Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
GRACE
W ith the trip to the police station done and dusted, I slide my hand into Mack’s as we walk down Main Street, heading for the Arts Center. I want to check in before I come back next week. Don was good enough to let me have a few extra days. Lord knows I could use them. But I don’t want to stay home—I have something I need to do.
“Can you come with me somewhere?” I ask.
Mack dips his head, catching my gaze. “Anywhere, gorgeous.”
“Pennsylvania?” I pull a cringy please face.
I know my parents left my birthday party and never so much as looked back. Or sent even a text. Despite that, my gut tells me to try again. For Mama.
If there’s any part of my relationship with my parents I want to salvage, it’s what lies between my mother and me. If Dad doesn’t want to listen, that’s fine, he doesn’t have to. But I’m not losing her. I refuse.
Mack stops, gripping my hand. I turn back to face him.
Worry creases his face. “You sure?”
“I mean, I’ve done harder things . . .”
His hand is behind my neck instantly, my face smushed into his chest. I curl my fingers around the opening of his coat. “Yes.” I glance up into those dark blues. “I’m sure. I can’t lose her, Mack. I won’t.”
“Alright. When?”
“Is tomorrow too soon?”
He smiles, pressing his forehead to mine. His signature move, and one of my favorites. “Sounds perfect.”
We settle into the hug for a moment before continuing on toward my work. Mack isn’t using his cane. His gait is a little wobbly, but there’s no telling him otherwise. So damn determined, this man. The front door chimes as we push through. Don greets us with open arms.
“Miss Gracie! How wonderful is it to see you.” He has me in a hug before I have the chance to object. I guess I gave everyone a scare.
Small towns grow on you. Lewistown feels like home to me.
“Careful, Don,” Mack says, “wouldn’t want to start up the old rumor mill.”
Don pats my back, making space between us.
I roll my eyes at Mackinlay. “You’ll keep, cowboy.”
He bends down, his lips by my ear. “I most certainly hope so, captain.”
I give him a quizzical look. I never did ask what the captain thing is all about. Shaking my head, I walk to the front desk. The computer is on. The bookings sheet is open. Every last spot is filled for the art classes for the next six months. The small group I started with has grown to twenty-four per class. “What on earth...”
Don slips into view, his hands in his pockets, a grin stretching his kind face. “Thought that might cheer you up.”
I stare at him. He did this?
“I—”
He holds a hand up. “Told you all this town needs is new blood. You, Gracie, are the new blood. We are excited to watch you liven this old town up.”
My mouth gapes.
“Also, some of the patrons have suggested artist retreats out at R & R. I trust you can run it past Mrs. Rawlins?”
He means Ruby. I chuckle. “Yes, I can absolutely do that.”
“Excellent. I’ll leave you young ones to your morning. I’ll see you Monday, Grace.” He walks out the back with a smile and a wave.
I turn to find Mack leaning on the front counter, happiness etched all over his handsome-as-hell face. “Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?”
I groan at him. “Yes, Mackinlay.”
“Good. Better get used to me lovin’ on you, gorgeous girl.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He winks at me.
“Okay . . .”
With a chuckle, he holds out a hand, and we walk back through the front doors. One last duck to find and usher into the steady row I now have.
Mama.
The undercarriage squeals at contact with the runway. I grip the armrest with one hand. Mack has the other encapsulated in his. Large and warm, his hand grounds me. The captain turns off the seatbelt sign, and I grab my carry-on from above. Mack grabs his before commandeering mine as we disembark.
You can do this, Grace. Look how far you’ve come. After everything that happened with Joel, explaining a few things to my folks shouldn’t be a big deal. My throat closes with emotion. I want to talk to Mama. Seeing her for less than an hour at my birthday was like being given the one thing you needed most, only to have it ripped away seconds later.
Mack folds in around me. His heady scent is an instant comfort. He transfers both bags to one hand and laces his fingers through my own. The cowboy hat on his head is out of place. It makes me giggle. But I love it. Love him.
No place on earth exists that I wouldn’t go with this man. A lifetime of hell with him would better than a day spent in heaven with anyone else. I thank god every day we found each other at the exact moment we did.
It forged what we have.
Sowed the seeds so deep nothing could have stopped them from growing, breaking through the surface, unfurling under the sun’s warm rays, and blooming to a fully-fledged, imperfect, living thing.
We pass through the terminal and Mack hails a cab. I regurgitate my childhood home address, and the cab pulls away. Twenty minutes later, we pull into the drive of the home I haven’t seen since I turned eighteen. It’s remarkably the same as I left it. Mack leans forward, paying the driver. He pushes out of the cab and takes the bags. I sit on the back seat, hands gripping the edge of the cracked vinyl seat, focus fixed on the front door. Breathing, taking one breath after the other, requires all my concentration.
“Gracie, we do this together, remember?”
I break my gaze from the door to find a gentle smile and a hand held out. I take his hand, It’s warm and steady. Strong and unwavering. I step out of the car and shut the door. The cab backs down the drive and speeds off. We round the hedge and the garage door is open. Mama’s car is not there.
Dad’s is.
“I can’t do this.” Spinning backward, I stalk back the way we came. At the curb, I pace up and down the quiet suburban street. What was I thinking? They don’t want me here. Don’t want any part of the life I made for myself. Not after I imploded the one they so carefully curated for me.
A knock rattles the front door. The bags are by the hedge. Mack’s black hat is all I see over the hedge. The front door whines open.
“Hi, Mr. Weston.” His hat slides from his head. It must be in his hands or by his side.
Nausea floods in when I listen to my father’s stern voice. “Last I recall, I wasn’t welcome at your residence. You are also not welcome here, Michael.”
“It’s Mackinlay. And I apologize. Things got heated. But?—”
“You’ve wasted your time, and now mine. Good day.”
The door slams.
A hushed curse. Another knock.
Oh no. Leave it, Mack.
Please.
He doesn’t. Another knock. Persistent, longer, louder.
The door opens with a heavy sigh. “You slow, son? Take a hike.”
“I ain’t leavin’ until you’ve heard us out.” Mack’s voice has dropped an octave. It’s what I imagine he used as a soldier. Harsh. All business.
Shit.
I run my hands through my hair and decide if I’m part of this team, the Mack-and-Grace team, I should be by his side, not cowering behind the shrubbery. I stride across the lawn, coming to Mack’s side. My father’s face turns to stone.
Mack flicks me a look. The go get ’em face.
“I would like to speak to Mama. Please.”
My father stiffens in the doorway. “She’s not here.”
“When will she be back?” Mack asks.
My father pays him no heed, his eyes trained on me when he spits, “She isn’t coming back.”
The door slams for the second time since we arrived. I glare at it. This time, my fear is replaced by disbelief and annoyance. What does he mean, she’s not here? What the hell?
A soft voice clears to our right. I drag my gaze toward the sound. Old Mrs. Barton leans over her fence, gloved hands holding her pruning shears. “Grace, that you?”
With a huff of a laugh, I cross the grass and hug her over the fence. “Hey, Mrs. Barton.”
“Well now, didn’t you grow into a fine-looking woman.” She studies me over. I fight off a blush. No matter how hard I try, I will never have the Ruby Rawlins confidence. “And now.” She nods behind me. “Is this your husband?”
Mack steps in behind me. Leaning around he offers her a hand. “Mack. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Barton.”
“He’s not my husband,” I mutter.
She rears back playfully as if slapped. “Honey, you’ve got to lock this one down. And fast. Man in a hat. Bet he has a horse, too.” Her face is ridiculous. Her curly grey hair is twisted into a floral bandanna on her head, her over-rouged cheeks pop with her toothy grin. I can’t help but chuckle. The woman has a point. But I’m not here for love life advice, so I glance around the street before asking, “Where’s Mama, Mrs. Barton?”
Her face falls to seriousness. “Oh honey, she left. They’d been fighting on and off for years after you went. After their quick getaway out west, your mother packed up her things and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since. Good for her, if you ask me.”
“Oh” is all I can say.
She left him. After decades of being the dutiful housewife and mother, she packed up and walked away.
“Where can I find her, then?” I ask.
“She lives over on the other side of the river now. Westwood Village, Betty from bingo told me. Working somewhere over there. Maybe at the college... At least, I think that’s what Betty said? Good luck, honey.”
“Thank you.”
She nods and winks at Mack before turning back to her plants.
“I’ll get an Uber,” Mack says, tapping on his phone already.
“Westwood...” I mutter to myself. “Central Penn is over there.”
“She’s teaching there?” Mack asks, sliding his phone into the back pocket of his Wranglers.
“I wouldn’t think so.”
The Uber arrives five minutes later. We zip through the burbs, over the river, and head north for Westwood Village. But it’s gated, and we can’t get in.
“Try the college,” I say, hanging onto the back of the driver’s seat. A few minutes later, we wind through campus roads. Driving past the huge triangle building, I can’t wait any longer.
“Stop! Here, please.” I burst from the back door and stalk my way across the concrete parking lot, homing in on the cream-colored three-story building. The administration lady startles as I rush through the doors.
“Hi, are you alright?” she asks.
“I’m looking for someone. Helena Weston.”
“Does she go here?” The lady raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t know.” I know what she’s going to say.
“I’m sorry, I can’t give out student or staff information. You can’t text or call?”
“I—” I straighten. “I don’t have her number.”
She wouldn’t have mine. I never gave her my new number when I replaced my phone after a year of being in Mississippi. Never imagined I would ever call her again. Not after Mack smashed that one, either. The glass doors swish, and I can tell it’s him. The air around me changes as he comes to stand behind me. My chin wobbles. I should have tried harder. Should have kept her updated, even if I never got a reply. Should have held up my end of the communication.
A hot tear streaks down my cheek as students pour from a room down the hall. I swipe it away. “You sure you can’t help me? I’m trying to find—” My voice cracks. My shoulders are shaking, but warm hands come to rest over them.
“As I said?—”
“She’s my mama. I’m trying to find my mother...” The words fade out.
A huffing sound echoes through the foyer, and I feel Mack turn toward it.
“Gracie?” a soft, so very familiar, voice gasps.