Saving Grace (36 page)

‘You
have
me back,’ she says when she has finished sieving, squashing the curds and lumps into the sieve with the back of a plastic spatula, up and down, side to side, until every drop has been squeezed out. ‘I am here, aren’t I?’

‘Physically, yes, but I want us to be together. As husband and wife.’ Grace stops then, looks up at him. ‘Do you mean back in your bed?’ She may have moved back to Sneden’s, but she cannot go back to the family bed, is sleeping instead in the guest room, filling it with her possessions in a bid to make herself feel more at home.

‘No!’ he says. ‘Well, yes! But no, that isn’t what I mean. I just . . . want you to forgive me.’

Grace looks down at the counter, at her hands, her thin gold wedding band, studded here and there with tiny diamonds, like the tiniest constellation of stars on her finger. ‘I have,’ she says. For it is true.

This life had made her so happy, for so many years, she had never wanted anything or anyone else. She had never thought to question her role, to question her happiness. Most of the time she truly felt that somewhere up high, perhaps to make up for the hell of her childhood, the gods, or angels, were smiling upon her.

She had been
charmed.
She led a
charmed
life. At least if you didn’t look too closely; at least if you pretended, as she did so well for so long, that if you put on a good enough act, it would make it so. But then the gods and angels had deserted her and she fell to the ground with a crash. And now? This is a decision of necessity. She has nowhere else to go, has to put her new life on hold until the house sells, until she knows where she will go next.

Nothing is the same. Harmont House has reached out via Sybil, letting Grace know they miss her and are thinking about her, but they don’t ask her back. It’s far too soon for that.

Not that Grace would go back; her hands are too full taking care of herself, trying to figure out the next right steps.

Ted goes back to the barn, irritated at having made no headway. Grace finishes making the porcini tartlets, sets the table, then takes the scraps outside for the chickens.

She sits on the bench by the chicken coop, watching her girls cluck gently around her legs, taking carrot peelings from her hand, setting the bowl down to clutch her wrap more tightly around herself to stave off the chill.

Pulling her mobile phone from her pocket, and scrolling through the numbers, she finds herself pressing Lydia’s, needing suddenly the comfort of Lydia’s voice; the comfort of home.

‘Grace!’ Hearing Lydia on the end of the phone has Grace’s shoulders sagging in relief. ‘What a lovely surprise!’

‘It’s so good to hear your voice.’ Grace blinks back the tears. ‘Where are you? What are you doing?’

Lydia laughs. ‘Do you want details?’

‘Yes! Details and descriptions. I want to feel as if I’m with you in Dorset.’

‘It’s not very interesting, I’m afraid. I’m at the kitchen table sorting through lots of boring old bills, which I will then take out to the post box. I just picked up some eggs from the farm, and I’m going to make on omelette for supper. What else can I tell you? I spoke to Robert earlier today and he’s invited me up to Scotland to stay, and as much as I adore those grandchildren of mine, I’m not sure, at this age, I can bear the noise and chaos. I might find an excuse and stay in that nice little bed-and-breakfast down the road from them. Haven’t spoken to Catherine, but Patrick has just arrived in the Lake District for the new film, and he suddenly has this fanciful idea of buying a cottage here in Dorset, down the road.’

Grace’s heart does a small skip. Of course Lydia was going to talk about Patrick. Grace wanted her to talk about Patrick, but still, at the mention of his name she couldn’t help but feel that jolt.

‘How is he?’ Grace keeps her voice light, but of course this isn’t what she wants to say.

Does he talk about me? is what she suddenly wants to say. Does he miss me? Does he think about me? Does he do what I have found myself unable to stop doing, waking up in the middle of the night and thinking about him? Replay every second we were together? Think about the way he laughs when he’s sitting across the table from me? The way he makes me feel? Does he even think about me at all or has he moved on? I don’t want to know, but I have to know . . . does he have someone else? Has he fallen in love? I need to know, at the very least, if he still misses me or whether those were empty words he just said in response to me.

‘Patrick? He’s . . . Patrick! Happy to be back on these shores, I think. Los Angeles was a tremendous amount of fun for him, but he needed, he said, to get back to reality. What about you, Gracie? What are you up to?’ Lydia says. ‘How is life back at the ranch?’

Grace pauses. At that moment, something falls into place for her. Something, finally, after this awful year, feels completely right.

‘Grace? Are you there?’

‘Yes. I’m here.’ She smiles, her heart light. ‘Lydia? How much are flights to England these days?’

T
he basket of eggs is overflowing today as Grace drops them off at Abbots, telling them to pay her next time, for today she is in a hurry, today she has to get back home and get the spare room ready for Clemmie and Luke’s visit, finish baking rhubarb and apple pies for the country market, figure out next week’s menu for the food truck she runs, driving all over Dorset and Somerset, feeding those who can’t afford to feed themselves.

She climbs into the ancient Deux Chevaux, scowling yet again at the rust on the driver’s door that she keeps meaning to take care of but hasn’t got around to, before pulling out onto Long Street and heading down Piddle Lane, delighting every few yards in how pretty the village of Cerne Abbas is, how lucky she is to live here, and how completely at home she has been made to feel.

Patrick found the house just weeks before Grace arrived. He collected her from Heathrow and drove her straight to Dorset, to the cottage in Cerne Abbas he had fallen in love with. He had exchanged contracts, he said, but had not yet completed, and if Grace absolutely hated it, he could afford to lose the down payment and move on.

There was never any talk of them doing anything other than live together. As soon as Grace phoned him and told him she was leaving Ted, that it was over, that she had been thinking of moving to Dorset
permanently
, they both knew this was the beginning of their future together. It didn’t need to be discussed, was an unspoken assumption – now that they had recognized everything Lydia said she had known her entire life: that they would spend the rest of their lives together.

Patrick drove up Long Street, pointing out all the wonderful places they would go – skittles at the Giant Inn, dinner by roaring log fires at the Royal Oak, Abbots for proper Dorset cream teas – Grace feeling partly terrified, partly excited, no longer settled in the world, no longer sure where to call home, only certain that it was not Sneden’s Landing. Not with Ted. Not anymore.

Up Piddle Lane, down a tiny cul-de-sac to a thatched story-book cottage backing onto farmland, horses grazing in the distance. Close enough for a brisk walk to the village, the house has been added on to over the years: a conservatory containing a large country kitchen with – joy of joys! – an Aga, a big kitchen table, and a sofa for the lurchers Patrick was determined to get now that he was back and settled in Dorset. Back to settle down with Grace.

Seventeenth-century beams stretched across the living room, a huge stone fireplace taking up one wall. The master bedroom was large and tucked under the eaves, window seats looking out over the fields.

‘You know, this isn’t
my
house,’ Patrick said that first day as Grace silently walked through the house, going into every room, breathing in the house’s history. ‘It’s
ours
.’

And Grace just nodded, knowing then that all these years of searching had, finally, brought her here. Brought her to a place where she no longer felt guilt at being a bad daughter, and then, as an adult, a wife who was never quite good enough.

Those years of searching had finally brought her home.

A
cross the pond, Marissa Weiss sits on her living-room sofa, apologizing for her nine-year-old constantly darting into the room to show off yet another elastic band bracelet she has made on the rainbow loom.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says to the woman sitting opposite her. ‘As you can see, we’re in desperate need of a babysitter, not to mention everything else.’

The woman laughs, calling the little girl over, complimenting her on the bracelet and asking if she might make one for her.

‘I know it’s not my job,’ she looks up at Marissa as the little girl skips out of the room, ‘but I adore children. I’m really happy to roll up my sleeves and do whatever needs to be done, and if that includes babysitting, that’s perfectly fine with me.’

Marissa shakes her head. ‘I’d love that, but my husband would kill me. You’re really here to help out with the running of our lives. Bill-paying, QuickBooks, organizing events, scheduling – both our schedules and the kids’. And then there are really mundane things too: taking the dog to the vet, going to the post office, shopping for office and household supplies. It really is a little bit of everything. You said you were well versed in running this kind of household. Can you perhaps tell me a little more about what you’re looking for, Liz?’

She looks at the woman expectantly, although she already knows she will employ her. She is perfect. A little plain, a little frumpy, she has a sweetness and eagerness about her that Marissa finds appealing.

The last assistant had been a glamourpuss and Marissa had never felt comfortable having her in the house. She and Jack would laugh about the outfits – the skirts got shorter and the heels grew higher week after week – but each time she saw Jack and the assistant having a conversation, she grew nervous. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Jack, but she didn’t trust the assistant.

Since then, she had tried out a number of different women. There was the Brazilian girl who was lovely, but her energy was so frenetic, so nervous, it put everyone on edge; the girl who came with glowing references but had no initiative whatsoever and, Marissa joked, turned stupidity into an art form. Then there was the one who had been efficient and organized, but who had demanded they double her pay after a month as she hadn’t realized what the job entailed, and she was “effectively COO of your company”.

They had despaired, until placing an ad in the
New York Times
, and receiving Liz’s résumé. She had all the right qualifications, seemed to be exceptionally bright and well read, and clearly knew the job inside out. Her references were wonderful, although Marissa liked to think that references were never as important as her gut feeling. Marissa can generally tell what someone is like within the first minute and her instincts about people are never wrong.

Jack teases her about it all the time, particularly after she has got it wrong so many times in recent months. He wanted to be involved in the interview process after the last few disasters, but he is always travelling. His job in wealth management sees him meeting with clients all over the country. He regularly leaves their San Francisco home to travel across the coast, often for days at a time. That’s why they need an assistant – with three children and a travelling husband, there’s no way Marissa can handle all the household things on her own.

‘The first thing you have to know about me,’ Liz says sweetly, ‘is that I love doing this work. I live to help people and nothing gives me more satisfaction than organizing someone’s life and keeping everything running smoothly. My job, as far as I see it, is to make your life easy, and I will do whatever it takes to make that happen. That’s what gives me pleasure.’

Marissa almost sighs in delight. ‘And you don’t think it’s too much for you? You think you can handle all the different things? Even the menial tasks?’

‘Absolutely,’ nods Liz. ‘I am happiest when I’m busy.’

Marissa sits back. ‘Well.’ She smiles. ‘I will obviously be checking your references, but I’m wondering whether we shouldn’t just dive in and give it a go? I always think the only way to see if it’s a fit is to start working together and see if we like each other.’

Liz smiles then, as Marissa stares. How odd that such a plain girl could be transformed into such a pretty one when she smiles. ‘How does that sound?’ asks Marissa, beguiled by the smile.

‘Perfect,’ says Liz. ‘I promise you, you won’t be disappointed. If there’s anything you need me to do now, I could even help today. I have availability this afternoon.’

‘No, no,’ Marissa starts, before realizing she does have to pick up a prescription and she has run out of milk, which she needs for breakfast tomorrow morning, and she hadn’t been planning on leaving the house again. ‘Actually . . . I know this is the most mundane thing in the world, but is there any chance you might be able to pick up a couple of things for me?’