Blessing in Disguise (40 page)

His heartbeat picked up—a slow, deep hammering that made his head throb. “What about?”

“Those letters. I’ve been wondering if I’m doing the right thing, keeping them to myself. Maybe I
should
turn them over to Grace.”

Ben felt himself jolt upright as if he’d just sat on something sharp. What to say?
Think, think.
Striking a tone he hoped sounded no more than mildly concerned, he asked, “Do you think that’s such a good idea? What I mean is ... wouldn’t you be giving her too much control?”

“Coming from me, you’re gonna think this is strange ... but I trust her.”

“I’m not saying she’d try to make you look bad. ...” Ben was starting to sweat now, his rash itching. But somehow the right words were spinning out from the heated jumble in his brain. “See, Nola, once Grace turns her book in, Cadogan will be the one pulling the strings. You know, stuff like quotes pulled out of context and stitched together to make them look more sensational.”

She wrinkled her brow.
“You
work for Cadogan. Are you saying—”

“Exactly my point,” he cut her off. “It just occurred to me that, if you were to give
me
those letters, I’d make sure our lawyers had access to them before anyone else. With me orchestrating the whole thing—and believe me, I’m good at that—you’d have a lot more control over how those letters get handled.”

Had he sounded too eager? Nola was giving him a funny look, drawing her head back so her chin was almost tucked into the high collar of the silky ecru tunic she wore over a pair of black velour leggings.

“Hey, what is this? I thought we decided back in the beginning that you weren’t gonna be a part of that whole mess.”

“Sure, I know.” He shrugged. “I was just trying to help out, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m a big girl. I don’t need you.”

I don’t need you.
Ben stared at her, not quite comprehending. He’d never had any woman say those words to him, not even offhandedly, as Nola had. What made her think she was so special?

He took in her closed expression, those hooded green eyes, and her full mouth, tucked in at the corners. She thought so, he realized, because she
was.

Special.

Goddamn her. How the hell did she do it?

Ben, seething inside, forced a smile that felt pasted on. “Let’s forget it, okay?”

Strangely, despite her thwarting him, he wanted her. More than ever.

As he took Nola into his arms, he was careful to keep his kisses soft, almost feather-light. He was burning, aching throughout, but he must not let her see it. He had to work up to this slowly.

His tongue darted in and out of her mouth, and over her full lips, which made him think of dark berries bursting with juice. Her high cheekbones, he saw when he drew back to take a breath, cast shadows down her cheeks, making her look even more exotic and mysterious. He traced the sharp line of her jaw with the edge of his teeth, and heard her make a noise deep in her throat that was more a growl than a moan.

Now Ben was cupping her breasts, feeling them warm and heavy beneath her blouse. The slippery fabric, bunching and gliding under his hands, was exciting him even more than if she’d been naked. He bent to gather a hard nipple into his mouth through the whisper-thin fabric. As he sucked, he felt the silk grow wet against his lips. She writhed slowly, deliciously, murmuring his name, whispering,
Don’t stop. Oh please don’t stop.

But then, shockingly, excruciatingly,
she
was stopping. Her hands planted against his chest, pushing him away. She was out of breath, her face flushed, but not altogether forgetful of where she was, it seemed.

“Ben ... not here. The girls, they might see us.”

“I thought you said they were asleep.”

She laughed, a low, raspy sound coming from some deep—and unreachable—part of her. “Obviously, you don’t know kids. They’re known for popping up when you least expect them, Especially after you think you’ve put them to bed.”

“In that case ...” He took her wrists, attempting to lift her to her feet as he rose. At that moment, he wished she were small and dainty so he could scoop her into his arms, carry her off to the bedroom. But Nola, all six feet of her, was resisting him.

“Ben ... no. I really don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“Why the hell not?” He was ticked off now.

“I told you. Dani’s sick. She might need me. And suppose I was with you, and we were ...” She stopped, swallowing. “Can’t it wait? Do we have to do this
every
time we’re together?”

Ben felt frustrated, pissed off, and more than a little ridiculous, standing there with a hard-on straining the fly of his pants. Christ. What kind of game was she playing?

“You want it as much as I do,” he said sullenly, hearing himself and wanting to cringe. Jesus, he sounded like some high-school kid.

“Yeah, but I can wait,” she said. “Being a mom, you don’t always get first pick.”

She was shutting him out again. But what the hell—he didn’t even
want
to share that part of her life. Wiping sticky hands at the breakfast table, scraping smashed crayons off the soles of his shoes, trying to look interested while some kid babbled on and on about school.

At the same time, Ben found himself resenting her for withholding even a small piece of herself from him. He longed to take her, right here, right now, on the carpet, to
force
every thought of her kids from her mind until she was screaming his name, screaming at him not to stop, her fingernails digging into his ass cheeks, clutching him as she reared up, up, to take him as far into her as she could. ...

He turned away from her, quickly, so she wouldn’t see that his hard-on wasn’t going away. “Hey, it’s no big deal. I really should get going anyway. I have an early breakfast with an agent, and I haven’t even looked at the manuscript she sent over.”

“Ben.” She stood up. Her gaze, nearly level with his, was coolly unapologetic. But her mouth was curling up in a smile, and her words, when she spoke, were warm. “Can I take a raincheck? Tomorrow night? Why don’t you come for dinner, so the girls can get to know you a little better.”

He thought about begging off dinner and arranging, as he usually did, to take her out, or simply arrive after the kids were in bed. But something about the way she was measuring him—as if she might find him wanting—made him nod and say, “What time?”

It didn’t occur to him until he was out the front door, and nearly halfway to his car, parked near the corner, that Nola hadn’t said for sure whether or not she’d decided to give Truscott’s letters to Grace.

It was after six on Wednesday by the time Grace got home from the Forty-second Street library, where she’d spent the day combing through old magazines and newspapers for photos of her father and Margaret. She’d found only one—a blurry UPI shot of the two of them descending the steps of the Senate Office Building, Margaret a decorous step or two behind Daddy, carrying a stack of papers.

But without Daddy’s letters to her, Margaret would never be more than his longtime legislative assistant. So why bother? What, Grace wondered, could she possibly gain from all her research, except maybe coming to an understanding of what it was that Margaret had been able to give her father that Mother couldn’t, or wouldn’t.

Let sleeping dogs lie,
she could hear mother’s voice, admonishing her.

Mother.

Grace glanced at her watch. Mother’s plane had gotten in earlier this afternoon. She’d be settled in at Win’s by now, and in exactly two hours she’d be
here,
though, thank heaven, it was only for drinks. Bless Lila for talking her out of her original plan—think how much
more
stressful it would be sweating over dinner, her friend had pointed out. Needing no further encouragement, Grace had made reservations at Luma. But that wouldn’t solve everything. And with no pots to watch or potatoes to mash, she and Mother would actually have to
talk.
How would Mother act? What would they say to each other? Oh, it was never going to work!

You didn’t think you’d ever get through to Hannah, either, and look what happened with her.

Grace also remembered Sissy’s letter, about their mother’s being involved with their old teacher Mr. Ross. She wondered if Mother would seem any different now that she was in love, if that’s what it was.

She was peeling off her coat at the door when Chris sidled over. “I told her you’d be back pretty soon,” he muttered under his breath, glancing toward the living room. “She said she didn’t mind waiting.”

Grace felt the air leave her lungs all at once. Mother? Had she come early?

Then she saw that it wasn’t her mother. Their visitor was sitting erect on the sofa, her back to them. Her smooth chignon, the square line of her shoulders—Nola? Yes. But she wasn’t the type just to drop in unannounced. It had to be something pretty important.

Grace felt a jolt of adrenaline. Making her way toward Nola, she didn’t dare hope that Nola had changed her mind about cooperating on the book. In fact, a small part of her, deep down, almost hoped that Nola
had
merely stopped by to say hello. And that she, Grace, would be spared having to tell her mother the painful truth about Daddy. And yet ...

“Nola, what a surprise!” Grace greeted her. “If I’d known you were coming, I would have gotten home earlier. Have you been waiting long?”

Nola rose, smoothing the front of the fitted celadon jacket she wore over a mid-thigh chocolate-brown skirt. A pair of boots, saddle-soaped so many times they resembled old glove leather, was the only sign of a limited clothing budget.

“Not too long,” she said. “And your son has been keeping me entertained. Telling me about this new computer program of his.” Nola gave Chris an amused grimace. “Makes me feel like some kind of dinosaur. I never made it past word-processing. Wouldn’t know RAM from ROM to save my life.”

Chris flashed Nola an uncharacteristic grin. “I could show you sometime, if you want. It’s not that hard.”

Grace observed that Chris seemed more relaxed around Nola than he was around most people he didn’t know. Maybe it was just Nola, that direct way she had about her.

Every teenager, Grace thought, must have an invisible bullshit-detector, because they always seemed to know in a nanosecond when someone was just being nice out of politeness, or in an effort to make a good impression on their parents.

“I’d like that.” Nola stuck out her hand, which Chris, after only a moment’s hesitation, reached out and shook. “Okay, mister, you can hang it up now. Go back to your computer. You’ve done your duty looking after this dinosaur.” She laughed, and Chris’s gray-blue eyes sparkled in response.

“Better go pack your things,” Grace told him as he was heading off toward his room. “Your grandmother will be expecting you.” Win had asked if Chris could stay over, as a special favor to Cordelia, who was always saying she never got to see enough of her grandson.

As soon as Chris had disappeared down the hallway, Nola turned to Grace. “You’re probably wondering why I dropped by without calling first.”

“Turnabout is fair play,” she said, remembering when she had done the same. “But, anyway, I’m glad to see you.”

Nola shot her a tentative smile.

“How about a glass of wine?” Grace offered. “I have some white in the fridge.”

Nola shook her head. “Mind if I sit down? I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?”

Grace knew she ought to straighten the place up for Mother’s visit, make sure that she had enough ice, and that Chris hadn’t drunk all the sodas she kept stored in the pantry cupboard. Instead, she gestured toward the sofa, where the deep cushions still held the imprint of Nola’s body.

“Not a thing,” she said.

“I can only stay a few minutes,” Nola assured her. She sank down again, crossing her legs, then uncrossing them and leaning forward slightly. “Actually, to be honest, I was half-hoping you wouldn’t be here.” She hesitated, then bent to lift a bulky manila envelope from the briefcase Grace now noticed lying open at her feet. “Maybe this will explain why.”

Nola sounded calm, but a vein pulsing in the stretched skin along her temple gave her away.

Grace felt herself go numb, unable to move or even speak. But, underneath, hope was swelling. Hope mingled with dread.

She stared at Nola’s hands, her unusually long fingers with their broad, flat fingernails splayed over the back of the envelope. Where had she seen such hands before? Then it hit her. Why, of course, they were her father’s hands. ...

Nola looked up, and their eyes met. She could see that there was no need to tell Grace what was in the envelope.

It’s not too late to back out,
Nola told herself
. You could put them back in your briefcase and walk away. And the world would never be the wiser.

Then she remembered how, last night, after Ben had left, she had unearthed the shoebox from the back of her closet—the box that had lain undisturbed for nearly ten years, which she was now invading for the second time in the space of two weeks. It contained Mama’s papers: copies of Nola’s birth certificate, insurance documents, baby photos of nieces and nephews, the registration for an old Pontiac long since retired to the junkyard. And at the bottom, tied together with a length of yellowing string, a bunch of letters addressed to Margaret Emory in Eugene Truscott’s bold, spiky hand.

Had Mama been wrong to make her promise to keep them to herself?

Sure, things were different back then. A white man and a black woman. A
married
white man, who happened to be a great senator.
She said it was because no one would understand about their kind of love, that it was special ... and the truly special things often get twisted around, made to seem ugly.

Except that the bottom line was that Mama had been flat-out scared—of exactly the same stuff she, Nola, would be facing when this came out. Bloodthirsty reporters that would make the ones she’d been brushing off so far seem like Halloween trick-or-treaters. Newspapers printing slimy, distorted stories. But to go on like this, with her head buried in the sand—was that the way to deal with it? Instead of feeling proud of keeping her promise, Nola felt a little ashamed. Like the hundred times she’d lied to Tasha and Dani about their daddy’s being too tied up to come see them, when the truth was, Marcus just didn’t give a shit.