Mourning Glory (39 page)

For the moment the sight stunned Sam into silence,
paralyzing his will. Then, panicked into movement, he ran to the water's edge,
his mind numbed by fear as he scanned the surface for some sign of life. He saw
nothing but the undulating ocean, heard no sound except that made by the surf
slapping the shoreline.

"There. There."

He looked toward the young girl. She was pointing to
something bobbing in the distance. Shielding his eyes from the now bright sun,
he squinted across the water and saw what seemed like a human head, bobbing
like a floating beach ball.

Moving quickly into the surf, he was toppled by the
undertow, then found himself struggling to reach the object, still moving above
the surface. Adrenaline charged him now. Was it Grace? Dear Grace? Sweet Grace?
What have I done?
All of his energy was focused on his mission. Please
God, let it be Grace.

It came as a burst of light, an explosion of sudden
discovery, an epiphany, as if she had awakened from a long slumber in the moist
darkness of a tomb ... or a womb.

Her mind groped for words, a sentence to describe what was
happening. This is the end of expectations. This is the death of all dreams.
This is the end of the future. This is the murder of hope.

Before, when she had, in that moment of insanity, jumped on
Darryl's hateful icon, bounced her foot on the ignition pedal, sped blindly
away into the sanctuary of the mist, she had felt only the prospect of ending,
of shutting down, of getting out.

All her faculties seemed acute. She felt no sense of
hysteria or panic. After all, she had chosen to take this ride into the beyond.
Beyond what? Beyond where?

Then suddenly, for no apparent reason, she had turned back,
let the motor slow, then idle. In the rising mist, she saw the three figures
emerging, heard voices whose words did not register except as blasts of anger,
which she returned in kind, working the motor's growl in response.

Desperation, she decided, had given her permission to do
this. Perched on the bike, she watched the three figures emerge more clearly,
but still she couldn't hear their voices, only the anger. Then they were fully
developed, visually whole. Her child devil, harvest of her bad seed, the beast
of hatred with the twisted cross of hate glinting in the sunbeams and the man,
that piece of flotsam, her last potential lifesaver, the ring-around-the-finger
man.

All nails in her coffin, she saw, feeling her lips curl in
what could pass for a smile, but which she knew was contrived as the last look
people might see, a frozen death mask of a smile. Then she saw the beast rise,
seize the child devil and, as she believed, slash the knife across her throat.

Well, then, she thought, here was the moment, the license
she had been seeking to kill the beast with his own weapon of choice.
Desperation had given her permission. Despair, after all, offered no options.
She had lost all the battles. What was one more to lose?

Then she had moved the monster forward, took dead aim. Her
first pass was a miss. Turning, she tried again, missed again. There were
voices, shouts, but she heard nothing except the sound of her own purpose.
It's
all over; what does it matter?

Suddenly he was behind her. She felt his weight on the
seat, and she was now aiming the monsters, both of them, directly into the sea.
She felt the first cut as she crossed the mudflat along the edge, then another
and another as she shot into the sea.

It toppled her swiftly and she was flopping in the angry
water, swallowing the salt sea. She felt something move beside her, a hand
grasping at her blouse, and when she opened her eyes she saw the metal-punched
swastikas still shiny and luminous, like tiny tropical fish, in the
sun-drenched silence of the water. She was moving downward, pulled by the
weight of his hand.

Why downward? Then her mind interpreted the reality; the
bike was sinking like a rock, settling in the mud of the ocean bottom. Above
her, she could see the sunlight above the water's surface. His hand still
grasped her blouse. She flailed at his closed fist, but the water inhibited any
power. Then she noted that the bike held him, a metal protrusion caught on the
buckle of his Nazi belt. He had grasped her to save himself.

She fought his grasp and tried to find the mystery of the
buckle, the undoing of it. But it held fast. Her fingers seemed useless. As she
worked, she could see his face, a desperate child's face now, his eyes pleading,
a fountain of bubbles spewing from his lips, his fist still tight around her
clothes.

Marshaling the last vestige of strength, she ripped apart
the buttons and slid out of the blouse, floating upward with bursting lungs,
punching into the sunlit air.

Sucking in air, she felt her chest lurch; then she gagged,
vomiting water. Disoriented, she imagined she noted that for some reason she
was floating in a pool of red. Sharp pains shot through her body as she forced
her head to stay above the surface, her eyes unfocused. Nausea and dizziness
assailed her, and soon she felt herself slipping, going down, then bobbing
upward just barely.

"Easy," a voice said. She felt hands pillow her.
"Relax, float. Let me...."

Her first thought was that someone was guiding her to
oblivion, a watery grave.

"I tried..." she whispered, engulfed by a sudden
blackness, a void.

"Just float," the voice said. "You're needed
here." Suddenly she was trembling with cold.

When consciousness seeped back into her mind she opened her
eyes to Sam's face.

"I'm here," Sam said, smiling. He patted her arm.
Looking toward it, she saw the IV plugged into a vein at the back of her hand.
She inspected her surroundings, her eyelids fluttering. Her gaze caught masses
of color. Flowers.

"Where's 'here'?" she asked.

"Hospital," Sam said.

Memory was returning in tiny tendrils. As she moved, her
back ached and pain shot through her. She saw Sam's face descend, then it was
out of focus, but she did feel a cool sudden weight on her forehead. A kiss.

"Close call, my darling," Sam said.

"Him?" she asked.

"Drowned," Sam said.

She shrugged, feeling a vague remorse, despite the memory
of her contempt.

"Jackie?"

"Waiting in the lounge. She's been here, staying at my
place."

She felt herself being plugged back into events.
Is this
where I want to be?
she wondered, then went blank again. But she could hear
his voice.

"You rest, Grace. Be back later."

When she awoke nice people in white came. A nurse moved her
bed up and she saw the room from a new angle. It was filled with flowers.

"Who from?" she whispered.

"'Love, Sam,'" the nurse said, her kindly face
very black against the white of the uniform. Then a doctor came by, checked her
pulse and put a cool hand on her cheek.

"Welcome back," he said.

"Back?"

"Palm Beach Memorial Hospital actually."

She tried to move, but the pain stopped her.

"Stitches," the doctor said. "Pain
bad?"

"Bearable," she said, remembering finally.

"The cuts were nasty, but nothing sliced beyond
repair. We put you together nicely. Call yourself lucky, lady." He
chuckled. "Mr. Goodwin here pulled you out. Saved you. He can fill you
in."

Again Sam's face came close, moved downward, and she felt
his cool lips on her forehead.

Later she felt stronger. A purpling in the sky told her the
sun was setting. With her eyes closed, she recalled the events in detail: the
madness on the beach, the motorcycle, the race into the sea. And before that,
what she had said to Sam, and the worst part, his reaction.

"Can you ever forgive me?" Sam said.

"Forgive you?"

They had brought in a tray and placed it before her—soup,
toast, tea. "You've been pretty out of it for three days. They say you'll
be okay."

"Do they? Then why do I feel still under the
water?" She felt a sudden urge to giggle, which she did. She winced with
pain. "He stabbed me."

"That he did. A number of times."

"He caught his belt buckle on his bike. I couldn't get
him loose." She remembered his face, his eyes pleading, the trail of
bubbles, the swastikas glistening.

"That part's over, Grace. And Jackie is confused, but
contrite. She's too embarrassed to come in now that you're feeling better.
She's ashamed. She seems to be comfortable at my place. I gave her my
daughter's old room."

"Beware of generosity, Sam. It can be unhealthy,"
Grace protested. It was all registering now, coming back fast.

"I know," Sam said.

"In a few days I'll be out of your hair. Get back to
my place. Find a job."

"I have one for you."

"Sorry, Sam. I can handle things on my own,"
Grace said. Her IV was out now and he was gently holding her hand. She felt his
grip tighten, but she made no move to extricate herself.

"Sorry, I'm taking charge," Sam said.

"No way."

"We'll talk later," Sam said.

"Now."

"You're still weak."

"I'm strong enough," Grace said, feeling her
anger begin. Then she crashed and closed her eyes again. Later, she warned
herself. She needed a clearer mind. Logic had disappeared.

Later was the next day when she was stronger, much
stronger. She had managed to sit up in bed when he came in first thing in the morning.
She had been thinking about things all night. It was inexplicable to her, but
the episode, her brush with death, had made her braver than before. What more
could happen?

He came in holding a bouquet of yellow roses and wearing a
big smile. His tan face looked handsome, his teeth white. He wore a kelly green
silk shirt and brought with him a happy, festive air.

She smiled at him and shook her head. "It's nice, but
it's not going to work."

"Is this another role you're playing?" he said.

"Everything about this was a role," she said.
"I spelled it all out. Were you listening?"

"I heard every word. Your deceit was very effective. I
was completely taken in. You fooled the hell out of me, Grace. I was stunned.
It was my son Bruce who blew the whistle. He had you investigated."

"Sorry, Sam. Guilty as charged. I was after your
money."

"Join the crowd," he said.

She shifted in the bed, wincing slightly.

"Shall I get the nurse?" he asked, concerned.

She shook her head.

"Jackie, then? She's been waiting in the hall outside.
We tried talking last night. This Darryl thing, what he did and said, has
stunned her. And nearly losing you. I'd say she needs professional help, Grace.
But now she needs you most of all. Shall I call her?"

Grace contemplated the answer. Not yet, she decided,
shaking her head.

"Is there any hope there, Sam?" Grace asked.

"There's always hope."

"I'm not optimistic," Grace sighed. She wasn't.
"People don't change."

"People change all the time."

"You're no expert, Sam."

"As you very powerfully illustrated."

She was quiet for a long moment, watching his eyes,
inspecting her.

"There were certain aspects that were sincere,
Sam."

"I have no doubt about that."

"The way to a man's heart is not always through his
stomach."

"Almost never." He smiled. "Message
received."

He continued to look into her eyes.

"And what is the way to a woman's heart?"

She let the question hang in the air.

"I want you to marry me, Grace," Sam said.

Her reaction was a pointed harrumph.

"After hearing my story? You've lost your mind."

"Yes or no?"

"No," she said, shaking her head to emphasize her
decision.

He looked puzzled.

"Are you still playing with my head?"

"You want honest. You're getting honest."

"But you said ... that stuff about protection. Well,
here I am, Sam Goodwin on his white steed come to rescue the maiden in
distress. You're joking, right?"

"No. I'm rejecting your offer."

"I love you. You said ... you loved me."

"You sound like a teenager."

"I feel like one. And I hate being rejected."

She saw that he was pouting, a real pout. He had discovered
that what he had mistaken for banter was dead serious. She had seen her course
clearly, although he was right about protection.

"Am I too old?"

"When you're eighty I'll still be nearly ten years
younger than you are now."

"You have a point. If I make eighty."

"What about the baggage I carry? A dysfunctional
daughter. And your kids. Obviously I will not be welcome with open arms. Who,
after all, put a private eye on my tail? Will your fancy friends accept me? I
doubt it. You'll be a laughingstock. Who is that treasure-hunting little,
ignorant, uneducated, rough lady Sam has on his arm? Look at the rock on her
finger. He's in his second childhood. He's gone senile. If she was a
spectacular beauty, well, maybe. He's entitled to a trophy wife...."

"Stop it, Grace," he said, raising his voice,
then softening. "Stop it, please. I'm not a total fool."

"You're too much of a romantic, Sam," she said.
"It makes you vulnerable, an easy mark. You need to be more hard-edged,
more on your guard."

"I have other priorities."

"Like what?"

"Quality time," he whispered. He watched her
through a long pause. "Love."

"You may be reading it wrong, Sam, putting too much
stress on the physical."

"Better than not enough." He shrugged, smiled and
winked.

"The comparisons will kill it, Sam. Your friends. Your
kids..."

"Anne is dead," he said, interrupting.

Anne again, Grace sighed, suddenly panicked by the memory
of the letters.

"Oh, my God," she cried, sitting higher in the
bed. She felt the stitches stretch. "My pocketbook."

He opened a drawer, pulled it out and gave it to her.

"I found it in my driveway."

With shaking fingers, she took it from him, opening it
quickly, then snapping it shut. She had glimpsed the letters.

"It's all there," he said.

"All?"

"Your wallet and keys. Some letters. It could only be
yours. I picked it up, checked the ID and brought it here."

"Did you..." She cleared her throat, felt words
forming on the tip of her tongue. Then she bit down on it, hard.
"Thanks," she said.

He continued to hold her hand.

"About the matter at hand," he said. "You
think I'm too much the romantic, then I'll talk turkey and make you an offer
you can't refuse. Here's the deal: Ring around your finger. No prenup. What's
mine is yours, what's yours is mine."

"Mine? I have nothing, Sam, but a screwed up
teenager."

"You're the real thing," Sam said, after a long
pause.

"The real thing?"

"It's about time," he said. His statement
confused her. What did he mean?

He bent over and kissed her gently on the lips. "It
all balances out, Grace. Think of our arrangement as a depletion
allowance." When she frowned he said, "Oil. The devil is in the
details."

She felt herself fading again.

"You rest," he said. "I'll be outside."

He started for the door, stopped.

"I'm selling as hard as I can, Grace," Sam said
before leaving the room.

She nodded and closed her eyes. Then quickly opened them
again. Reaching for her pocketbook, she opened the clasp and took out the
letters, inspected them. There were no signs of their being tampered with. She
arranged them chronologically again, then opened the first letter.

"Darling," it began. "My mind can barely
accept this..."

She checked the envelope again. This was the last letter.
It was placed in the envelope of the first one.
Thinks he's the clever one,
she thought. Now she understood what he meant by "the real thing."
Compared to Anne.

She lay for a while, her eyes closed, then felt a sudden
surge of energy. She pressed the nurse's button. The nurse's voice responded.

"Tell Mr. Goodwin I'm ready to see him again. And yes,
he can bring in my daughter."

Ring around her finger, she whispered to herself, laughing.
The stitches hurt, but she didn't care.