Blessing in Disguise (53 page)

“I can’t promise that much ... but I’ll do what I can.”

Cordelia stared at her, not comprehending. “Grace, what are you saying?”

“The money you need. I’m donating the proceeds from my book to Daddy’s library. My agent is negotiating deals in a number of foreign countries, and several producers in Hollywood are interested. There should be at least five hundred thousand to start—maybe more, once the book is published.”

“But ... why?”

“Because it seems right somehow, my book helping make his library possible. And because I want to.”

Cordelia’s eyes filled. Then Grace saw they were tears of anger, not gratitude. “How can you? This book—it’s an affront to everything he ever stood for.”

“It’s
because
of Daddy that I wrote it.
Honor Above All
—there’s no irony in that. Yes, he was honorable ... in every way but one. If he could have brought himself to tell us ...” She sighed. “He couldn’t. But now
I
can be his voice.” Grace felt the old fight in her springing up like trampled grass. “And it’s because of Daddy that you’re building the library. We both loved him. We just have different ways of showing it.”

Cordelia was silent for so long that Grace began to feel annoyed. Was Mother going to refuse her? After all her words of conciliation, was she going to use
this
as another wedge to keep them apart?

But when Mother did begin to speak, her voice was calm, even a bit rueful. “You know, it just occurred to me that a week ago, even yesterday, I would have said no. But things are different now, aren’t they? And I suppose you’re right, I haven’t always listened to you. Your wanting to help with this library—even if all it means is that the two of us will be working toward the same goal—that’s enough.”

“Then you accept?”

“Do I have a choice? If I said no, you’d find some other way of making sure it got into the right hands.” She smiled as she said it, as if acknowledging that they weren’t so different after all.

“I don’t suppose stubbornness is in the genes,” Grace offered with a small laugh.

Cordelia rose then, easily, gracefully, holding out her arms. And suddenly Grace found it not at all difficult to move forward, into the warm, perfumed embrace that all her life she had felt was not hers to claim. Mother’s arms felt light as leaves ... not demanding anything from her, just
there.
Grace found her head dropping onto her mother’s wisp of a shoulder, with its delicate knobbed bones, feeling as if she had come to a place that was, if not exactly home, then the next best thing.

If only Chris would let me hold him like this.

She imagined him cold, hungry, wandering the streets. She began to tremble, and felt her mother gently draw her closer. But Mother was not attempting to console her with platitudes. She merely held her, as if she understood that to speak might have broken the spell that had brought them together, after so long and so many, many miles of misunderstandings and misguided actions.

Grace suddenly understood what had been so precious to her mother that she would lie—even to herself—to keep it. Because Grace wanted the very same thing—the magic circle of her family, complete and unharmed, the family that she could see gathered in her mind as clearly as a photo on a Christmas card: Chris, Jack, and yes, Ben and Hannah, too.

Jack listened to Grace’s message on his answering machine, then punched the rewind button and played it again. It wasn’t that he’d missed part of it—no, what he wanted,
needed,
was simply to hear her again.

Her voice, its peculiar sweet lilt, calmed him. He needed to keep on hearing it, because it might be the only piece of her left for him to hang on to.

“Why, Grace?
Why?”

But now her words were penetrating.

Jack, please call me. I know you’re probably upset with me ... but something really awful has happened. It’s Chris. He’s run away. Oh, God, I don’t think I can get through this without you. ...

In a minute, he was out the door and in a taxi, heading downtown.

As he stared out the window at Park Avenue crawling past, his anger flared. He wanted to hit someone, smash something.
Damn that kid. And her, too.
And that bastard Win! Christ, even if he thought there was a chance of his getting back together with Grace, what right did he have letting his son in on their sexual escapade?

By the time the cab dropped him off at Nineteenth and Seventh, Jack felt in control again, barely, but his anger remained—a small, glittering diamond that flashed inside him like cold fire. When he discovered the elevator wasn’t working, it was what propelled him up six flights on foot ... and what hardened him against the anguish he felt when Grace answered his knock, looking like a lost child herself in raggedy jeans with the tail of her wrinkled chambray shirt trailing down to her knees.

“Jack.” She spoke his name almost like an apology, or maybe a plea—that he put his feelings on ice for the time being?

Then, looking past her, he saw the muted-plaid blazer tossed over the back of the sofa, and the slight, athletically built man just beyond, standing over by the bookcase with his tie loosened and a drink in his hand.

“Win.” Jack nodded curtly, but his blood had begun pounding again. He wanted to tear into Winston Bishop III and kick the living shit out of him. The guy’s smug smile made him think of Grace in bed with Win ... opening her mouth to his. ...

He clenched his fists.
Stop this ... got to stop.

Then he noticed Grace’s mother, seated with her back to Win. She looked distraught, anxious, which was more than Jack could say for her former son-in-law, who was now walking over to the coffee table and setting his drink down, remembering first to wipe the bottom of his glass on his shirtsleeve so it wouldn’t leave a ring. As if this were
his
home.

Jack forced his hands, which felt frozen and knotted, to unclench.
Back off, Gold
—
not now.

“We’ve called everyone I can think of,” Grace told him, taking his coat before he could hang it up himself. Damnit, he
knew
where the closet was.
Give me that at least,
he thought.

“What about the police?” he asked, trying to focus on her through the white rim of fire that seemed to be encircling his skull.

She shook her head. “I raised hell with the desk sergeant at our precinct. They agreed to keep an eye out, but that was only after I called headquarters and yelled my head off. Officially, he’s not missing until the day after tomorrow.” She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself tightly. Tears stood in her eyes, making them bright. “Jack, I’m going crazy here. I don’t know what else to do. Where to go.”

“You look like hell,” he told her. “First thing you have to do is sit down and take a breather.”

Her face was gaunt with worry, her hair lank and separated into greasy strands where she’d been raking it with her fingers. She was barefoot, too, her toes almost blue with cold. Jack had a crazy urge to take her in his lap, and warm her feet with his hands.

“Jack, I’m fine,” she protested, like Hannah used to at bedtime, denying she was even the slightest bit tired, when her eyes were so droopy she could hardly keep them open. “When this is over, I’ll sleep for a week, but right now I have enough caffeine in me to swim the English Channel. I couldn’t rest if I tried. And if
I
look like hell, you take second prize.” She gave him a tender look, reaching a hand toward him that stopped short of his jacket lapel before drifting back to her side.

Jack shuddered, closing his eyes and taking a breath.

She’s touched that you came, and she feels sorry for you, that’s all. You’re no kid
—
you should’ve known better. A young woman like her, entirely different background
—
did you really believe it would work?

“Grace ...” Jack gripped her. He wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to tell her, but, whatever it was, he didn’t want it to be within earshot of Cordelia and Win. “I could use some of that coffee. Any left?”

She nodded, looking up at him, the flesh around her eyes almost bruised-looking with weariness and worry. “I’ll get it.”

“No, you take it easy. I haven’t forgotten my way around here ... not yet, anyway.” He heard the note of bitterness in his voice, and observed that it had hit home.
Cheap shot,
he chided himself.

Jack felt Win’s eyes on him as he moved about the kitchen, reaching into the cupboard over the sink for a mug, easily finding the one he always drank from—dark blue, with
KILLER INSTINCT
scrawled on it in blood red—a promotional giveaway from the ABA in Washington a few years back.

There was half a cup left, so he made a fresh pot while finishing off the dregs. It was something to do ... and he couldn’t deny the pleasure he took in Win’s glowering watchfulness.

“What about video arcades?” Jack wondered aloud. “That kid lives and breathes Nintendo. Remember all the times, Grace, when you had to go and drag him home from that arcade in Penn Station? And there must be a dozen arcades in Times Square alone—a longshot maybe, but we should check them out.”

“If you knew Chris at all, you’d know he wouldn’t leave a dog tied up outside a video arcade in Times Square.” Win strolled over to where Jack stood, at the end of the kitchen counter. His voice was smooth, and he moved with an easy, unhurried grace. But there was no mistaking the hostility in his tone.

“You’re right, I wasn’t thinking,” Jack said mildly, forcing himself not to rise to the bait. “But, okay, now that you mention it, what
about
the dog? My guess is he’d risk getting caught before depriving that dog in any way. That means feeding it, and keeping it warm. What about the youth shelters—do they take kids with pets?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t think so,” piped Cordelia. “Fleas and lice, you know.”

“I know!” Grace suddenly became animated. “I’ll call Lila. She’s a walking encyclopedia on dogs. I’ll bet
she’d
know if there was any place near here where Chris could have gone with Cody.”

As she dialed. Win walked over and slipped a proprietary arm around Grace’s waist. And Grace, maybe too distracted, or maybe
liking
it, wasn’t shaking him off or drawing away. As she hung up, after leaving a lengthy message on Lila’s machine, she even dropped her head briefly onto his shoulder.

Jack felt his control slipping, despite his promise to himself. But with that man fucking
flaunting
his coziness with Grace—damnit, it was too much.

He’d bet a week’s pay it had been Win’s pressuring that drove Chris into moving in with him in the first place. In fact, seeing Win’s vaguely sheepish expression—that of some fraternity jock sobering up after a night of hard drinking, and wondering how that dent got in the front fender of his sports car—he was almost sure of it.

Jack waited until Win was walking back to retrieve his drink.

“You know something you’re not telling us.” Jack stepped in front of him, facing him squarely, noting that Win was several inches shorter than he. Now, standing so close to him, he could almost
smell
it, the sour stink of a man who’s covering his ass.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Win snarled.

“You’re covering up,” Jack went on. “You
know
why Chris ran away. I can see it in your eyes.”

“Get off it, Gold.” Win tried to brush past him, but his tan cheeks had colored a deep sienna.

“I appreciate the fact that Chris is your son, and you must be worried about him,” Jack said, speaking as evenly as he could. “But if you can think of any reason he might have wanted to light out for God knows where, I think Grace should know about it, don’t you?”

He pressed a hand on Win’s shoulder, which Win angrily ducked, twisting away with the fluid grace of a downhill skier.

“Who the hell are
you
to tell
me
what to do?” he spat.

This close, Jack could see from Win’s high color, and his bloodshot eyes, that the drink on the coffee table probably hadn’t been his first. He guessed, too, that Win was
glad
for this opportunity to pick a fight they’d both been spoiling for since Jack first walked in.

Christ, wouldn’t it be good to smash right into that Confederate nose?

Instead, he responded, “I’m someone who doesn’t want to see the boy get hurt over something you said or did that you’re too much of a coward to own up to.”

“Really! Absolutely nothing will be gained by your going at each other like this!”

Behind him, Cordelia’s voice rose on an indignant, somewhat imperious note. But Jack hardly heard her, because Win was lunging at him, hands splayed open as they slammed into Jack’s chest, shoving him hard—as if he wanted to throw a punch but was too much a gentleman to go that far.

“You
bastard,”
Win shouted.

“Win, no!” Grace’s sharp cry pierced the muffled roaring in Jack’s ears as he staggered backward to catch his balance.

Ignoring her, Win sneered, “This isn’t about Chris. You don’t give a
shit
about my son. You’re just using him as an excuse to show Grace what a big hero you are. Well, I’ll tell you before Grace gets around to it—you don’t have a leg to stand on. So why don’t you just go home? This is
my
family. There’s nothing here for you, nothing that’s any of your concern.”

“Win!
How dare you?” Grace’s voice broke with outrage.

“When Grace herself tells me I’m not welcome here, that’s when I’ll hear it,” Jack said. “And if you think this is just about Grace and me, you’re way off base. I
do
care about Chris ... enough to risk looking like a damn fool if I’m wrong.
Am
I wrong?”

Win’s balled-up knuckles looped up so suddenly that Jack was caught off-guard. He had just enough presence of mind to feint to one side, causing the blow to catch the edge of his jaw, a glancing cuff that stung more than it hurt.

Hot rage flooded through him, and Jack swung—a blow that surged from the blue-white center of his fury. He felt the shock of his fist connecting with bone, and saw a blur of blue-striped fabric that was Win’s shirttail flying out from under his belt as he hurtled backward, arms pinwheeling in mid-air.