Faking grace, p.29
Faking Grace, page 29
“Mind if we join you?” Jem asks.
“Puh-lease do,” the woman says, her southern accent tacking on an extra syllable. “I’m Buh-renda. And you are?”
“Jem.” She lowers her plate and drops into a chair. “This is my friend Maizy.”
“Nice to meet you, Jem, Maizy.”
It may take more muscles to frown, but the smile I aim at her nearly drains me. Attempting to distract my emotions, I peer into the bubbly red punch with its floating bits of oranges. My first Christmas party without alcohol. Not that I’m much of a drinker. It just seems odd that there should be this much merriment in the air without the assistance of wine or beer or something stronger.
I scan the revelers in search of signs that their spirits have been boosted by spirits, but they just look happy, regardless of whether they’re simply engaged in conversation or moving on the dance floor. So maybe that “something stronger” is just the fact that they’re among family, friends, and fellow believers, celebrating the birth of Christ.
I finger the cross necklace that I talked myself in and out of before clasping it around my neck as Jem and I went out the door. I’ve avoided wearing it for fear of appearing to do so merely to advertise my Christianity as I did the first time I put it on. I finally decided that I wanted to wear it—for me.
“Puh-retty necklace, dear,” the old woman says.
I look across the table. “Thank you.”
Brenda smiles—a nice, creased smile. “Did you two come alone?”
The question surprises me, but Jem takes it in stride. “Yes, but my boyfriend is supposed to meet me. He works here too.”
“And you, Maizy? No boyfriend?”
I’d be offended if she weren’t so old. Seventy-five or so? I open my mouth, but out of it—sort of—comes Jem’s voice.
“No boyfriend.” She sighs. “Poor thing.”
I gasp. “Jem!”
Peering at the old woman, she frowns. “A really sad case of unrequited love.”
Love? I never paired that word with Jack. And I don’t love him. Yes, I’m attracted, but attraction does not love make, especially when reciprocation is nipped in the bud by deceit. I wince, achingly aware that while I get to live with the consequences of my deceit, Jack gets a stunning redhead. Probably deeply Christian. And so successful she easily pays her bills. Doesn’t even carry a balance on her credit cards—
“See that?” Jem points at my brow. “The way her forehead wrinkles and she bites her lip? That means she’s thinking about him.”
“Jem!”
“It’s true.” She gives an impish grin and sucks sauce from her fingertips. “Just can’t get her mind off him.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but a side effect of having to log one’s lies to keep them straight is an acute awareness of the stealthy approach of one headed toward the lips.
With a sympathetic pout, Brenda pats my hand. “Buh-roke your heart, did he? The dirty dog.”
I nearly laugh at her affront. Instead I shake my head. “He’s not a dog, dirty or otherwise. It was my fault.”
“Oh.” Her wrinkles deepen but then smooth. Green eyes sparkle with such vitality that she suddenly seems decades younger. “Did you apologize?”
“She did.” Jem picks the crab stuffing from a mushroom and pops it in her mouth. Despite my annoyance with her, I’m pleased that she’s making a dent in her food—unlike me, and all because I’m having a personal conversation with a total stranger.
“He didn’t forgive you?” Once more Brenda sounds offended, and I could almost believe she’s my grandmother. But Grandma Grace is far away and will be farther yet when she and William (I hear wedding bells) embark on a Christmas cruise next week.
“Thinking about him again, are you?” Brenda shakes her head sadly.
Who is this woman?
She pats my hand again. “If you have given him the opportunity to forgive and he hasn’t taken it, he isn’t deserving. So it’s time for you to move on. Speaking of moving on”—she peers over her shoulder—“my guh-randson …”
The old “Have I got a grandson for you!” matchmaking scheme. Not good.
“He’s around somewhere …” Brenda turns her slightly tottering head. “I’m afraid he’s in much the same boat as your fuh-riend.” Her expression turns sympathetic. “Unrequited love. Well, maybe not love, but he liked this young woman. And now he has to work with her.”
“Well, Maizy knows all about—”
“Jem! Don’t you think Flyboy’s looking for you?”
She wrinkles her nose and addresses Brenda. “That would be my boyfriend. But don’t mind Maizy. She’s just jealous.”
Teasing—one of two disadvantages to having a good friend. As for the other, that would be said friend thinking she knows what’s best for me. “See you, Jem.”
“Okay, okay.” As she rises with her plate, she whispers in my ear. “Let me know how it goes with the grandson.”
I bristle, but since there’s concern in her eyes, I sigh. “Yeah, time to move on.”
She twirls away and merges with the throng.
“And then there were two.” Brenda sighs and once more looks around. “Where is that boy of mine?”
Boy. Probably younger than me. Though tempted to ask her grandson’s name, fear of encouraging her matchmaking makes me hold my tongue.
“Oh well. Tell me about this young man who buh-roke your heart.”
Back to that, are we? I should probably disengage, but where would that leave me? Alone. Besides, Brenda appears harmless, and it’s not as if I’ll see her again.
I adjust the skirt of my gown, spear a sausage puff, and regard the woman across the flaky morsel. “It hurt, but as for my heart … while there may be a few cracks, I’ll get over him.” I pop the puff in my mouth and savor the spicy sausage and pastry.
“How long were you together?”
Swallowing prematurely to keep laughter from spewing my mouthful across the table, I nearly choke.
Brenda jumps her chair closer and thwacks me on the back. “Heimlich?”
The thought of this creaky little woman performing the maneuver gives rise to more laughter, but I resist and clear my airway without further mishap.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” Brenda peers into my face.
“You didn’t. That was laughter I choked on.”
“Laughter?”
“Yes. When you asked how long we were together, I was struck by how silly it is to be so caught up in a man I really wasn’t dating. After all, we’d only seen each other a few times outside of work.”
Her spotty lashes flutter. “He works here?”
“Yes. He’s not in my department, but we interact from time to time.”
She’s thoughtful a long moment, then says, “And, of course, every time you see him, it duh-redges up old feelings.”
“Old?” I pause in the midst of dipping a shrimp in cocktail sauce. “Eventually, I imagine they will be old. Of course, I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.”
She taps her chest. “Psychologist.”
I frown. “You were a psychologist?”
She laughs. “Will be when I complete the program, hopefully next spring.”
Maybe she just looks really old…
“I know. What’s an old thing like me doing pursuing a degree?” She chuckles. “Just living and learning and making good use of the years the Lord has given me.”
Now that’s something to aspire to. I smile. “That’s a wonderful attitude.”
“You should try it; then maybe you wouldn’t get caught up with the wrong kind of man.”
Implying that Jack is the wrong kind of man? Hardly. “Or maybe the right kind of man wouldn’t get caught up with the wrong kind of me.”
She shakes her head. “Though it’s true there are always two sides to every conflict, it’s likely you’re shouldering more of the buh-lame than you should.”
“No.” I push my plate away. “The lies were mine.” I look across the lobby and consider Fiala, who is pressed affectionately against her husband’s side as the two converse with Linda. I no longer listen in on stall conversations, but several months back I innocently overheard Fiala tell Linda that her husband is getting help for his gambling. I only pray—and I do mean pray—it’s working.
“Those lies could have hurt a lot of innocent people here,” I murmur, only to realize I’ve spoken aloud when Brenda makes a little sound.
Her smile seems forced, especially in light of the deepening wrinkle between her eyebrows. “Including … the one your fuh-riend said you haven’t gotten over?”
Embarrassed at having verbalized my musings, I grimace. “It could have, though indirectly.” As much as I don’t want to talk about Jack, I feel compelled to. And what harm would it do? In fact, it might help. This woman is a pending expert in psychology. “More than anyone, he made me rethink the deception under which I was laboring.”
“How’s that?”
Think: free therapy. Value: in excess of one hundred dollars. “While he annoyed me at first, the more I was around him, the more I liked him. He seemed to genuinely care about me and encouraged me to pursue my faith beyond the shallow grasp I had on it.” I sigh. “And so I started to care about him.”
Looking deeply thoughtful, she nods.
“Thus I realized I couldn’t use him to achieve my end, and that’s when everything fell apart.”
“And you regret it falling apart, whatever this deception was?”
“Oh no! I’m glad to be out from under it. I lost a lot, but it was worth it.”
“That’s a good attitude. So what are you going to do about this young man?”
“What is there to do about him? I blew it and …” Whew! What’s with the tingly nose? “And that’s all there is to it.”
She tilts her head to the side. “You say he didn’t buh-reak your heart.”
My eyes sting. Must be approaching that time of month. Smiling brighter than my silly feelings warrant, I clap a hand to my chest. “Intact. For the most part.” I didn’t mean to add that last bit, but the woman is trained to pull teeth.
Oh yeah? In your case, the only tooth pulling she did was to those on the way out. You wanted to talk about Jack, and who better to discuss it with than a kindly old stranger?
So why not? “Of course, I could alleviate much of my dilemma if I simply left Steeple Side, and I have been offered my old job back with a considerable increase in salary.”
“Maizy.” Seeming strangely alarmed, she touches my hand. “I ought to tell you something.”
And that’s when I see him. Just past her shoulder, standing with a group of men, Jack scans the buffet area. Why does he have to look so good? Must be the black slacks and tuxedo shirt. “That’s him.”
Brenda sits straighter. “Who?”
“Jack. Him.”
“Oh dear.” Her hand gives mine an urgent pat. “Maizy, I—”
“Eye contact.” Which is best avoided, as it dredges up feelings I do not want to feel. Still, it’s Jack who turns away first. As I release my breath, he says something to one of the men and breaks from the group.
“Oh no, I think he’s heading our way.” Why? “He is.” As much as I long to check my hair to ensure that my wisping french roll hasn’t wisped itself out of a job, I resist. “ETA three seconds.”
With what appears to be distress, Brenda glances over her shoulder.
I jump to my feet a moment before Jack halts between us. “Jack, this is—”
“Grandmother,” he says in that clipped British accent. And as disbelief bounds through me, he places a hand on Brenda’s shoulder, leans down, and kisses her cheek.
TWENTY-FIVE
Oh no. This is Jack’s date. Not the redhead. This elderly woman with whom I entrusted my thoughts and feelings about her grandson. Guessing this is how bowling pins feel when whacked by three-holed, two-ton balls, I grip the chair back and seek Brenda’s gaze. She smiles apologetically, and now I understand what she tried to tell me before Jack appeared. Timing can be so cruel.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Jack straightens. “But I see you found someone to visit with. I trust you introduced yourselves?” The unspoken question: do you know who you’ve been chatting with?
Brenda does. But what I want to know is at what point she realized that I’m the one Jack told her about all those months ago—the one with whom she told him to play nice.
She nods. “First names only, I’m afraid.”
“Then allow me.” The face he turns to me is genial enough—providing I steer clear of the eyes. And I do. “This is Maizy Stewart, Grandmother—Maizy Grace Stewart.”
She pats his hand where it rests on her shoulder. “I did figure that out, only a short while ago.”
I look back at Jack and catch the frown on his brow that matches the one on his mouth.
“Maizy, this is my grandmother, Brenda Wood.”
I detach my fingers from the chair back. “That I figured out a much shorter while ago.” I force a smile. “It was nice meeting you, Brenda.” Wishing that were the extent of our encounter, I sidestep her and her grandson.
“Maizy?” Her tone is urgent.
Can I pretend I didn’t hear? It is, after all, a party. Exceedingly noisy. And I do need to find a quiet place to pull myself together. In fact, maybe I ought to go home.
No. No matter what Brenda tells her grandson, I am not running away. After all, this is my party as well, even if it is the last place I want to be. Too many people, too many voices, too much laughter, and as for the music…
I falter, only to grind back into gear. Until Jem is ready to head home, I’m going to forget about pseudo-psychologist Brenda, Jack Prentiss, and the humiliating position I placed myself in. And I’m going to do it by dancing.
I slip between groups of partygoers and, after much weaving and dodging, find the outskirts of the dance floor. I hesitate at the sight of Todd with his hands in his pockets and eyes searching the crowd, but he’ll do.
Soon a surprised Todd turns me onto the dance floor and begins to move rather spastically to the lyrics of “Jingle Bell Rock.”
I follow his lead as best I can, but I’m hampered by thoughts of Jack. So what if he concludes that I’m still affected by him? That would be his interpretation of hearsay—even if said hearsay is from one sly grandmother who just had an unguarded conversation with the source.
“Are you enjoying the party?” Todd leans toward me.
I cannot tell a lie, but neither can I say I’d rather be elsewhere. “It’s different from what I’m accustomed to.”
“I’ll bet.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “You look pretty tonight.”
Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I wanted to hear that from a man. Todd is not the one I would have chosen, but my first choice is out of the question. “Thank you.”
We make small talk through two more upbeat selections that maintain a respectable foot and a half between us. However, when the band starts in on “White Christmas,” I hesitate. Might a slow dance send Todd the wrong message?
The ranks of couples on the dance floor thinning, Todd opens his arms wide. “I’m game if you are.”
“Uh …” I glance past him and catch sight of a certain grandmother tugging her grandson onto the dance floor. As much as I long to head opposite, I say, “I’m game.”
Todd clasps my left hand in his right, settles his other hand at my waist, and turns me to the beat of the music. For the first minute, I avoid looking beyond the tip of my nose. When I do venture past it, I practically fall into Jack’s eyes as he and his grandmother dance ten feet away.
Wrenching my gaze away, I stumble against Todd.
“Hey, I like you too, Maizy, but don’t forget where we are.” He grins.
“Sorry.” The next time I look over his shoulder, I meet Brenda’s eyes as she peers around Jack. Though I’m sure she means to be discreet, what follows is so exaggerated that there’s no way anyone who is paying attention could miss it. A finger jab in my direction, as in “you,” a head jerk in her grandson’s direction, as in “him,” and crossed fingers doing a jig, as in “dance.”
I shake my head, as in “no way.”
She mouths, “Please.”
I mouth, “no,” and catch the determination in her eyes before Jack turns her around. To avoid another encounter with those eyes, I give Todd a smile. “You’re a good dancer.”
“Really?”
He sounds so hopeful. “You lead well.” Which is true. Had I stumbled into a lesser partner, we might have gone down.
He turns me, which brings me nearer Brenda and her grandson. Before I can look away, she repeats the pointing, head jerking, and finger dancing.
I shake my head. Unfortunately Jack chooses that moment to look around, as does Todd.
The latter groans. “I’m about to lose my dance partner.”
He thinks Jack wants to dance with me? Though it’s certainly what Brenda is after, Jack is not about to cooperate.
“Too much to hope that you two had really called it quits.”
As if we ever called it “starts.” “You’re mistaken, Todd. There’s nothing between Jack and me.”
He chuckles. “That’s right up there with complimenting me on my dancing. No, you’re in denial, same as Jack.”
I stare at him, only vaguely aware that “White Christmas” is transitioning into another slow song. “You’re wrong, I—”
A finger taps my shoulder, and at the end of it is Brenda, who has maneuvered her dance partner alongside us. “I hate to put you out, Maizy, but I’d love to dance with dear Todd. Do you mind if we swap?”
To my surprise, Jack looks more apologetic than put out.
“It’s settled then.” Brenda releases her grandson. “Thank you, Maizy.”
I’m confused. Regardless, a moment later I’m in Jack’s arms, and all of me thrills at the feel of his palm against mine, his other hand at my waist, and that citrus-y scent I haven’t been near enough to catch in ages.
“Play nice,” Brenda says as Jack turns me aside.
Jack gruffly murmurs, “Sorry about that.”
