already dialing the number, Grace backed out of the office. She grabbed her coat from the hall closet where Kathleen had hung it, then rushed outside.
The bite of early April made her think again of Florida. She might still persuade Kathleen to go. Or perhaps to the Caribbean or Mexico. Anywhere warm and relaxed. And once she had her out of town, away from the worst of the pressure, they could really talk. If that failed, Grace had memorized the names of the three doctors that appeared on the labels of the bottles of pills. She’d go to them.
Still struggling into her coat, she knocked at Ed’s door.
“I know I’m early,” she said as soon as he’d opened it. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought we could have a drink first. Can I come in?”
“Sure.” He stepped back, understanding she didn’t want an answer to any question but the last. “You okay?”
“It shows?” With a half laugh she brushed her tumbled hair away from her face. “I had a fight with my sister, that’s all. We’ve never been able to go more than a week without words. Usually my fault.”
“Fights are usually two people’s fault.”
“Not when they’re with me.” It would be too easy to open up and let it pour. He had the kind of eyes that spoke of comfort and understanding. But this was family business. Deliberately she turned to look at the house. “This is wonderful.”
Grace looked beyond the peeling wallpaper and stacks of lumber to the size and scope of the room. She saw the height of the ceiling rather than the chipped plaster, andthe beauty of the old hardwood floor beneath the stains and scratches.
“I haven’t gotten to this room yet.” But in his mind’s eye, he’d already seen it finished. “The kitchen was my first priority.”
“It’s always mine.” She smiled and held out a hand. “Well, are you going to show me?”
“Sure, if you want.” It was strange, but usually he felt as though he swallowed up a woman’s hand. Hers was small and slim, but it held firmly in his. She glanced at the staircase as they passed.
“Once you strip that wood, you’re going to have something really special. I love these old houses with all these rooms stacked on top of each other. It’s funny, because my condo in New York is practically one huge room, and I’m very comfortable there, but … oh, this is terrific.”
He’d torn out, scraped, steamed, and rebuilt. The kitchen was the result of nearly two months of work. As far as Grace was concerned, whatever astronomical amount of time he’d put into it was worth every moment. The counters were a dark rose, a color she wouldn’t have expected a man to appreciate. He’d painted the cabinets in a mint green for contrast. The appliances were stark white and straight out of the forties. There was a brick hearth and oven that had been lovingly restored. There must have been old linoleum to scrape up, but now the floor was oak.
“Nineteen-forty-five, the war’s over, and living in America couldn’t be better. I love it. Where did you find this stove?”
It was strange how right she looked there, with her hair frizzed and flyaway and her coat padded at the shoulders. “I, ah, there’s an antique store in Georgetown. There was hell to pay to get parts.”
“It’s terrific. Really terrific.” She could relax here, she thought, as she leaned against the sink. It was white porcelain and reminded her of home and simpler times. Therewere little peat pots in the window with green sprigs already poking through. “What are you growing here?”
“Some herbs.”
“Herbs? Like rosemary and stuff?”
“And stuff. When I get a chance I want to clear a little spot in the yard.”
Glancing out the window, she saw where he’d been working the day before. It was appealing to her to imagine a little herb garden springing up, though she didn’t know thyme from oregano. Herbs in the window, candles on the table. It would be a happy house, not stilted and tense like
The bite of early April made her think again of Florida. She might still persuade Kathleen to go. Or perhaps to the Caribbean or Mexico. Anywhere warm and relaxed. And once she had her out of town, away from the worst of the pressure, they could really talk. If that failed, Grace had memorized the names of the three doctors that appeared on the labels of the bottles of pills. She’d go to them.
Still struggling into her coat, she knocked at Ed’s door.
“I know I’m early,” she said as soon as he’d opened it. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought we could have a drink first. Can I come in?”
“Sure.” He stepped back, understanding she didn’t want an answer to any question but the last. “You okay?”
“It shows?” With a half laugh she brushed her tumbled hair away from her face. “I had a fight with my sister, that’s all. We’ve never been able to go more than a week without words. Usually my fault.”
“Fights are usually two people’s fault.”
“Not when they’re with me.” It would be too easy to open up and let it pour. He had the kind of eyes that spoke of comfort and understanding. But this was family business. Deliberately she turned to look at the house. “This is wonderful.”
Grace looked beyond the peeling wallpaper and stacks of lumber to the size and scope of the room. She saw the height of the ceiling rather than the chipped plaster, andthe beauty of the old hardwood floor beneath the stains and scratches.
“I haven’t gotten to this room yet.” But in his mind’s eye, he’d already seen it finished. “The kitchen was my first priority.”
“It’s always mine.” She smiled and held out a hand. “Well, are you going to show me?”
“Sure, if you want.” It was strange, but usually he felt as though he swallowed up a woman’s hand. Hers was small and slim, but it held firmly in his. She glanced at the staircase as they passed.
“Once you strip that wood, you’re going to have something really special. I love these old houses with all these rooms stacked on top of each other. It’s funny, because my condo in New York is practically one huge room, and I’m very comfortable there, but … oh, this is terrific.”
He’d torn out, scraped, steamed, and rebuilt. The kitchen was the result of nearly two months of work. As far as Grace was concerned, whatever astronomical amount of time he’d put into it was worth every moment. The counters were a dark rose, a color she wouldn’t have expected a man to appreciate. He’d painted the cabinets in a mint green for contrast. The appliances were stark white and straight out of the forties. There was a brick hearth and oven that had been lovingly restored. There must have been old linoleum to scrape up, but now the floor was oak.
“Nineteen-forty-five, the war’s over, and living in America couldn’t be better. I love it. Where did you find this stove?”
It was strange how right she looked there, with her hair frizzed and flyaway and her coat padded at the shoulders. “I, ah, there’s an antique store in Georgetown. There was hell to pay to get parts.”
“It’s terrific. Really terrific.” She could relax here, she thought, as she leaned against the sink. It was white porcelain and reminded her of home and simpler times. Therewere little peat pots in the window with green sprigs already poking through. “What are you growing here?”
“Some herbs.”
“Herbs? Like rosemary and stuff?”
“And stuff. When I get a chance I want to clear a little spot in the yard.”
Glancing out the window, she saw where he’d been working the day before. It was appealing to her to imagine a little herb garden springing up, though she didn’t know thyme from oregano. Herbs in the window, candles on the table. It would be a happy house, not stilted and tense like
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