Circle of Grace, page 10
“You are a reference librarian, right?” He sounded as if he couldn’t believe anyone would give such an important job to such a feebleminded girl.
Grace swallowed hard and took a deep breath to regain her composure. “Yes. Of course. What can I do, Dr. Forrester?”
“Michael,” he corrected. “If we’re going to be working together, I insist on first names.” He smiled again, that same expression tinged with sadness. “I need someone to assist with my research on a regular basis, someone who can get up to speed and know the background of what I’m doing.”
“I’d be glad to help, Dr.—ah, Michael. But I’m surprised you don’t have a research assistant.”
The smile faded, but the sadness remained. “Actually, I did have an assistant. My—my wife. But unfortunately, we’re in the process of divorcing, and she is no longer interested in continuing the work.” His face clouded. “Or our marriage, it appears,” he added as if to himself.
So that was the source of the unhappiness behind his eyes. Grace felt a surge of empathy for him. She knew what loneliness felt like. She could imagine him in some kind of transient bachelor apartment, sitting on rented furniture and staring out a curtainless window.
“I couldn’t give my exclusive attention to you during work hours—” she began.
“Of course. I understand that.” His voice held hope and excitement, almost like a little boy’s. “I was thinking that after work—” He paused and shook his head, his enthusiasm deflating. “But surely you have family, friends. Other things to do with your time off besides spend it with a stodgy old academic.”
Grace nearly laughed out loud. Michael Forrester wasn’t that old, and he certainly wasn’t stodgy. Not tall, but good-looking, with broad shoulders and appealing little laugh lines at the corners of those beautiful eyes. She felt drawn to him, the way you’d be drawn to an abandoned pup on the side of the road. And yet that wasn’t right, either—he wasn’t the helpless type. It must have been the eyes that put her in mind of a lost puppy.
“I’d pay you well for your time,” he said. “How does ten dollars an hour sound?”
“It sounds more than generous. You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’ll tell you what. You keep track of the time you spend on my project while you’re at work, and I’ll pay you for those hours as well.”
“Double pay for the same work?” she said. “That doesn’t seem right.”
He shrugged and did a little flickery thing with his eyebrows, up and down again, so fast she almost missed it. “I’m sure your salary here is not nearly what you’re worth.”
“How do you know what I’m worth?”
“I’ve got a sixth sense about these things.” The eyebrows arched again. “Trust me.”
“All right. When do we start?”
“How about tomorrow? Will you be here?”
Grace nodded. “I get off at four.”
“I’ll pick you up then,” he said. “We’ll go for coffee, and I’ll fill you in on my project.” He patted her hand, hefted the stack of books into his arms, and headed for the door.
She watched him go and realized she’d been holding her breath.
Tomorrow. She’d see him again tomorrow.
It wasn’t a date, of course. It was a business appointment. But that didn’t stop Grace from feeling a little like Cinderella stepping into the magic pumpkin. She’d wear her sky-blue sweater, the one everybody complimented. She’d wow him with her research skills. And maybe, just maybe…
-12-
SECOND THOUGHTS
By the next afternoon, as four o’clock drew nearer, Grace was having second thoughts about meeting Michael Forrester for coffee. Not second thoughts, really. Thirds. Fourths. Hundredths.
She hadn’t been able to focus all day. Hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. An idea jiggled at the back of her mind, demanding attention. A small, insistent voice, oddly like a miniature version of her own, repeating that she shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t even be thinking about it.
But what could possibly be wrong with it? He wanted her to help him with his research, that was all. A simple business arrangement. He valued her, believed she could aid him in his work.
She heard a click, looked up at the enormous clock as the minute hand jerked and settled on the twelve. And then he was there, standing in the shadows between the high stacks.
Her heart jumped in her chest. He hadn’t waited for her up front, by the doors. He had come looking for her.
“Are you about ready?”
The voice was warm, smooth, and entreating. She couldn’t see his face, just the dusky silhouette of him as he leaned casually with one hand on the vertical end of the bookcase.
“Yes. I just—almost.” Grace shelved the last of the books and turned. “Let me punch out and get my things.”
He followed her to the circulation desk and waited as she went into the small office behind the counter to retrieve her purse and sweater. When she came out lugging an overstuffed canvas book bag, his eyes widened.
“What’s all that?”
Grace ducked her head. “I—ah, I ran across a few things I thought might be helpful to you. Mostly from interlibrary loan. I pulled up your records, and it didn’t seem you had checked any of these out, so—”
“You got all these today?” He took the bag from her and peered into it. “Interlibrary loan must be faster than it used to be.”
Grace felt herself beginning to blush. “Well, I—I had some errands to do anyway. It was no trouble. I picked them up on my lunch hour.”
“Did you now?” He gazed at her, an expression of amazement on his handsome face, then smiled and held out his arm. “You know what, Grace Benedict? I have the feeling this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”
He meant their working relationship, of course. What else could he mean? Still, the phrase replayed itself over and over in her mind: a beautiful relationship.
They strolled down the street to the Haywood Park Hotel, then turned right and walked partway up the hill to a small European coffee shop in the middle of the block. It was a glorious day, so Grace settled at a sidewalk table while Dr. Forrester—Michael—went inside and bought coffee and chocolate-covered eclairs.
By the time he came out, she was chatting with an athletic-looking college girl at the next table and making friends with the girl’s companion—a gentle, smiling golden retriever.
“So, you like animals, do you?” Michael asked as he set the coffee and eclairs on the table.
She frowned at the apparent non sequitur. “Animals?”
“Sure.” He pointed toward the table where the young woman had been sitting. “You seemed to be getting on rather well with that golden.”
“Oh, yes. I love dogs—and cats, too. When I was little I had a sheltie named Toby and a Himalayan we called Velvet. They used to sleep curled up together at the foot of my bed.”
He stared absently into the distance. “Cynthia would never allow animals in the house.”
Grace picked up her coffee cup and leaned forward a little. “Dr. Forrester—Michael, I mean. I don’t want to overstep any boundaries here, but do you need to talk about your wife? I’m willing to listen if you do.”
Michael smiled at her—a genuine smile, full of warmth and appreciation. “You mean it, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. Sometimes—” She paused, trying to find the right words. “Sometimes it’s just good to get feelings out in the open. You’re separated, you said.”
He nodded. “Yes. I always thought my marriage would last forever. Naive, I suppose.”
“I don’t think it’s naive at all,” Grace said. “Monogamy. Longevity. Love.” She sipped her coffee and watched him over the rim of her cup. “Lots of people think that’s naive. Old-fashioned.”
“Believing in love, you mean? Or in marriage?”
Grace thought about the question. “Both, I guess,” she answered after a pause. “When I was in college, I lived in a house with my three best friends. They all thought I was a throwback to the Victorian era.”
He chuckled and reached across the table to wipe a bit of custard cream off her lip. “I think it’s nice,” he said, his eyes gazing deep into hers. “I think it’s very nice.”
They dined that evening at The Flying Frog, a small, dim-lit restaurant across from the library. Grace had never set foot in the place even though it was ten paces from where she worked every day. When she saw the prices, she tried to convince Michael to take her somewhere else. He insisted they stay, however, and treated Grace to the Island rum filet—a steak so tender she could cut it with a fork—and for dessert, the most luscious crème brÛlée she had ever tasted, with homemade fudge sauce.
“You deserve a treat,” he said, his eyes reflecting the candlelight as he spooned up a mouthful of the crème brÛlée. “You’ve put up with my rattling all afternoon.”
Grace wouldn’t have called it rattling. True, they had not even discussed their working arrangements, but that hardly mattered. She had learned so much about him, so much that fleshed out her initial impressions of Michael Forrester.
For one thing, she discovered—without ever having met the woman—that she despised his estranged wife, Cynthia. How could any woman in her right mind let a man like this get away? But then, Cynthia was not in her right mind apparently.
It wasn’t that Michael had said anything derogatory about her—at least not directly. Yet as he talked, Grace pieced together a portrait of a haughty, demanding, petulant woman who could never be pleased and who always wanted more than they could easily afford. Clearly, she didn’t understand him, and didn’t make much effort to try. Instead, she berated him, belittled him, and in the end walked out on him—or, rather, pushed him out, keeping the house on Town Mountain and the Mercedes and leaving him with little more than a ten-year-old Volvo and the clothes on his back.
Now, if she had been Michael Forrester’s wife…
Grace couldn’t stop the images rushing at her, filling her mind: Michael in a spacious, book-lined study furnished with burgundy leather chairs and a large walnut desk. Coming to him as the early afternoon sun slanted through French doors that opened onto a stone terrace, bringing him coffee and a sandwich. Sitting close to him on a sofa in front of the fire, listening and commenting as he read the latest chapter of his book.
She would have been a supportive, loving, encouraging wife. She would have granted him the space and time to do his writing and research, without complaint. She would have been proud of his career as a professor rather than nagging at him to take a job that paid better. She would have given him what he needed rather than making demands of him.
Michael was watching her, his deep-set eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. “Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time. We haven’t even had a chance to talk about the research. How about—”
The waiter appeared at his elbow, presenting the bill, and he handed over an American Express card without taking his eyes off her. “How about if we get together this weekend and finalize things? Say Saturday around noon? Come to my house, and I’ll make brunch for us. I’m a very good cook.”
The insistent little warning voice in the back of Grace’s mind spoke up again, but it seemed farther away now, muffled and indistinct. “Yes,” she said, ignoring it. “I’d like that.”
He took a business card and pen out of his jacket pocket, scribbled on the back, and pushed it across the table to her. “That’s my address, and my home phone number. Call me anytime. Anytime at all.”
She reached to take the card, and their fingers touched. His hand was warm, and he left it there, gently stroking her forefinger with his thumb.
Grace had never been in love before, so she hardly knew what to expect. But she hadn’t anticipated being so…so mixed up. She couldn’t sleep, and the feelings that assaulted her in the dark reminded her vaguely of that night so long ago in the house on Barnard Street, when she had lain awake in the dormer and listened to the sounds coming from Lovey’s room below. She awoke from those restless nights clutching her extra pillow, seeing Michael Forrester’s face in her mind and hearing his low, silky voice echoing in her ears. She went through her work in a daze, making stupid mistakes a first-year intern would have caught. Except when she was working on Michael’s research, of course. Then she was fully focused.
The “beautiful working relationship” hadn’t turned out quite the way Grace might have predicted. She was helping him with his new book, but she didn’t think of it as a job; it was a labor of love. The way she would have done if she had been his wife instead of his assistant. The way she would continue to do, she told herself, when she became his wife.
For miracle of miracles, Michael Forrester had fallen in love with her, too.
It was utter chaos. And it was wonderful.
For six months now their Saturday brunches had been a regular occurrence, with Grace arriving promptly at noon at his small house on Chestnut Street. Converted years back from a carriage house behind one of the old Victorians common to the area, the place was quiet and private, hidden from the street, with a small yard flanked by a buffer of trees.
The main room was one large square with vaulted ceilings, floors of wide-plank pine, and a rough stone fireplace. In the back left corner away from the door, Michael had created a study area, separating his desk from the rest of the room by an arrangement of tall bookcases and oak filing cabinets. To the far right, a serving bar divided the compact kitchen from the rest of the room. Beyond the kitchen, a door led to the single bedroom and bath.
The first time Grace had entered the carriage house, she had been struck with a new awareness of Michael’s creativity. Rather than try to downplay the fact that his home had once stabled horses, he had used history to his advantage. One weathered wall held a collection of brass bridle ornaments on a long leather strap. A well-oiled English saddle doubled as a footstool next to the fireplace. Stable lanterns hung on the rafters, and a large antique feed box served as a coffee table. The whole place had an air of shabby elegance, right down to the worn leather sofa and secondhand Oriental rug.
On this particular Saturday morning, Grace arrived ten minutes early. The door was open, and she peered in through the screen. As usual, the house was extremely clean and neat—Michael liked things tidy, orderly. She could see a bowl of eggs set out on the kitchen counter, along with a quart of milk, a block of cheese, a basket of mushrooms, and what looked like a cluster of green onions.
But where was Michael?
Grace opened the screen door and stepped inside. Then she heard his voice, sounding hushed and urgent, coming from behind the bookcases that separated the study from the living room. He was on the phone.
“No, I can’t. Not today,” he said. “I’m behind schedule and swamped with work and have an appointment. Tomorrow, yes. Six-thirty. I promise.”
She wasn’t deliberately trying to eavesdrop, but she felt stupid standing at the door, waiting for him. Now she wished she had stayed outside. Wished she had been late. Wished she had been anywhere except here, overhearing this one-sided conversation.
White-hot acid churned in her stomach, and her mouth went dry and cottony. Iago’s words from Othello sprang to her mind: “O beware, my lord, of jealousy; it is a green-eyed monster that doth mock the meat it feeds on.”
Michael was supposed to be having dinner with her tomorrow night.
“I know, I know,” he murmured in a consoling voice. Grace could see his legs now, a flash of blue denim stretching out beyond the bookcase barrier. He was obviously sitting in his office chair, facing away from the desk. “Yeah, OK. Tomorrow. Me too. Bye.”
He hung up and came around from behind the bookcases. When he saw Grace standing there, his face went white for a second or two, then he grinned and came over to take her in his arms. “You’re early!” he said as he bent down to kiss her. “Sorry about the delay; I was on the phone.”
She peered into his eyes. “Is everything all right?”
“Sure, everything’s great.” He grasped her hand and led her over to the corner kitchen. “How about cutting the veggies for me while I stir up an omelet?”
Grace sat down on a high stool with the bar between them and began slicing the mushrooms.
“Listen,” he said as he broke eggs into a bowl and poured in milk. “I can’t have dinner tomorrow night like we planned.” His voice was airy, nonchalant.
The bottom dropped out of Grace’s stomach. “Oh. All right.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me why?”
Grace studied him. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, but something in her gut twisted all the same. “I don’t suppose I have the right to ask you anything,” she said, fighting to maintain a casual facade. “I don’t own you.”
He stopped beating the eggs, set the bowl on the counter, and came to her side of the bar, turning her to face him. “Grace Benedict, how many times do I have to tell you? I love you. We belong together. We’re a couple.”
“We’re not a couple as long as you’re still married, Michael.”
He cupped his palm around her cheek and stroked her temple with his thumb. “I didn’t want to tell you until I was certain,” he said in a whisper. “But I was just on the phone with Cynthia. I can’t have dinner with you tomorrow evening because I’m meeting her to finalize the divorce agreement.” He grinned broadly. “Now this will finally be over, and you and I—”
Relief surged through her, a cooling, cleansing wave. She had nothing to be jealous about. Michael loved her. And now, soon, they could be together—forever.
It was just as she had dreamed it would be. Well, almost. Certainly, marrying a divorced man hadn’t been on her wish list. But then, falling in love with Michael had changed her perspectives on a lot of things. After all, Cynthia had left him, not the other way around. He was the wounded party in this separation, the one who had been wronged.
