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“At your grandfather’s funeral.”
She shakes her head slowly. “No, I don’t think so. He died a few months before I was born.”
“He did. And your mother attended his funeral.”
The pieces click into place behind her eyes.
“Oh,” Grace says. “I see.”
“I only spoke with Evelyn that one time, but she seemed like a lovely woman.”
“She is... Or was.” A deep sadness clouds her gaze like a storm rolling in over our picnic. I forgot how fresh the wound is for her; I shouldn’t have brought it up.
As quickly as her sorrow appeared, it’s swept away by a smile. This is a girl who has mastered the art of repression. She smiles because the alternative is falling to pieces.
“Were you and my grandfather close?” she asks.
“Not particularly,” I tell her. “We got on well enough, but it was clear he merely saw me as part of the package. Your grandfather was the sort of man who couldn’t stand to be alone for long. After his first wife died, he quickly became smitten with the pretty barista who made his cappuccino every morning.”
“You mean, your mother?”
“Yes, my mother. She was working three jobs to support us at the time. When the wealthy businessman asked for her number, she gave it to him. They were engaged within six months.”
As it turned out, the man had a son around my age—a son who had no interest in welcoming a brother or a stepmother. From the moment our parents announced their engagement, Calvin made it clear that he would never accept us.
“Your grandfather was a good man,” I say. “He traveled for work more often than my mother would’ve liked. Balancing work and family was always a challenge for him.”
“Sounds a bit like my father,” she says.
“No, not like Calvin. Your grandfather wasn’t a bully, or a coward.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I don’t know what it is about this girl that has me tripping over my internal fences, saying things I know damn well should remain unspoken. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s all right,” she says in a way that tells me she’s intimately familiar with her father’s flaws. “I’m sorry he was unkind to you.”
Unkind is putting it nicely. Calvin made it his mission to destroy me on a daily basis. After my mother died, I worked my ass off to graduate from high school early so I could get the hell out of that house, away from him.
The thought of Calvin laying even a finger on the innocent girl in front of me has my blood steaming. I see no physical scars to speak of, and she works hard to keep the psychological ones hidden. But now that I’ve recognized Grace’s coping mechanisms, they’re impossible to ignore.
I’ve meted out my share of pain, but only to those who crave it—with a single devastating exception. Calvin’s lucky he’s already dead. If he was in front of me now, I’d make him bleed.
“You don’t need to apologize for your father’s actions,” I tell her.
We finish our soup course. Paolo takes our empty bowls and returns with steaming plates piled high with Poseidon’s bounty. Grilled shrimp. Steamed mussels tossed with linguine. Pan-seared swordfish in a white wine reduction. Asparagus wrapped with prosciutto.
“Jen mentioned you liked seafood, so I had Paolo come up with a menu.” He may have gone a bit overboard with this meal, but the twinkle in Grace’s eye as she twirls linguine around her fork is well worth the extravagance.
We eat in companionable silence. I make the concerted effort not to stare as Grace quietly hums and gushes about the food. Whether she’s smiling or sipping the juices from mussel shells, there’s no denying that she’s exceptionally beautiful.
“Jen tells me you’re a dancer,” I say, directing the conversation toward a less-fraught subject than my current thoughts.
“Yes, I’ve been doing ballet since I was four.”
“You enjoy it?” I ask.
She nods. “Very much. I’ve applied to five different dance programs. I’m still waiting to hear back from two.”
“Which one’s at the top of your list?”
“The Jost Academy for Visual and Performing Arts in New York City.” She blushes as though she’s embarrassed to even utter the name. “My best friend, Jasmine, applied, too. They only accept three percent of applicants each term. I probably won’t get in, but I had to try. It’s my dream school.”
