two-year-old
Time
magazine with the story about Grace’s winning the Pulitzer—she knew just where it was in the stack, and could have found it blindfolded—she felt its edges crumple in her fist, and something sharp—a staple?—dig into the soft flesh at the base of her thumb. Her hand, she saw when she looked down at it, was shaking.

I was so proud of her!
Cordelia thought.
And now she’s going to destroy Gene, rake up something that happened so long ago.
...
Damn her!

“Cordelia—don’t!” she heard Gabe cry through the buzzing in her head, and only then did she realize that in her anger she’d actually flung the magazine into the fireplace.

With a kind of horror, she saw the embers split open with a cracking noise, sending up a shower of sparks. Watching the pages turn black, curl at the edges, and burst into flame, she felt as if her own heart were burning.

Then Gabe was beside her, his hands on her shoulders stilling her wild trembling. She felt the healing power of him steal through her ... his magic, which made nearly dead azalea bushes bloom and grass spring up where it had been trodden to mud.

Before she knew it, his arms were around her.
How can this be?
a voice cried, before all thought, every rational cell in her brain, got swept away as he tipped her head back with the callused tip of a finger and kissed her fully, deeply on the mouth. Oh, the warmth of his lips—how could she bear it? It had been so long since she’d been kissed. Not since Eugene ... not in
years
... a lifetime ...

She felt Gabe’s tongue, and the wanting that lay beyond his kiss. Her arms and legs trembled, and the dizziness she’d felt in the yard a few days ago came over her now, though this time it didn’t frighten her. It was only natural, feeling this way with Gabe holding her, desiring her as she desired him. Suddenly it didn’t seem strange at all, his wanting her despite her being more than middle-aged, and Gabe’s being not at all the sort of man the town of Blessing would have imagined her choosing.

Now his mouth against her hair, one hand cupping the back of her head as he smoothed her hair, his fingertips lingering where her neck curved down to meet her spine. His breath, his wonderful smell, like the dandelion wine she’d tasted earlier, making her almost drunk. She clung to him, feeling a sob building in her. A queer mixture of anguish and of happiness so great it felt like a huge boulder crushing the fragile fortress she’d built around herself.

So that, when he urged softly, “Go to New York, Cordelia. Go find your daughter. I’ll be waiting for you when you get back,” she found herself nodding in dreamy agreement. Perhaps going to New York would be easier, after all, than making up her mind about how to go on living right here in Blessing.

It was the first time they’d been up to the cabin since there was snow on the ground, and as Jack pulled the Volvo into the icy, rutted drive, Grace suddenly felt her spirits lift.

“Oh!” she cried, delighted by the sight of white everywhere, blanketing the landscape and pillowed on the branches of the trees. “When I was growing up in the city, this is how I always thought Christmas should look.”

Hannah, in the front seat, shot a cool glance over her shoulder.

We don’t celebrate Christmas.
Grace imagined the words pasted like a cartoon bubble over Hannah’s head. Well, too bad. She wasn’t going to let Hannah get her down ... not tonight, Christmas Eve, whether the Golds celebrated it or not.

Climbing out of the back seat, Grace took a last good look at the pristine snow before it got trampled by their boots. Until she met Jack, her only visits to the Berkshires had been a few summer weekends at Tanglewood—Mozart and mosquitoes; overpriced chi-chi country inns, and hay fever.

But
this,
it was magical, like something out of a fairy tale. She laughed to herself, thinking.
Yeah ... wicked stepmother and all.

The snow was deep. It gave under her boots with a satisfying crunch as she trudged step by labored step to where the woodpile hunkered under a thick shawl of white. Through a scrim of leafless poplar branches, the house glimmered in the twilight, its cedar shakes weathered the silvery gray of a wolf’s pelt. A light burned in the front window—Mrs. Ingram, the woman who looked after the place for Jack, must have left it on. In the front yard, holly bushes stood out in vivid splashes, their crimson berries glistening under a fine sugaring of snow.

Watching Jack gather up an armload of wood, Grace felt the stiffness in her neck from the seemingly endless drive begin to melt away. Here, at least, she’d have a chance to deal with Hannah face to face. No more being stuck in the rear of the car, staring at the back of a head that wouldn’t turn when spoken to, that never once looked to see whether she and Chris were enjoying either the ride or the tape she was playing—a headache-inducing cross between reggae and rap to which Jack had seemed immune. And no more being wedged up against Chris, as mute and unresponsive as the duffel bag he’d carried on his lap the whole way.

He was probably still angry at her for pressuring him into coming. She should have known better. Despite his insistence that it
didn’t
matter, Chris would miss all the Christmas festivities at Win’s parents’ home in Macon—the tree crammed with ornaments, the snowflake cookies Nana Bishop always made, the annual party for the neighbors with its great bowl of eggnog punch and lively singing of carols around the piano.

How could he not? All those things—she missed them, too.

“I’ll get the suitcases, Dad!” she heard Hannah call out.

“Good girl.” His breath hung in the frosty air like an exclamation point. “You help Grace unload while Chris and I get the fire going.”

Grace clumped back to the Volvo to help, but after several trips, lugging in grocery bags, a case of wine, and extra blankets, she noticed that Hannah had taken only her own and Jack’s luggage. Grace’s laptop and green canvas bag—not to mention the shopping bag with Lila’s leather jacket, gift-wrapped for Hannah—sat forlornly on the seat below the open hatchback like a pair of marooned hitchhikers.

A dryness settled at the back of her throat, as if from sucking in frozen air too quickly. Her feet, even in hiking boots and thick wool socks, felt numb. And here she was, in the pitch dark, while Hannah was stripping her gloves off by the fire. Grace was propelled up the icy front steps on a red tide of resentment. By the time she’d wrestled open the frozen door latch and dumped her things on the floor by the hickory coatrack, she was out of breath and had to lean back against the jamb, eyes closed, until her anger subsided.

Silent night
...
holy night ... I won’t let it get to me tonight.
We’re going to be together for a whole week, she reminded herself—don’t ruin it by getting off on the wrong foot.

Grace found herself wishing that Ben had come along to take the sting out of her being stuck with Hannah. He was her antidote to Hannah—not only nice to her, but light-hearted and full of jokes, and great with Chris, too. But, damnit, he’d made plans to go skiing in Vail. ...

Still, the sight of Chris and Jack crouched side by side in front of the flames now sputtering to life in the great stone fireplace reassured her some. Jack was explaining the finer points of fire-making to her son, and Chris was nodding, an interested look on his face. Okay,
vague
interest, but still ...

Hannah was sprawled on the scruffy tartan sofa, her feet propped on the coffee table made from a ship’s hatch, wiggling her toes before the fire. Out of the corner of her eye, Grace could see into the kitchen, where the groceries sat in their bags on the old wooden counter. And there was still dinner to prepare. After that, beds to be made up.
What
had she gotten herself into here?

She watched Jack straighten, grimacing slightly as his knees popped with a sound like an old hinge giving way. In his faded red flannel shirt and a pair of weathered jeans worn white at the knees, he seemed to her, oh, like a figure out of woodland folklore—Paul Bunyan or Daniel Boone. Big and bursting with vigor despite a few creaks, his silvery hair jeweled with drops of melted snow, hands smudged with ink from the newspaper he’d used to start the fire. She watched the ridged muscles in his forearms twist and knot as he hefted a cast-iron poker, jabbing at the logs. She felt like she was in high school again, mooning over gorgeous Mr. Van Harte, her misgivings about the week ahead suddenly melting away like the clots of snow from their boots, now glistening puddles by the door.

She thought about snuggling up with Jack under the down comforter in the old brass bed upstairs, of how he would wrap himself around her to warm her. Even now, as she stood, still shivering a bit in the fledgling fire’s stuttering glow, she could almost feel Jack’s big hands moving over her, gently rubbing her goosepimpled flesh until she began to thaw. His breath pumping warmth against her cheek, then her throat and chest as he moved lower, using his mouth to suck any last coldness from her ...

Jack caught her gaze, and winked at her. Grace felt her face tingle with sudden heat. Then he smiled, the lines in the corners of his eyes radiating outward as in a child’s drawing of the sun, and she felt something leap inside her.