Nate
Over the last few days, Grace has deepened my desire without echoing it; my ardour expands even as she holds her line, that edge of refusal that makes me love her more.
She's a riddle, eluding me even as I circle the solution. Slowly, I’m realising that there is no way to force her to admit her love for me.
It’s there. I can feel it. But she holds it under her tongue, behind her heart, deeper than I can reach.
Her health, however, is well in hand. At our next appointment, Eileen confirms what I myself already figured out: Grace seems to have recovered from Coeliac Crisis.
Most of her days are turquoise now. She’s feeling better than ever, and it’s almost all down to cutting the poison out of her life—and being married to a man loves her properly.
I don’t say that during the appointment; Eileen still knows nothing of the arrangement between Grace and me.
Instead, I listen closely as the two of them discuss next steps.
“So,” I say once the doctor has left, “how does it feel to be in such good shape thanks to your husband?”
Grace stands on the front steps, Shep at her side, both of them watching Eileen’s car disappear up the long driveway.
She turns to where I’m lingering in the foyer and I’m aware that it’s a similar tableau to her first night here, when she tried to escape a situation she’s now embracing. I savour the irony, just a little.
“What?” she asks.
She heard me perfectly well and I know it. I step closer.
“I asked how it feels to be healthy thanks to your husband, Grace.”
Faint frown lines appear between her eyes. Shep rises up on his back legs to give me the doggy equivalent of a hug. I brush him off with a word of warning, and he retreats behind Grace.
“My wellness is thanks to Eileen.” She kneels down to wrap her arms around the dog. “And thanks to this guy right here. Cane corso therapy.”
“Go, Shep. Rounds.”
The dog jumps to it, already growling low as he runs to inspect the property. I take Grace’s elbow and haul her to her feet.
“There was no need to make him do that.”
She tries to twist away from me, but I hold her in place.
“It’s his job. And you’re giving him an awful lot of credit for your recovery. A guy might start feeling jealous.”
“Of a dog?” She can’t quite meet my eyes despite her joking tone. “Of course you get credit, Nate. I’m not sure why I need to say something so obvious.”
For the same reason you need to say ‘I love you’.
I stop myself from voicing the needy thought. Begging only belongs in the bedroom. I’m wondering if that’s where I need to take Grace now. She’s wriggling in my grip, her eyes distant.
“I should head over to Mihi’s,” she says. “We’re going to check on some of the premature lambs born last week.”
I draw her a bit closer. “Mihi’s got farm hands she can call in for extra help. You belong here.”
“I love spending time with her and—”
“You have designs due for Dr Eagan, don’t you?” I jerk my chin towards the house. “I thought you were going to finish your final project so you could graduate in December.”
She gives a little laugh, but I see how she leans away.
“That’s months from now, and Scott is entirely happy with everything I’ve done so far.
Besides, Eileen has been really clear that I should do what calls to me most so that I can feel more settled within the moment, rather than trying to force everything. ”
I feel myself go rigid. I know exactly where this attitude comes from; I just witnessed part of it.
Despite my guidance, Eileen has taken it upon herself to address all aspects of Grace’s recovery, including her mental health.
Their discussions of ‘processing’ and ‘psychological recovery’ have increased, and more than once I’ve had to bite my tongue to keep from speaking out against the doctor’s directives.
I don’t want Grace being offered options she shouldn’t be taking.
I don’t want her running off to help Mihi do a dirty job when she could be with me.
I say none of that as Grace peers up at me, a knowing look in her eyes. We both know she’ll win a confrontation if I state my demands right now.
“You should head out, then,” I say. “Let me know if you need me to come pick you up. We can have a discussion regarding your healing later on, or tomorrow night, after I’m back from Auckland.”
I let myself smile, though I know it won’t reach my eyes. I’ve kept my plans to go to the office quiet until now; leaving last week didn’t result in the progress I hoped for. This time, I’m going to make sure the trip is productive at home as well as in Auckland.
Grace takes a long step back, her eyes flaring with determination. “You’re going to Auckland again tomorrow? I want to come with you this time.”
“No,” I say, savouring the word. “You need to prove to me that you can handle being home on your own. Then you can come to the city.”
“Nate, if you have a problem with me helping Mihi—”
“Tell her I say hello.” I jerk my chin at the driveway. “Now get going.”
Her mouth firms into a line, but she obeys. Whenever she deigns to come home, I’ll be ready.
I spend my time alone combing Grace’s social media feeds for messages from her mother.
Sure enough, the one-sided thread has lengthened over the last few days.
Constance Fucking Reid’s poisonous words are clearly directed at me despite the fact that, from her end, none of the messages should even appear as ‘read’. I skim the latest ones:
It’s only a matter of time, little boy. The police haven’t got enough proof to call me back in. They’ve had to let it all go, just like I knew they would. It was smart, giving them just enough to keep both of us from going to jail. Your move, young man, unless you’re waiting for mine.
Speaking of going to jail, the timing of my son-in-law’s death is curious, especially when one factors in just how quickly you snatched Grace away to the North Island… and all those documents you had ready to go at no notice.
I screenshot the final message, registering the threat, before I delete the lot of them.
The bitch is fishing for proof of culpability on my end.
She won’t find it. I suppress the urge to call Watson for confirmation that we’re in the legal clear, but there’s no point.
The paper trail is as clean as my paranoid lawyer could make it.
Calling him would be an annoyance to both of us.
And I have better things to do. Such as checking through Grace’s laptop while she’s gone, making fresh copies of her bullet journal, and circling ever closer to the solution of this riddle.