The Third Grace (24 page)

The cake pan cools on the seat beside her as she drives the trail along the fence towards the giant's skull and turns west at the chokecherry bushes. She can see the tractor stopped in the field, Joel's truck half-parked behind its front end. As she bounces closer, she sees the tractor must have stalled; she can make out the booster cables tying the two vehicles together, but no Joel. He's not sitting in the cab of the tractor trying to restart the engine, and he's not under the open hood of the truck removing the cables.

Something doesn't look right. She rams her truck door open, adrenaline rushing, and catapults across the mounds of fallen stalks.

“Joel, are you okay? Joel!”

She doesn't spot him until she runs around the far side of the tractor, and knows in an instant that he neglected to put it into park when he got out to boost the battery. The tractor had pitched forward, its tires crushing Joel into the furrows of the ground between the swaths, pinning him from the waist down. His eyes are closed, his face blanched. His blood is making mud beneath him.

“No!” she screams as she falls on her knees beside him, grabbing his hand. Childhood horror stories screech through her mind—the neighbor who was rolled up alive by the baler, another who slipped into the chop grinder. This can't be happening to her brother. “Joel, talk to me!”

He opens his eyes then as if he's been waiting for her. Opens them wide this last time—clear and blue like the heavens above them—and he smiles at her.

“Sis,” he bleats faintly.

“I'll get Mom!” She's shouting. “Wait. Hold on, Joel!”

But he doesn't let go of her hand and he says to her, in a voice full of peace and awe, “It's okay, Mary Grace. François left for Paris last night and you'll be safe now.”

Then, with a final breath, his awareness of this life drains away through his eyes and she is left all alone under that wide blue sky.

Aglaia, in that same sacred, profaned, reclaimed field of sorrow fifteen years later, now buckled onto the earth where Joel gave up his life, his last words an unconsummated benediction: “You'll be safe now.”

She hadn't been safe after all. She prostrated herself on the ground before that burning bush of her worst memory and didn't arise for perhaps an hour—until the dampness of the soil seeped through her clothing and chilled her to the soul.

In the outer reception area of Incognito first thing Wednesday morning, Eb MacAdam shook the hands of two evaluators from Hollywood's RoundUp Studios. They were wearing business suits and introduced themselves as Jerry and John. Eb hid his amusement; denim would be more suited than Italian cashmere for representatives of a western movie. Had Aglaia been present, she'd likely have worn her bonny pink riding boots.

Eb led them into the conference room to avoid the clutter in his office.

“Please, sit down,” he encouraged them. “I'll have some tea—or coffee?—brought in.” He asked his young work-program volunteer from the local high school to brew a pot of Arabica and then returned to his chair. “Now gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

“We were impressed with the timely submission of your bid for the costuming contract, since the deadline isn't up for another few weeks,” the tall one, Jerry, said as he adjusted his tie.

“Incognito likes to keep on top of things.” Eb had sent the movie company an e-mail expressing interest as soon as the call for local companies was publicized, and had subsequently been invited to submit a bid on the costume package proposed by RoundUp's design professionals. In consultation with Incognito's parent office in Montreal, Eb spent long hours putting together the preliminary documentation and sent it off to California.

“If the quality indicated by your paperwork plays out in your workshop, you have an excellent chance at being awarded our contract.” John had hair close to Eb's in color, and creases around his eyes as though he laughed with his family.

“We just wanted to make your acquaintance and do an initial inspection,” Jerry said. “It's fortunate that we happened to be in town for a few days for preproduction exploration and could meet with you.”

Hardly fortunate, Eb thought. He knew from the society page blathering that PRU was throwing a dinner in honor of the Hollywood bigwigs this weekend, ostensibly as a gesture of civic hospitality but in unmitigated conflict of interest, as far as he was concerned.

“You're the first bidder we're reviewing, since yours is the only submission we've received so far, but we'll catch the others on our return to the area after the closing date,” John explained. “You're a strong candidate and we thought some dialogue was in order at this juncture.”

“I'd have loved to introduce you to our head designer, who's away on compassionate leave right now,” Eb said.

“Oh yes, that would be”—John flipped up a page of his dossier—“Aglaia Klassen?”

“That's right.”

In Eb's estimation, Aglaia was Incognito's greatest asset, and all the more so if they won this bid. Her artistic vision and her expertise in period fashions, her skill with all aspects of garment design and construction, and her stamina in working for long hours in a high-pressure environment—to say nothing of her brilliant native creativity, that finely honed, intuitive response of craft Eb so admired—equipped her to spearhead the operations.

He said as much to the men now and added, “Aglaia's practical experience includes membership in professional associations, extensive participation in stage costuming at the national level, and reception of several prestigious awards.”

“Yes, she's got some notches on her belt,” Jerry said, taking the file from his partner. “I see her work is even internationally represented—in Paris, at that. However our background checks show a real gap in her credentials. We want to be honest with you, Eb. Your company's up against some pretty well-educated competitors.”

“You're talking about Platte River University, I suppose,” Eb said. The older gent protested but Eb wasn't probing. “This isn't Hollywood. Our fishbowl is small enough that everyone here knows who's in the game. As far as Aglaia goes, she's got a concrete record of success that far outweighs theoretical learning. Her natural aptitude is highly regarded and we can provide recommendations from several organizations she's served.”

“With luck we'll be around again to meet her,” John said. “At any rate, your financials look solid but, as I'm sure you'll appreciate, our contracts aren't awarded on the basis of price alone. We like to get a good feel for our prospective suppliers on a project of this magnitude, where local, unknown companies like yours work in tandem with our own crews.”

Eb's familiarity in bidding for projects his branch had brokered thus far had been significantly less rigorous than RoundUp's demands, but then a lot of money was in play with this contract. He glanced over the list of evaluation criteria the visitors offered, and when the student brought in the coffee, Eb poured both men a cup. He passed sugar and cream to them and longed for a sip of Darjeeling or Ceylon, but contented himself with java. He answered their questions frankly and supported his claims with verifying records, hoping to convince them of Incognito's technical merit, flexibility in fulfilling on-the-job requirements, and sustainability of service objectives. They asked to view Aglaia's full portfolio, and after a short tour of the facility, they took their leave. Eb begged his student volunteer to make him a spot of tea and retreated to his office to put his feet up.

He'd done his best but there was no guarantee about the outcome of the bid Incognito had submitted. Headquarters, insisting that Eb pass all the applicatory information through them for vetting before submission, would criticize him for not introducing their Canadian point man through teleconference as requested—unless Eb won the contract. Then all would be forgotten on that front, and he and Aglaia could get down to work.

And work was what Eb prized—not for the way it occupied so much of his time but for the way costumes communicated meaning deeper than the physics of fabric and thread. Throughout history clothing spun a story; from the earliest record it wove its own plotline. Take the biblical record of Joseph, Eb thought as he tested the heat of the tea with the edge of his lip. Joseph was a dreamer like Aglaia whose dreams got him into trouble, too. His robe paralleled his life story: Given to him by his father as a mark of favored status, it was stripped away and used to fabricate his death, but Joseph was eventually adorned again with robes of royalty when he rose to great power as a political leader in Egypt.

The story encouraged Eb in his everyday work, even in this bidding process with RoundUp he was undergoing for the sake of Incognito and, particularly, for the sake of Aglaia.
You've stuck with humanity through thick and thin
, he said silently now to God,
in our affluence and our misery. You saw Adam and Eve shivering naked and wretched beneath fig leaves; you watched as Esau allowed his brother to swindle their father by putting on the hairy hide of a goat. If you exemplified your grace through costume in the days of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, then surely your grace extends to a couple of costume makers in twenty-first-century America.

D
r. Lou Chapman clicked away on her keyboard, sitting in front of her computer on the upper level of her immaculate condominium in downtown Denver on Wednesday morning. It was good to be home, much as she loved Paris. The flight delivered her refreshed on Sunday evening, almost two days later than the originally scheduled return, but she was in fine form for her lectures at the beginning of the week. She made time to meet with young Whitney for an invigorating discussion on Greek poetry, eliciting bits of personal information about her grandfather, the chancellor, for future reference. And then she took care of final details with the Oxford Hotel regarding the Friday night film-related festivities at the university. It was a satisfying beginning to her week and she could afford a day off.

Lou hit the print button for a hard copy of online map directions just acquired with some effort on her part. She'd leave on her road trip as soon as she got hold of Aglaia, who wasn't answering her apartment or cell phone although Lou had tried several times since returning home. She resorted to calling Incognito late yesterday and duped the receptionist into disclosing the information she needed, learning about the family health crisis and enough specifics regarding the farm's location to start her Internet search. She must ensure Aglaia's presence at the formal dinner; her nonattendance would be disastrous in light of this new honor Oliver managed to procure.

Lou had set aside her initial irritation over Aglaia's tantrum at the Louvre. True, the girl did leave her standing at the palace entry like a jilted lover. But Lou considered the bind her own impetuous joke had put her in—that is, the possibility Aglaia might run away from her offer of a job as resolutely as she was running from intimacy. Lou shouldn't have lied about finding François, shouldn't have set Aglaia up in front of the Three Graces. That was where she lost control of the situation. Her tactic had backfired, allowing the invisible François to succeed after all in coming between them by his very absence. He was a trickster bringing conflict to her as certainly as the deity of strife had caused the Trojan War—to use the story that François himself referred to in his last biblical commentary—and she hated him forcing her into a vanity-fuelled contest where the stakes were much higher than in some fabled battle.

But maybe all hope was not yet gone. A broken heart invited consolation, and Lou might yet catch Aglaia on the rebound. Since François was out of the picture for good, maybe the girl would take seriously the opportunity PRU presented. Lou dialed the telephone number of one Henry Klassen of Tiege, Nebraska. The phone rang eight or nine times before Aglaia answered, panting.

“Did I catch you exercising?” Lou kept her tone pleasant.

“Who's calling, please?”

“You don't recognize me? I'm hurt.”

Aglaia hesitated. “Lou. So you made it back home then.”

“Did I give you a scare?” That had partly been Lou's intention with her detained departure from France. She didn't make it a habit to miss flights; that got too costly for her salary, even augmented as it was by her credit cards. But she wasn't finished with Paris anyway—with Emmanuelle—by the time Aglaia left. Conveniently her new friend was a physician, albeit a pediatrician, who'd penned a convincing enough medical slip to guarantee Lou's seat in business class for her return trip. Reimbursement of her original fare would be almost automatic, thanks to the insurance policy she carried for just such emergencies. But missing the flight worked well into Lou's strategy to secure Aglaia's attention—if only to shake her up. A little respect was in order, Lou felt.

“I heard about your father. He's recovering well, I trust.”

“He'll live,” Aglaia said.

“I drove past your apartment complex last night and noticed your car was still in its stall, so I assume you'll need a ride home.”

“It's taken care of.”

Aglaia's unresponsiveness nettled Lou, so she got to the point before her own voice gave her away. “Listen, about that tiff over meeting François in the Louvre, I want to make amends for pulling the wool over your eyes.” Aglaia remained stoic. Lou swallowed, then persisted. “It was churlish of me. I shouldn't have taken the joke that far, I suppose. So I'm coming to fetch you back to the city.”

“No,” Aglaia said. “I told you I've made arrangements for a ride.”

“Nonsense. I have a map to both the Klassen and Enns places, thanks to satellite technology. I'll be there for you after lunch.”

Lou hung up her cordless before Aglaia could contradict her further. Today might be her last chance to promote the university job and ultimately influence the decision of the tenure committee. Her relationship with the girl needed restoration, and if that meant physically driving out to the sticks to haul Aglaia back to civilization, so be it. Whatever it would take, she was willing to do.

Lou folded the printout and slid it into her bag alongside the picture postcard of the Three Graces. That card was no longer blank on the backside; she'd used it as a notepad to record her English translation of the difficult French phrase she discovered in the book of Revelation when leafing through the Bible in Paris. Had Aglaia come upon the passage yet, annotated by François and now by Lou as well? The corner of the page had not been dog-eared like the others. Eventually Aglaia would find it and beg her for help in understanding it, and then Lou would give back the card. So she kept it at hand in her purse.

There was almost a metaphorical aspect to returning to Aglaia the postcard fallen from between the pages of that ridiculous Bible in her apartment only two weeks ago—the pagan Graces fallen from the prophetic Word like Lucifer cast down through the heavens from the very presence of the Lord, or Icarus with his wax feathers melting from flying too close to the sun. Well, it was time for her angel to flutter back to reality, Lou thought as she locked the condo door behind her as she left, and she was just the wind to blow Aglaia in the right direction.

Aglaia stood in Tina's kitchen holding the telephone receiver in her hand, the line dead. She'd heard the phone ringing through the open window as she sprinted the last few yards to the house in the oversized rubber boots, but now she was annoyed she'd bothered to answer, with the pain of Joel's death so newly re-enacted in her mind. Lou always had to have the last word.

They hadn't spoken since Aglaia's embarrassment in front of the Three Graces, when Lou scoffed at her credulity that François was coming at any moment, and taunted her with the threat of joblessness. Well, she wouldn't take the contempt any longer! She punched the buttons corresponding to the call display but Lou didn't pick up, and Aglaia didn't lower herself to leave an angry message. By the time she thought to root out her address book for Lou's cell number, she'd cooled off enough to reconsider her indignation.

Lou would be speeding along the I-76 towards her by now. Offending the professor by refusing the ride would be unwise, what with the career prospect Lou was brandishing and the impression Aglaia hoped to make at the upcoming university dinner. She mustn't be too hasty in slamming that door, though she wished for more time to mull over the pros and cons of the job offer.

Of course, Lou's apology for her atrocious behavior at the Louvre was insufficient. She was haughty and didn't know how to say she was sorry. Not that Aglaia cared much; she'd found François on her own anyway, a fact Lou didn't need to learn. But Aglaia wasn't interested in hanging around the farm longer than necessary, anyway, and a ride home by Lou might be her grey cloud's silver lining. She'd better not relinquish Lou's friendship altogether just yet.

Aglaia left the house again in search of Zephyr. Hunting that hunter could take a while, and she called his name into the hayloft and the chicken coop, the tall grass beneath the trees and the smokehouse—maybe he'd caught a residual meaty whiff embedded in walls of the hut generations ago. Finally she found him sunning himself out by the spring. She gathered him up, digging her nose into his warm fur as she carried him back to the house, but decided before entering to let him stay outside in his element. Lou wouldn't look favorably on a feline passenger, she was sure, and Zephyr could take care of himself for a while longer. The cat streaked off towards the barn, and she spent the next couple of hours washing sheets and the clothing borrowed from Sebastian.

Noon was approaching by the time Aglaia climbed into the shower and stood beneath the pulverizing stream, washing the sweat and sorrow from her skin. The hour spent mourning at the scene of Joel's demise had offered a partial cleansing of its own, though little solace. The blame she'd been placing on Joel for François's departure dissipated when she replayed his valor in the face of death, his selflessness in thinking his last thought of her. Holding a grudge against him was juvenile and she let it go today, there in the field. But it was only the first of many emotional matters that needed her consideration, not all of them concerning Joel.

For example, how was she to deal with the idea of François once again being a living, breathing entity in her life, no longer a memory for her to tailor according to her moods? She projected what their future communication might entail—perhaps pillow talk or more discussion on his view about the futility of existence. Somehow neither appealed to Aglaia, though she admitted her own life had her in a rut of Sisyphean proportions.

François argued he could shatter the boulder of traditions distasteful to him—moral virtues such as celibate self-restraint. If
she
had a boulder that needed smashing, it was her identification with this farm, which had given rise to her past faith and resulted in her present malaise. Aglaia's overriding aspiration to find success in the arts world had not as yet been an effective sledge hammer.

That brought her back to the subject of Lou, Aglaia thought as the hot water beat on her back and filled the room with a cloud. If she took the job as wardrobe consultant at Platte River University, maybe she'd finally feel on the inside as polished and urbane as Lou looked on the outside. Her job at Incognito lacked the prestige of the academic scene, and although Eb was an authentic friend who didn't play mind games, ingratiating herself to Lou could clinch the position at PRU. It came down to a question of Aglaia's values.

She swept aside the curtain to see her melting reflection in the mirror, her blurred visage a mask of tragedy as tears of condensation rolled down its shiny surface. She couldn't tell whether she felt dread, despondency, or simple discontent. She'd been jumping through hoops ever since Lou showed up unannounced at the airport. No, ever since Naomi demanded they get together for their first coffee. Or maybe it was since that summer fifteen years ago, when her affiliation with everyone in her life changed so drastically.

Come to think of it, when had she last been transparent with anyone, or even conscious of her own feelings—not just the sensations of the body like smell and taste, but the very sentiments of her spirit?

She toweled off and smeared buttery lotion onto her legs and arms, regarding her reflection. She smoothed the cream over her full breasts and the silky skin of her thighs, and defied François's Thalia or Euphrosyne to live up to her. For all her vacillation, she still wanted him to think her the most beautiful.

Aglaia turned off the bathroom fan and heard a banging at the porch door. She answered it wrapped in a bath sheet, cracking the door open while leaving the chain fastened (a city habit now entrenched) and blocking Naomi's view of the kitchen floor and the Bible.

“I didn't know your parents even had a lock on their door.” Aglaia heard a tremor behind Naomi's words but saw the set of her jaw, the steel in her eye. “I must have called you five times in the last hour. Come on, get dressed. Soup's on, Byron's busy in the shop, the kids are in school, and the baby and Sarah are napping. I think we need a heart-to-heart chat.”

Aglaia sighed. There'd be no putting off Naomi's compulsion to talk, she could tell. “I'll be right out—I've got to pack up my things.” In particular, she thought of the Bible she'd kicked around the kitchen earlier. She didn't want Naomi going on at her about that. She wiggled into her clothes and, during the short jaunt over to Naomi's house, told her that Lou was coming from the city to drive her home.

Naomi frowned. “I'm glad we have a chance to talk before you leave, then. It's important.”

In the Enns house Aglaia dipped into her bowl of
Rintsupp
, beef broth scented with star anise and loaded with dumplings. She faced the window that opened onto the gravel driveway, expecting Lou's car within the hour. Aglaia wasn't ready for whatever Naomi wanted to discuss, though she could venture a guess about where it was heading.

“I thought we'd have another day together to talk about this,” Naomi said. “I tried to warn you when you called from Paris. It's hard to know how to bring the subject up with you, but I can't hold off any longer.” The apprehension in Naomi's eyes was unfamiliar. What scared her into such solemnity? “You know I care about you. I admire what you've done with your life—your career and living in the city and traveling all the way to France like that.”