Chapter 31 #2
If Grace thought her room was luxurious, it’s nothing compared to the suite Renata’s in.
It looks more like a penthouse apartment than a hospital room.
Bouquets of roses, sunflowers, hydrangeas, tulips, and lilies cover every flat surface, and there are many flat surfaces in the palatial space.
The antiseptic, default hospital smell is completely covered by the sea of flowers; a stranger could take two steps into this room and know immediately that Renata is beloved.
The sight of it all makes Grace’s heart ache—not just for the loveliness, but for the guilt she feels for nearly robbing the world of such an extraordinary person.
The entire elevator ride and down the long stretch of hallway through the hospital wing, Grace had wrestled with the idea of facing Renata, of seeing her laid up in a hospital bed because of an evil man’s machinations—and Grace’s abetment.
This generous, warmhearted woman who had been nothing but kind and open to Grace since she walked into Murphy’s all those weeks ago—she didn’t deserve this.
She didn’t deserve to be caught up in the chaos and corruption of Grace’s past. Braxton may be taped off and shut down, Bellamy may be spending the rest of his life in prison, and Grace may have been de facto acquitted of the horrid act she’d committed as a teenager, but there is no absolution to be had for this—for not speaking up, for being a coward when it mattered most. If there’s any sane, logical bone in Renata Caldwell’s body, she should scorn Grace and send her packing, should demand she get as far away from her son, her family, and her ranch as she possibly can.
But that’s not what happens.
Not even close.
Instead, the hospital bed comes into view—adorned in egg-white silk sheets, definitely not the standard-issue papery ones—and Crew and Grace find Renata and Clint bent over a folded newspaper with pens in hand.
Renata looks comfortable in the bed, her back cushioned by two giant, plush pillows—also covered in silk—and Clint’s right next to her, one leg spread out and flush with hers, the other hanging off the bed to keep him steady.
They’re having a sort of sword fight with the pens, arguing over the accuracy of an answer for what looks like a crossword puzzle.
From where Grace stands, she can see there are lines drawn through some of the words already printed on the page, with the seemingly correct word written above.
“If you don’t stop shoving my hand away, I’m going to stab you with this pen. Paradigm has a G in it. It’s eight letters, not nine. And look!” Renata taps the puzzle adamantly with the tip of her pen. “The first letter is an A. It’s absolutely, one hundred percent archetype.”
“You think because you read all those fancy books that you’re so much smarter than me, don’t you?” Clint says, bemusedly shaking his head. “I’ll tell you what, though—I’ve got you beat when it comes to street smarts.”
“I’ll tell you the only thing you’ve got me beat with,” she counters, then taps the pen against his temple lightly. “Delusion.”
Clint’s mouth drops open dramatically. “Exc—”
He doesn’t get a chance to fully articulate his indignance, because Renata spots Grace and Crew, who have been silently observing the loving spat.
Her face immediately lights up, and the smile that blooms on her lips is bright and wide and quick.
She looks between the both of them quickly and says, “There you are. Good God, I was starting to wonder if you’d just completely forgotten about me. ”
“Not possible,” Crew says, and gives Grace’s hand a comforting squeeze. “How’re you feeling this morning?”
Renata shrugs. “Fine. The same. Ready to be out of here, but this numbnuts”—she tilts her head in Clint’s direction—“and my doctor have decided to team up and overrule me at any chance they get.” She throws her hands up with a quick roll of her eyes, only slightly exasperated. “So, here we are.”
“Tuesday will be here before you know it,” Crew says evenly, knowing he can’t show too much vehemence or support for his father, or his mother will accuse him of also siding with the enemy. “You look good. Even better than yesterday.”
Grace has no frame of reference, but Renata does look good—she may possibly be the most glamorous person who has ever been in a hospital, with her hair tucked back with a long gold pin, a pink terry cloth robe, and light makeup that doesn’t entirely cover up the bruising on her face but does mute it substantially, drawing the focus to her eyes, which are as vibrantly blue and expressive as ever.
Upon closer inspection, Grace sees the cast on her left leg, spanning from her upper thigh to just above her foot.
Her left arm is also in a sling that’s partially covered by the robe, and by the way she shifts in the bed, with less swiftness and ease than usual, Grace figures there are probably many other healing injuries that she can’t see.
The thought of them all, this never-ending list of hurt, makes her feel sick to her stomach.
“You’re a terrible liar, son,” Renata says, waving a dismissive hand in his direction.
Her gaze drifts to Grace, and her smile softens.
“You, on the other hand, my darling.” She looks her up and down, the smile growing into something knowing, slightly mischievous.
“I understand my daughter bullied you into this, but I’ve got to say, Grace—you look lovely. ”
Maybe it’s the words, so genuine and warm and honest, or the way Renata’s looking at her like she’s proud and happy to see her, or maybe it’s the whirlwind of trauma and emotion that has coursed through Grace’s body over the past week, but when Renata smiles at her with all the love in the world and tells her she looks lovely, Grace bursts into tears.
Crew immediately turns to face her, grabbing her by the shoulders to turn her to him, but Renata’s voice cuts in, stopping him.
“Honey,” she says gently, reaching out to touch Clint’s arm.
“Son.” She looks to Crew, and there’s no confusion on her face—the two men both look slightly terrified by the sudden turn of events, but Renata is unfazed.
She looks as confident and clearheaded as she always does.
Even while laid up in a hospital bed with two limbs cast in plaster, she’s ready to launch into action in a split second.
“Why don’t y’all run down to the cafeteria and grab some coffee?
And get me a muffin. Blueberry or chocolate chip—none of the bran crap. ”
The implication takes a moment to set in for Crew and his father, but once it does, Clint is standing and nodding, making his way to the door.
Crew lingers for a moment, looking between Grace and Renata, still holding on to Grace’s shoulders.
His mother gives him a reassuring nod, and Crew relents, dropping a kiss to Grace’s forehead before joining his father.
The door clicks shut quietly, and the two women are left alone—hot, relentless tears still streaming down Grace’s cheeks.
“Come,” Renata says, scooting herself to one side of the bed—as much as she can with one leg immobile—and then patting the cleared space. “Sit with me for a minute.”
Grace does, lowering herself carefully and slowly onto the bed, being mindful not to jostle anything.
The material of her jeans is almost slippery against the sheets; she can feel herself starting to slide down until she digs her bootheels into the tile floor.
Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, Grace chuckles, ever unsure and awkward in highly emotional moments like this.
“I’m sorry,” she says, glancing at Renata, who is even-keeled and patient, leaning into her giant, soft pillows.
Renata’s tone is light when she asks, “What’re you sorry for, Grace?”
The two women hold each other’s eyes for a moment.
In Renata’s deep brown irises, Grace can see many things.
Among them: an age-ripened, wide-open honesty, a wholehearted generosity, and a pure, soulful kindness.
The combination is comforting in ways Grace has rarely experienced; Renata is the kind of person who, just by existing in someone’s orbit, makes the burden of living seem lighter.
She is restorative and warm—her very presence a balm to even the most pointed anxiety.
And because of that, even with the guilt and fear and overwhelming sorrow festering in her gut, Grace feels a sense of ease sitting next to her.
She knows what Renata’s really asking, and she also knows that Renata deserves her truest answer.
There is, perhaps, no one in the world who deserves it more.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you when I should’ve been,” Grace says, as evenly as she can manage.
She maintains eye contact as she speaks, though it pains her not to let her eyes drift to the floor.
Her instinct is deference, but she knows Renata wants her to face this with her chin high, not bowing in submission.
“I’m sorry I didn’t speak up. I was afraid of so many things.
I’ve spent so much of my life afraid.” The fingers of Grace’s good hand begin to tremble, and she curls them into a stubborn fist. “Even after you offered me the job, I still had this voice in my head telling me it was all temporary. A very specific voice,” Grace muses, nostrils flaring.
“It was stupid, impulsive, cowardly—I thought telling you the truth would mean I’d have to leave Halcyon.
So, I didn’t, because I didn’t want to leave.
After everything that happened, I couldn’t imagine anything worse.
And I didn’t think he’d actually…” She trails off, finally letting her eyes drop.
Tears are welling in them once more, but this time, they aren’t tears of sadness or guilt—they’re tears of anger.