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She was thinking she should have been feeling some kind of triumph, but nothing broke through her fog. In the face of the success she'd wanted and worked so hard for, she had to fall back on her breeding with a vengeance just to get through the night and be who all the people wanted her to be Grace Woodward Hall. The beautiful daughter of Cornelius and Carolina Woodward Hall. The trendsetter and the social star, now the head of the Foundation.
As she looked over the crowd, seeing the beautiful clothes and the jewels, the wide smiles blooming out of well-known faces, she realized she was standing in a roomful of people who all looked like her—and yet she was totally out of place.
Even though the reaction was logical, given everything that had happened recently, the dislocation seemed somehow more permanent than the growing pains that inevitably came with big changes in life. She was starting to view her world differently and what once was familiar was beginning to seem foreign.
Where the new direction would take her however, she had no idea.
At the appointed time, Grace went up onstage and introduced the video montage of her father's life. As she watched, she remembered the places and the times and the circumstances of each photograph. Though she was familiar with all of them, she saw each one differently now, as if the colors had been recalibrated. When the last photograph appeared, she regarded the image of her father, sitting at his desk with a pipe between his teeth, through eyes that were strained from conflicting emotions.
She knew that any resolution about the lies he'd lived would have to come without explanation or apology from him. She had to wonder if the remembrance of the love he'd shown her would be enough to help her find some kind of peace with it all. But she wasn't sure.
As the picture of her father dimmed, she had to swallow a few times before she was able to speak.
When the lights came back on, Grace looked down and saw her mother standing in the front of the crush of people, back ramrod straight, neck elegant as a swan's, black dress hanging perfectly from her dainty shoulders. The expression on her face was one of regal forbearance, although the light in her eyes was something close to warm.
When the Walker portrait was unveiled, the crowd fell into a hushed silence. Jack and Blair came up front and a battle ensued between her friend and a media mogul whose fondness for American art was well known. As the two took good-hearted jabs at each other, the price climbed over $3 million, with Jack finally taking the painting with a bid close to $5 million.
The crowd burst out in applause. As flashbulbs went off like firecrackers, Jack came up and embraced Grace, his austere face showing pleasure at his success.
Sometime later the guest began to disperse and Grace's mother was among the first to leave.
"I think it went well," Grace said, as she kissed Carolina good-bye. "Although of course, Father's parties are a high standard to meet."
Her mother reached out and squeezed Grace's hand with surprising urgency.
"It was just perfect, darling. You did a perfect job." Their eyes met. "Your father would have been very proud of you tonight."
"Why, thank you, Mother." But she felt more relief than pleasure at the praise.
"I am also very proud of you. And I told Bainbridge the same thing." Carolina leaned forward and kissed Grace's cheek. "You are going to make a fine president."
With a parting wave, her mother turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Grace shook her head. It was hard to comprehend that, after having given up on ever hearing a supportive word from the woman, her mother had finally come through with one. At a moment when Grace actually needed it. She knew better than to think this was the start of a trend, but she appreciated the gesture.
And then the Gala was all over.
Grace lingered afterward, talking to the caterers for a while and watching the cleanup crew start to reclaim the atrium from the detritus of the party. She thanked the security guy who'd tailed her discreetly all night long and was about to dismiss him when she decided that being escorted home was probably a good idea.
She asked the man to call them a car while she went up to her office to get her bag of clothes and daytime purse. As she rode up in the elevator, she felt solitude and silence push into her.
The distraction offered by the Gala had been a relief, but, like all Band-Aids over fresh wounds, its effects were transitory. Listening to the electronic beeps as floors were passed, she couldn't help but wonder where John was and what he was doing. She pictured him on a plane, somewhere over the ocean, heading for God only knew where.
A part of her refused to believe it was truly over. Common sense told her she'd better get with the program and embrace reality.
Her office was dark as she entered but she found the desk easily, sidling around the conference table and various chairs. She turned on the light next to her phone.
