Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
POLLY
“Compromise is a way for both sides to lose politely. I do not lose, and if I do, it’s never polite.”
Her eyes were smoke and intrigue in the rearview mirror.
“So, in answer to your question, no. I won’t be taking off your handcuffs.”
American Thighs by Lady Jane
Narrated by Brittney Houston
“A re you dusting?”
A sudden voice made me drop my dust rag and yelp as I flattened myself against the bookshelf I’d been dusting.
Jace was standing in the doorway of the library, a curious look on his face.
“What are you doing here?” I rasped as I took out my earbuds.
“Do you always clean at—” he made a big show of looking at his bare wrist— “zero dark thirty?”
I bent to retrieve my rag and collect my thoughts. My heart was still racing in my chest. Mostly because Jace was wearing the hell out of a white T-shirt and black sweatpants.
Tonight, after the kids and I helped Jace carry his things into the house, we had dinner together. Ryla peppered him with questions, practically forcing Jace to fill us in on how many jobs he had ( more than a handful) which was his favorite ( Young Wills), and his position on chocolate ( pro) . This led to a discussion of Ryla and Max attending Young Wills. Ryla’s position being definitively pro whereas Max’s expression made me think he fell somewhere between the ‘no’ and ‘hell no’ range. After Jace went to his room for the night and I got the kids wrangled into bed, I laid awake, my mind alive with perseverative thought.
So, I’d decided to clean.
“I was looking for any party remnants from yesterday. Plus, I can catch up on my—” I paused, almost blurting out the title of my book, American Thighs, instead responding with, “medical journals.”
Because obviously, listening to a medical journal while dusting a library at 12:30 a.m. was much less weird than listening to a bounty hunter romantic suspense audiobook.
Insert laugh track here.
Jace tilted his head, eyes playful as he walked slowly toward my side of the room, scanning the rows of bookshelves. “You listen to medical journals, huh?”
I turned back to the bookshelf, running the rag over its shelves. “It’s what all the cool kids are doing,” I replied, a sarcastic lilt to my voice.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he took his time inspecting the room. The library had wall-to-wall bookshelves except for the row I was currently dusting that had a fireplace centered in the middle of the wall. Across from the fireplace sat two leather couches facing each other. Large leather chairs were placed sporadically throughout the library, providing ample reading space. I often would curl up on my mother’s lap on the chair by the window, wrapping my finger in her long, silky hair, listening to her as she narrated all the different characters from the stories we’d read together. Judy Blume was one of our favorites. I’d gotten the biggest kick out of Ramona and remembered getting a little mad at Beezus’ attitude toward her sister. I’d always wanted a sister.
Now, thinking of Ryla’s antics, I had to wonder what kind of karma was at play here. My sincerest apologies to Beezus.
Jace casually worked his way around the room until he was on the same side of the library as me, at the opposite end of the row.
“This whole place doesn’t come with its own cleaning crew?” he asked, continuing to casually study the shelf’s contents as he ambled closer to me.
“It did come with one,” I grumbled, continuing to dust systematically down the rows of shelves, moving closer to him one book at a time. “But I cancelled them on Saturday.”
In an effort to stick it to my father, I’d cancelled all cleaning services, housekeeping services, and grounds crew. In doing so, I’d merely stuck it to myself. But that email to Jeffrey felt so good, it was almost worth it.
“They not do a good job or something?”
“No, they were great.” I dusted the next shelf a little harder. Like goddamn cleaning angels , I thought, finding Jace watching me. “My father likes to hold things over my head. Like if he does something for you, you owe him. I didn’t want him to have another thing over me.”
Jace’s easy smile fell. “You can ask me and the kids to help you clean. You could put it on Brian, no, wait”—Jace snapped and pointed at me— “Barry.”
I lifted my eyebrows at him. “You want to clean?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he replied. “But I’m a pretty decent cleaner. My sister moved out of the house when I was eight and my chores doubled. I can dust, mop, clean toilets, you name it.”
I stood on my tiptoes to reach the topmost shelf. “If you’re willing to clean with the kids, have at it. But I’m warning you, it’s miserable. Ryla argues with me the entire time and gets mad if I redo anything after her. And Max “takes a break” after cleaning for ten minutes. They’ll wear you down.”
Jace held up his hands as he walked a few more steps toward me, the air compressing around me the closer he came. “No promises, but I have my ways.” And then Jace had the audacity to wink at me, having no concept of what that did to the sixteen-year-old girl inside of me.
I shook my head, trying to shake some sense into that simpering teenager, telling her to have more self-respect and stop drawing hearts around our names. She, in true sixteen-year-old fashion, raked her eyes over my threadbare college T-shirt and black leggings, finding them lacking.
“What are you doing in here?” I changed the subject, moving to the next shelf.
“I was getting some water and thought I heard something,” Jace said absently, then whistled. He shook his head and hooked a thumb at the expanse of law volumes in front of him. “This is some collection. Do you think your daddy’s read ’em all?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. He reads incredibly fast and has an almost eidetic memory. That entire side is history.” I pointed to the wall opposite us. “One of his favorite things to do at the dinner table was quizzing me on Revolutionary War facts.” It was one of my happy memories of childhood, before my mother died.
“Sounds like my childhood,” Jace said, grinning. “Except with baseball facts. You’re not a big history buff, I take it?”
“My mom was. And I actually liked it, even if it wasn’t my thing.”
“What was your thing?”
I grunted as I stood from crouching after dusting the bottommost shelf in front of me.
Reading about people falling in love. The more pining the better.
“Science, I guess; much to my father’s disappointment.”
Jace frowned. “What’s wrong with science?”
My sigh was wistful. “He wanted me to be a lawyer. He was a defense attorney for years and would always brag about how I was going to follow in his footsteps one day. He took on his first judgeship when I was ten.”
I stood on my tiptoes to dust the tallest shelf on the bookshelf in front of me, only to have the rag plucked from my hands by Jace, who was now standing beside me. His body heat radiated into my side as his strong arm reached up to dust the top shelf.
“T-thank you,” I stammered.
An amused smile played on Jace’s lips. “You really underachieved there, being a doctor.” He handed the rag back to me which I all but jerked out of his hands, his proximity felt intimate in a way I hadn’t expected.
“Right?” I answered, my voice breathless. I cleared my throat, focusing on dusting the shelves methodically. “I guess it was a form of rebellion if I’m being honest.”
“Is that why you’re a doctor? Because he didn’t want you to be one?” Jace asked, walking to one of the couches behind us and sitting down. As he leaned back, he rested his arms along the back of the couch causing his white T-shirt to stretch across his pecs.
Finding I’d been slowly rubbing the same spot on a shelf for way too long, I cleared my throat and sidestepped to my right to dust the fireplace mantle. “I actually wanted to be a doctor ever since my mom got sick.”
I was met with silence. So much so, that I finally peeked over my shoulder at him.
He asked me the question with his eyes. Well, what happened to her?
I took a deep breath. “She died when I was twelve. An aggressive form of brain cancer.”
Jace didn’t tilt his head or frown with excessive sympathy. “That’s a rough one, Polly. I’m sorry,” he said softly.
Sometimes when people gave you sympathy, it didn’t hit right. Exaggerated facial expressions and overly sympathetic words felt empty. Like they were only saying something to make themselves feel better. Jace merely sat quietly, watching me with thoughtful concern. He was different than the teasing, easy going Jace I’d come to know. I sensed he was giving me both the time and the choice to talk about it should I wish to. Usually, the thought of talking about my dead mother and dictatorial father seemed about as appealing as a case of shingles. But much to my surprise, I found I wanted to share that with Jace.
I let out a breath, walking over to sit on the couch opposite him. The cold from the leather seeped through my shirt and leggings as I leaned back.
“It was rough. It’s still rough. I’m mad. And sad. I miss her. She was warmth and light and effervescence. And for some reason, she adored my father. She made him laugh. She appreciated his quirks. When she died,” I took a deep breath in, the ache in my chest overwhelming for a moment before I started again. “When she died, my father changed. I was never allowed to grieve her. He became colder and domineering, caring more about his career than his own kid.”
Jace leaned forward slowly and put his elbows on his knees, an implacable expression I’d never seen on him before etched in granite across his face.
“What did he do?”
His tone was low, rumbling in a way that made me squeeze my thighs together. Between his voice and the cold leather, I crossed my arms in an attempt to hide my peaked nipples, sending up my thanks to whoever invented the padded bra.
“Nothing like you’re thinking. About a year after my mom died, when he thought I was being too rebellious, he moved me to a private school. Granted, my rebellion came in the form of me inviting Leah over for a sleepover and when he said no, I tried to sneak her in through that window.” I pointed to said window in the corner. “Of course, he found out and Leah wasn’t allowed to come over again for an entire year, and even after that, her visits were few and far between. Once my father won a Knoxville appointment for a judgeship, he was only home for a few hours, every couple of days. So, for the better part of the next five years, it was mostly just me, the housekeeper, and the grounds crew. My life was school, home, homework, repeat. I thought it’d be better after moving out right after high school, but he continued to be controlling over my life in little ways.”
“How so?”
“He offered to pay for my college and med school. At first, I thought that would be great. I’d be out of the house to do as I pleased and still be debt free. Or so I thought. I started to get emails from his assistant, passive aggressive comments about how I was expected to act and what would happen should I be seen stepping out of line—like going to a party. Little threats that he’d take away what had been given, should I not do what he asked.”
“Is that part of the reason why you call him father? At first, I thought it’s because you’d lost your accent, but now I’m not so sure.”
I opened my mouth in protest. Why, I didn’t know. I had lost my accent.
“I’ve never called him Dad. It was always Sir or Father. I never really gave it a thought when I was little. It was a rule. And you don’t say no to Judge Alberton.”
“You seemed to say no to him just fine yesterday.”
“And yesterday was the first time I’ve ever stood up to him like that. Trust me, I was scared shitless.”
Jace leaned back against the couch, his relaxed posture returning. “You could’ve fooled me. I was standing right next to you, and you almost had me believing everything you were saying. You were so believable I thought you must have had some experience as an actress.”
“Nope. No acting talents.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Jace leaned his head to the side and narrowed his eyes playfully. “Ryla has to get it from somewhere.”
“Not from me,” I protested as my gaze shifted left above the fireplace, eyeing the oil painting my father had commissioned after my mom died.
Following my gaze, Jace nodded to the portrait. “That must be your momma.”
I nodded wistfully as I took in my mother, her features so like mine, the beautiful coloring of her eyes was spot-on. My father’s eyes were serious, and laser focused; almost too hyper realistic. “That’s a painting of a family photograph we had taken when I was nine years old. My father had it commissioned to be painted after she died.”
Jace shifted, seemingly a little uncomfortable, at odds with his typical easygoing posture. Keeping his gaze on the painting, he asked out of the corner of his mouth, “You ever get the sensation of bein’ . . . watched?”
Pausing a beat, he shifted his eyes to me and smirked, making me laugh.
“I know. Why are his eyes like that? No one told me that it had been commissioned, so one day, I was minding my own business, came in the library here, and bam!” I shuddered, recalling that day. “I was so scared, I rarely came in here again. And I’d loved sitting and reading in here for hours, even if it wasn’t the same after my mom died.”
Jace nodded thoughtfully. “I think I can fix that.”
I didn’t have any time to respond before Jace jumped up and pulled a leather chair over to the fireplace. After a quick test to make sure it could hold his weight, Jace hopped up, balancing nimbly on the arms of the chair, and reached for the painting.
I stood immediately. “What are you doing? Jace? Be careful!” My voice was anxious as I watched him balance precariously and jiggle the frame, then eventually pull it from the wall.
I sucked in a breath, speechless. I didn’t actually think he’d be able to remove it. “I would have guessed it’d have been bolted to the wall.”
Jace smirked down at me. “Mind giving me a hand? This weighs more than I thought.”
“Then you shouldn’t have pulled it off the wall!” I reached up and grabbed the corner closest to me.
“Too late now. Hold that left side.” I gripped the frame’s bottom left edge as he maneuvered the painting down to the ground, doing an impressive squat all while balancing on the arms of the chair. Once we got it on the floor, we propped it against the chair and stood back.
My father’s eyes were still disturbing, but not as bad as when it wasn’t hanging above you.
“Ryla looks so much like you,” Jace murmured. “When you brought me in here on the tour this afternoon, I had to do a double take before I figured out that must have been you.”
I looked forlornly at that little girl with a wide smile and hope in her heart. “Let’s hope history doesn’t repeat itself.”
Suddenly, I felt pressure on my hand. Looking down, I saw that Jace was holding it. Our hands turned as if of their own accord, mine settling into his larger grip. I felt another squeeze and moved my attention to his face. His hazel eyes were warm and reassuring, a kind of radiance in their depth.
“It won’t.”
His grip felt different than it had this afternoon. Yes, it was still warm and strong, and yes, my core still throbbed, reminding me that I hadn’t taken care of myself in a few weeks. But I also felt centered. Grounded. Like nothing was going to happen to me so long as I kept holding his hand.
“Well,” Jace finally said, not letting go, “where to?”
I balked. “Jace, we can’t move this.”
“Sure, we can.”
“But—”
“Does your father drop by a lot?” Jace interrupted me, dropping my hand and moving toward the portrait. He waggled his eyebrows. “Does he drop in unannounced to check the status of his creepy painting?”
“No,” I huffed out, a smile playing at my lips. “Yesterday was the first I’ve seen him here since we moved in and I’m guessing it will be the last time he’ll drop by unannounced.”
Jace nodded, then bent at the knees and picked up the painting, walking it toward the door. “Perfect. Then there’s no harm in moving it. Besides, I’ve always been a fan of asking for forgiveness rather than permission.”
Anxiety gnawed in my gut as I watched him walk away, but then felt it shift to something different. Something that felt awfully like anticipation as I took in the bare wood paneling above the mantel. It looked so empty. Like the last day of school when your locker was all cleared out. It was an ending, but also a beginning. The closing of one chapter just before you started a new one.
“Jace?”
He turned his head back to me.
“Thank you.”
Jace nodded. “No more cleaning at night. The kids and I got it.”
I rolled my eyes. “You say that now . . .”
He winked. “They don’t call me Jace Poppins for nothing.”
“No one calls you that.”
“Not yet,” Jace replied blithely in a singsong, starting to move again.
I took one last look at the painting, then back to him. “If you accidentally drop that and scuff up my father’s face, I won’t tell anyone.”
Jace’s laughter rang down the hall as he walked out of the library.
I spent the next several minutes staring at the fresh start on the wall, an irrepressible smile on my lips.