Finding Grace (8 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

I haven't exactly found Grace. But I've found her name, which is close.

I stare at the chart for a long time. Goosebumps pop up on my arms. Then I start to wonder what's happened to Mr. Trout. I take my books up to the desk and look for a piece of paper and a pen so I can write down the titles of my books.

His desk is cluttered with books, paper, cards, and tape. I rummage around for a pen and, under a stack of paper, I find a school exercise book with
Summer Reading Club
written on the front in black felt pen. I open it. On the first page is a handwritten list of names with addresses and phone numbers.

My heart pounds as I scan the list. There she is, a third of the way down. Grace Donnely. It's her, all right. Underneath her name, it says c/o Eve Williams. That must be her great-aunt.

By the time Mr. Trout calls out a cheery, “I'm back!” I've memorized the address: 56 Raven Road.

• • • • •

Raven Road is full of potholes and shaded by trees. I pedal past number 56 three times, faster than a speeding bullet so that I'll be a blur to anyone who might be looking out one of the windows. My library books bump up and down in the rickety wicker basket on the front of the bike.

Each time I whiz past, I gather a few more details.

I can only see part of the house because it's behind a tall overgrown hedge. It looks old. It's covered in gray-blue shingles. A cement walk with bushes smothered in pink roses on each side leads up to a front porch.

Whoosh!
I blast by again.

There's a couch on the porch.

A tire hanging from a tree.

A lace curtain blowing out an upstairs window.

Fifth time. My legs are pumping. Sweat is trickling down my forehead because it's still so hot.

This time I slow down, but just a bit.

“Why do you keep going past my house?” a voice calls out from somewhere behind the hedge.

That distracts me.

BIG TIME.

So I don't see the cat until it streaks across the road, right in front of me. It's black and gold and longhaired. Holy Toledo! It's Jingle, come back to life!

I swerve to miss it. My front tire hits a pile of loose gravel. The bike sweeps out from under me and I crash to the ground.

My hands sting, there's dirt in my mouth, my right knee is on fire, and something warm is gushing down my leg. My instinct is to curl up in a ball and die. I moan and close my eyes.

“Are you all right?”

A girl with curly brown hair and blue eyes is standing beside me. She's wearing a red bathing suit. It's the girl in the photograph. It's Grace.

Cripes. This is not how I imagined I would meet my twin. Lying on the ground, dirty, sweaty, and bleeding to death.

“Are you all right?” she says again.

I can't get a single sound to come out of my mouth. Not even a squeak. I know that I'm gaping like a fish. I stand up slowly and clap my hand over my knee to try to stop the bleeding.

Grace picks up my bike. The chain is dragging on the ground. The library books have slid into the ditch, and she gets them and puts them back in the basket.

We both stare at my leg. There's a river of blood gushing through my fingers, all the way to my running shoe, which is turning red.

“You better come in and get some Band-Aids,” Grace says.

She's going to think I have a serious talking problem if I don't say something.

I swallow. “Okay,” I manage to mumble.

Grace wheels my bike to the side of the road and leans it against the hedge. I stumble after her, along the cement walk between the pink roses and up the steps onto the porch.

“On second thought, wait here,” Grace says, looking at my dripping leg. “I'll be right back.”

I glance around while she is gone. I can see the inside of the yard now, the part behind the hedge. It's a big square of grass that looks like it needs to be mowed. Half is shaded and half is in the sun. On the sunny side, there's a blue blanket with an open book lying on it.

Grace comes back with a wet cloth and a box of Band-Aids. I ease my hand off my knee and inspect the damage. It's stopped bleeding, but there's an awful lot of gravel mushed into my skin. I dab at it, but that kills, so instead I scrub off the blood that's drying on my shin.

I stick four Band-Aids across my knee, crisscross. And a couple on the palms of my hands, which are scraped but not bleeding.

“By the way, I'm Grace Donnely,” Grace says.

“Er, I'm Hope King.”

Grace's face doesn't change at all. She's never heard of me.

“I'm staying at the hotel,” I volunteer.

“Did you know you're shaking?” Grace says. “And you look awfully white. It could be shock. Maybe I should get you some water.”

“I don't want to be a bother,” I say.

“No problem,” Grace says. “This is the most interesting thing that's happened all week.” She sighs. “That just goes to show you how boring my summer is.”

When Grace comes back with the water, she waits while I take a sip. Then she gives me what you could only call a penetrating look. “So why were you staring at my house?”

I get very busy with my glass of water. I can feel my cheeks turning hot.

“There's a hole in the hedge,” she says. “I saw you go by. Five times.”

“I was looking at
all
the houses,” I say. “Not just yours. I like looking at houses.”

I change the subject quickly. “What are you reading?”

“I wasn't reading,” Grace says. “I was pretending to read. Actually, I was just working on my tan.”

She pulls back a bathing suit strap to show me. I admire her tan line. She's much browner than me.

There's a tiny embarrassing silence.

If I can't think of something to say, I'll have to go and after all this trouble to find her, I
can't
go yet.

“Why were you pretending to read?” I say desperately.

Grace shrugs. “It's a deal I made with my aunt. If I get a star on this stupid chart at the library, then she'll take me to the Aga.”

“What's the Aga?”

“The Aga Theater in Agassiz.
My Friend Flicka
is showing next week. I
have
to see it!”

Grace sighs. “She doesn't trust me so I have to write a book report. I'm doing this book called
Jane of Lantern Hill
. I've read the first chapter and the last chapter. But I need to know something that happens in the middle before I can write the stupid report.”

“
Jane of Lantern Hill?
” I gasp. “That is my all-time favorite book!”

“Really?” Grace sounds like I've just admitted to liking eating ants. “Nothing happens in it. At least in those two chapters.”

“Nothing happens in it?” I'm practically screeching. “Jane goes to live with her father who she hasn't seen since she was a baby and they have this adorable house at Lantern Hill and she meets the Jimmy Johns and she captures an escaped lion and Jane just
hates
her Dad's sister Aunt Irene and I hate her too and…”

I stop for a breath. Yikes! I'm turning into Daphne.

Grace's mouth is hanging open, “Wow,” she says. “You should write the book report for me.”

We stare at each other.

Grace glances at her watch. “Darn, I have to get ready to go babysitting.”

There's a glint in her blue eyes. “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Grace has Bible Camp in the morning. We arrange to meet at her house after lunch to work on the book report. I can't face wrestling with a greasy chain, so I wheel the bike back to the hotel.

All the way, this voice is screaming in my head.
You've found her! You've found Grace!

To be honest, I'm a little shocked that she doesn't like to read. But who cares? There are a billion other things we're going to have in common.

I'm bursting to tell Mom about Grace, but she's out somewhere, probably having coffee with Daphne. I peel off the Band-Aids and soak in the bathtub until all the gravel has washed out of my knee. Then I fill the sink with water and scrub my bloody running shoe with a bar of soap.

The gift shop sells Band-Aids, so I buy a box from the lady with the pink glasses, who clucks over me like a mother hen. I sink into an armchair in the lounge and apply them like crazy. Then I hobble over to the tea table and load up a plate with chocolate chip cookies.

My wet running shoe makes a squelchy sound and feels yucky, my knee is stinging, and my shoulders are sunburnt. But I can't stop grinning.

Mom comes in just as I've finished eating.

I leap up without thinking, wince, and then limp over to meet her.

“I've been out walking,” she says, smiling. “A cup of tea – ”

“I've found her! I've found Grace! Mom, I
talked
to her!”

Mom's eyes grow as round as saucers. Then they turn glassy. Then she crumples to the floor in a dead faint.

The lady with the pink glasses rushes over from the gift shop. The doorman stops manning the door and sprints to Mom's side. Some guests gather around.

Everyone has suggestions. Get some water. Call a doctor. Give her room to breathe. I fly into a total panic. What if I've given Mom a stroke, like what happened to Granny?

In the middle of all this, Mom opens her eyes. She blinks a few times and everyone sighs with relief.

I would be mortified to be lying on the floor with a bunch of people staring at me, but Mom is very dignified about the whole thing. The doorman helps her stand up and Mom thanks him and tells everyone that she is fine.

I hear a guest mutter, “Too much sun,” and then the excitement is over and people go back to what they were doing.

Mom is swaying and she hangs onto my arm. I help her over to the couch by the fireplace and get her a cup of tea. Mom takes a long sip. She says, “Tell me everything.”

I tell her
almost
everything. I don't tell her the part about me writing Grace's book report. It makes Grace sound, well, dishonest.

When I've finished, Mom frowns. “She was home by herself? Wasn't her aunt there?”

“I don't know,” I say. “I never saw any aunt.”

Mom's voice gets a little higher. “I don't like Grace being there by herself.”

“Mom! She's eleven years old! I stay home by myself all the time.”

“That's different,” Mom says. “That's the city where's there's lots of people around. And you said she's going baby-sitting? She's too young to babysit.”

“I would babysit too,” I point out, “If I knew any babies.”

This isn't going great. Finding Grace is supposed to make Mom feel better.

“Did she look too thin?” Mom says.

“No.”

“Did she look happy?”

I think about how Grace's aunt is making her write a book report, which is way too much like school, and how Grace said her summer was so boring. I cross my fingers. “Yes.”

“The polio…” Mom whispers.

“I couldn't really tell anything.”

Mom finally relaxes.

“We'll go to The Copper Room for dinner tonight,” she says. “We'll celebrate!”

• • • • •

Mom and I dress up. I wear my green dress. Mom says it makes me look older, like a teenager, but in a good way. Mom wears her blue dress, which is the exact color of her eyes.

A waiter shows us to a round table near the dance floor. A man with a pointy white beard is playing the piano, a man dressed entirely in black is playing an instrument that Mom whispers is a saxophone, and a woman with frizzy hair is singing.

We study the menu for ages. “Holy Toledo!” I gasp when I see the prices, but Mom says firmly not to worry, this is a celebration. We order shrimp cocktails to start with, and roast beef. We're going to decide on desserts later. Mom has a glass of house wine and I have something called a Shirley Temple, which is pink and comes in a glass with a little paper umbrella.

A few couples are dancing. Mom taps her foot. I sip my Shirley Temple and look around. Most of the tables are full. I spot a man sitting by himself, reading his menu. It takes me a second to recognize him. It's Mr. Pinn!

“Granny's lawyer is over there,” I tell Mom. “Mr. Pinn.”

“Mr. Pinn?” Mom says. She sounds confused. “Here? Are you sure?”

“Right over there.” I point and Mr. Pinn looks up at that exact moment. He waves. Then he gets up and makes his way to our table. He's wearing a gray-striped suit and a fancy purple polka-dot tie.

“Flora,” he says. His face is bright red.

“Gerald,” Mom says. “What a surprise.”

Mr. Pinn turns even redder. “I've got a week's holidays and our conversations about Harrison Hot Springs made me realize how long it's been since I stayed here. So I thought, why not?”

“Why not?” Mom's face is red too. “Um, would you like to join us?”

“I'd be delighted! I'll just go back and get my glass of wine.”

We watch him thread his way back to his table.

“He likes you,” I say. “And he's quite good-looking.”

“What?”

“He likes you. That's why he came here. It's obvious.”

“No, he doesn't.”

“Yes, he does.”

“Doesn't,” Mom hisses as Mr. Pinn comes back. A waiter brings an extra set of cutlery and Mr. Pinn insists on ordering a whole bottle of wine and another Shirley Temple for me. “Drinks are on me,” he beams.

The wine is opened and tasted. I have never seen this done before. Mr. Pinn swishes it around in his mouth and looks thoughtful and then nods. Once it's poured, he says in a gallant voice, “Would you like to dance, Flora?”

Mr. Pinn is at least five inches shorter than Mom. He turns out to be a snappy dancer. He whirls Mom around the dance floor until she is breathless. Their feet fly. Mom's blue dress swirls; she looks gorgeous and everyone is staring at her.

By the time we've finished our roast beef, Mom and Mr. Pinn have danced five times. I've danced with Mr. Pinn twice. He told me exactly what to do, and it was easy! His polka-dot tie has come loose. He and Mom have polished off the bottle of wine. They're getting along like a house on fire. I'm not sure how I feel about this. The dancing was fun, but this is supposed to be
our
celebration. Mr. Pinn has butted in.

To my shock, halfway through our Baked Alaska desserts, Mom puts her fork down and tells Mr. Pinn about Grace. She tells him the whole story. Mr. Pinn hangs on every word, spellbound.

By the time she's finished, she's crying. “I'm a terrible mother,” she gulps.

“Oh no,” Mr. Pinn says. “No, no, no, no, no. Why, look at Hope here. She's a credit to you.”

Mom wipes her eyes.

Mr. Pinn says, “We need a toast.” He raises his wine glass. “To Grace.”

Mom and I lift our glasses. Mom gives me a wobbly smile.

“To Grace.”