Under Contract (The GEG Series) (20 page)

Deep breath.

I cut the engine, staring at Gram’s garage. I open my door, fighting the urge—my cowardice, really—to rev the engine back up and leave.

No. I need answers.

She must know where he is, or at least that he’s safe. Christ, let him be okay.

Two weeks.

Two weeks of no communication on his part. I’ve called. I’ve texted. I’ve emailed. I’ve Skyped. I’ve Face Timed. I’ve done everything short of sending a fucking pigeon.

No reply. Nothing.

Before I can knock on the door, Maggie opens it and gives me her welcoming smile.

“Hi, Maggie!” I hug her.

“Hello, baby girl ... we been expectin’ you!” She pats my shoulder.

“You have?” I pull my head back from the hug.

“Child,” she says, like it’s the longest word in the dictionary, “she done told me this mornin’ you was fixin’ to come up here.” Her eyes look up to the Heavens.

“Right,” I say. Gram the Great and her magic crystal ball have struck again!

“You’d think she be givin’ me my numbers by now, so I can gets me a lady in waitin’.” She bats her eyes at me and I can’t help but chuckle.

“Oh, but Maggie, where would that leave her?” I say, horrified in Gram’s defense.

“See—that’s exactly why she won’t give me my damn numbers!” She shakes her head as she leads me to Gram.

Gram welcomes me with a gracious smile, only it doesn’t hit her eyes. They are sad. Sad, I bet, because she knows why I’m here. This is exactly why I wanted to leave the moment I arrived. I could feel it in my bones—she’s going to tell me something I don’t want to hear. My tears have manned their stations. My chin quivers, allowing the first wave of drops to fall out of their respective pools.

Feeling paralyzed, all I can do is stand there, signing “Why?” She waves me over and pats the chair Mitch and I snuggled into the last time I was here. My legs—though they feel like Jell-O—finally move. I sit and she takes my hands in hers. She squeezes and rubs her soft, manicured thumbs across the top of my hand before releasing. “I’ll start with this,” she signs, then lifts a large scrapbook from her lap and places it on mine. She gives me an encouraging nod when I show my confusion.

I look down and open it.

The first page has a baby picture of Mitch that I’ve seen before in her albums, but I don’t know who the other baby picture belongs to. I look up at Gram. She waves her hand for me to continue. The next pages have toddler pictures, then elementary school. I don’t get it. Who is this girl?
Sister?
Ah—sister!

I ask Gram. She shakes her head. “Who?” I ask. She signs “Kelly.” Turning the page, I find high school pictures.

The prom.

They were together. Kelly was his girlfriend.

Turn the page.

From his MIT sweatshirt and her Tufts, I guess college years. They stayed local. Well, those are two of the best schools in the country.

Turn the page.

They graduated from college. She also graduated to fiancée. My breath hastens to keep pace with my rapid heartbeats.

Turn the page.

Kelly became his wife.

They were so young.

I study the various photos.

They were so in love.

Turn the page.

Wedding reception.

Turn the page.

My breath hitches.

An ultrasound picture, next to a photo of Kelly holding up a sign that says “six weeks” next to her flat belly. She’s smiling from ear to ear.
She’s so beautiful.
Weeks seven ... eight ... nine ... so on and so forth, all the way up to week twenty-four.

“Is there another book?” I ask Gram, looking up. Her eyes are full of tears as she shakes her head and hands me an envelope. I give her a quizzical look. She takes in a hiccup-y sigh and grabs a tissue.

I look down at the envelope and carefully open it. Pulling out a yellowed, folded-up newspaper article, my belly clenches, telling me I don’t want to open it. My fingers don’t listen.

Oh God.

PREGNANT ANDOVER WOMAN KILLED BY DRUNK DRIVER

Kelly Colton, 24, was driving home from her parents’ house when her car was allegedly struck by Craig Taylor, 35, of Wilmington. Mr. Taylor was going approximately 85 miles per hour with a blood alcohol level of 1.6; twice the legal limit. Mrs. Colton died on impact, as well as her unborn child. She was five months pregnant.

I put the article down. I couldn’t read anymore if I wanted to. My tears won’t let me. I close my eyes and suddenly flash back to the night I spent with Mitch at his house. His behavior upon my earlier-than-expected arrival all makes sense now.
“How fucking fast were you flying? ... If anything ever happened to you, baby.”
I gasp. Oh God, does it all make sense now! But ...

“Gram, I haven’t heard from him in two weeks. I don’t understand why he won’t talk to me. Everything was fine, and then ... nothing.” I search her eyes for an answer ... an idea ... anything. She nods in agreement and inhales deeply.

“Kelly,” she signs, “was his world. They were crazy in love, and settled into that love. They were very young, but their love was old,” she says. I stare at her blankly. She rolls her eyes at me. Wait! She rolled her eyes at me?
Ouch, Gram.

“By the time they wed, it was like they had been married for years already,” she explains. “They were comfortable and settled into their feelings for each other.” I understand now, thinking of my parents. “When Kelly died, and the baby ... it changed him. Understandably so, of course. Instead of pulling strength from family and friends, he pushed everyone away. Eventually, everyone gave up—except us, of course. He poured himself into work—successfully, as you know.”

I half smile and wait for her to continue. I don’t know how it’s possible, but apparently, sign language comes equipped with its own brand of “awkward silence.” Gram seems content, though, as if she got a load off of her chest.

Me?

I’m still waiting ... like a fucking asshole.

“What does this have to do with him not talking to me?” My hands show my frustration, flying into action with the words I spit out.

“Oh,” she mouths, and chuckles at herself in embarrassment. “Sorry,” she signs, and adjusts herself in her seat. I give her a curt smile because it’s much more polite than what I want to do for forgetting the “me” part of this story. I’m not mad at her, really—just frustrated with everything.

“He came to visit me after he met you, and I knew.” She smiles. “I knew he met the one ... well, the other one.” She winks at me. I humor her with a smile. “I saw something in my grandson I haven’t seen in almost twenty years.” Her eyes fill up.

Christ, I didn’t even do the math before. My Mitch has been alone for almost twenty years. Well, in the affairs-of-the-heart department. She continues to tell me how she interrupted him mid-sentence to ask my name, and after saying it, he went right back to what he was talking about. I was the only girl he’d brought home since Kelly. How happy he’s been since I walked into his life. That he’s his old, genuine self again.

“Then ...” she signs.

“Then what?” I ask.

“Two weeks ago, he started talking about Kelly and Isabella, wanting to start another foundation in their names.” She shakes her head.

Isabella? Oh.
I think of how he was with Brooky, and my heart breaks a little more.

“I said that was nice, and then I asked about you. He gave me a quick ‘she’s fine’ and carried on. For the past two weeks, all he’s talked about is Kelly and all their memories. I ask him about you, and he changes the subject. Finally, the other day, I asked him why he didn’t talk about you anymore. He just said, ‘Gram—it’s over—let it go.’”

I gasp at this and look around frantically. I’m pretty sure a brown paper bag should magically appear at this point, as I am in the beginning stages of hyperventilating.

“I don’t get it! I don’t understand!” I look at her, bewildered. “I don’t think I did or said anything wrong.” She shakes her head and grabs my hand.

“It’s guilt,” she says. “I think one day, probably weeks ago, he realized he was thinking more about you and less about Kelly.”

“So, he’s pushing me away?”

“Yes.”

“What should I do?” I shake my hands frantically. I don’t want to lose him. I ... I care deeply about him.

“Don’t let him get away with it. Be patient. Be persistent. Be his light out of the darkness. Please, Charlotte, he loves you. Don’t give up on him.”

“Love?” I shake my head.

“Yes! He’s loved you from the moment he met you. I know my grandson.”

Mitch was right—she can be so loud.

“You know, I know a thing or two about a thing or two, so don’t scoff at me when I say that you love him, too!”

I scoff.

She smacks my legs and stares daggers at me. “If you didn’t love him, you wouldn’t be here!” she adds.

I look at the floor, and despite my efforts, feel my face contort into “ugly cry” face. Once you’ve converted to “ugly cry” face, there’s no coming back from it for at least an hour. Gram smacks my knee and I glance up.

She smiles. “I’ve got a plan!”

“What is it?” I ask, feeling some hope resurface.

“Wednesday night—take me to bingo!” She taps my lap, her smile huge.

“Gram, no offense, but you’re ninety. Going to bingo is not a plan—it’s a staple.”

“Smartass!” she signs, then adds in an extra gesture.

I’ll pretend to not have noticed—ahem.

“What’s this brilliant plan of yours?”

“I usually talk to him on Spike during intermission, remember?” She taps my knee again.

She’s a tapper.

“It’s Skype, and yes, I remember.” I remember being confused as hell when she started playing this “Horse” game. I started marking my board and she tapped me to stop. “Horse” is a separate game from bingo, but has to do with it and the little cards they get people to buy stacks and stacks of. I’d explain it to you, only I’m still confused by it!

“Well, we’re going to plant a seed.” She smiles and winks.

I fight the urge to ask “What’chu talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?” because it may lose its thunder by the time I’m done signing and she may not get it anyway. “Seed?” I question instead.

“You’ll see.” She rubs her palms together with a smirk. No Dr. Evil laugh ensues, though it would be perfect timing.

“Fuck ...” I say under my breath as I stare into a sea of curly white-haired ladies. I pull my cell out and go into my grocery list, suddenly remembering something to add.

19.
Q-tips

I bring my focus back to pushing Gram’s wheelchair as she is convulses in it, pointing out prime seating for us.

I see the reason for this state of urgency.

Agnes McAlister of the Andover McAlisters (she actually introduced herself that way last time) is breaking a sweat pushing her tennis-balled walker, with her new hip and an abundance of determination.

And ...

She’s making a beeline for our hot (I can’t believe no one snatched these puppies up yet) seats. My heart races as I map out the quickest way to cut Agnes off and get there first.

Oh, the pressure ...