The Spirit of Grace Read online

  Show me to my room? Was my stepmother serious?

  “I’m glad you’re home,” my father said. “I’ll see you at dinner.” He turned back to the papers laid out on his desk.

  I followed Grace into the foyer, picked up my suitcase, and headed up the stairs.

  “I’ll see myself to my room, if you don’t mind.”

  I took the first three stairs.

  “Sarah?”

  “Yes?” I rested my hand on the banister and faced her.

  “I expect you to dress for dinner. We will have drinks at 6:30 in the drawing room,” she said.

  “Grace, this is my home, too,” I said. “Just so we are clear.”

  I turned my back on her and headed up the stairs.

  ***

  The air in my room was musty and stale. I pulled open the thick black-out curtains and threw open the windows, letting the sea air come rushing in at me. The mattress on my bed had been stripped of sheets and covers. The rosewood dresser, armoire, and bedstead that had been in my room since the house was built had been pulled away from the wall, as if someone had tried to move the heavy furniture until they discovered the impossibility of that undertaking. I went to my dresser, pulling open one drawer after another--all empty. I threw open my closet doors.

  Aside from an old coat and an empty hat box, it was bare. Frantic now, I searched for my jewelry box, which had held a few treasured pieces that belonged to my mother. It was gone. The two pictures that I had hanging on the wall, seascapes done in pencil by a local artist that were quite valuable, were also missing, their absence marked by a square of bright paint in the spot where they had hung for years.

  “What is going on around here?” I asked out loud.

  “She took everything,” a familiar voice said behind me. “She took all the beautiful things for herself, even your blessed mother’s jewelry. She acts as if it all belongs to her, and your father lets her.”

  “Anca,” I said, pulling the dear woman, who was like a mother to me, into my arms and hugging her tight. She smelled of lavender and the lemon oil that she used to polish the ancient furniture that my great grandfather had brought to Bennett Cove from England.

  I pushed away from her and sat on the bare mattress. Exhaustion washed over me. Anca made the sign of the cross over her chest as she took a handkerchief out of her apron pocket and wiped her eyes.

  “It is good now that you are home,” she said. She opened my suitcase and started putting the few clothes I had taken with me away in the empty drawers. “I took a few things of your mother’s before she found them, some good dresses, skirts, sweaters, and a couple pairs of shoes. Your mother wore beautiful clothes, God rest her soul, and you are close enough in size, thanks to the heavens. I will not have you dressing in rags.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I am worried this party tonight, this reenactment, will come to no good. It’s wrong. It’s morbid.” She forced a smile. “Never mind. It is good you are home.”

  The sight of the basket that Anca used to carry her fresh linens, a simple reminder of the day-to-day chores of normal living, tugged at my heart strings.

  We made my bed, tucked in the sheets with hospital corners, and covered everything with a chenille bedspread that was old and shabby and just fine with me. We didn’t speak. We didn’t have to.

  “Your father is not so happy. He works all the time, more than he used to. He knows he has made a mistake marrying that woman,” she said. “At night he paces his room. Back and forth, back and forth he walks.”

  “He surprised me, getting married like that,” I said.

  “Be careful of her. She uses her charm to manipulate.” Anca stood with her back to me, staring out the window at the waves in the distance. “She wasn’t married a day when she went through your closet and your drawers. She tried to take your dresses, the best ones from I. Magnin, but I grabbed them from her and told her I would tend to them.

  “She makes me wear a uniform at meal times and won’t let me eat at the table, like I have for twenty-five years. She is a witch. She has cast a spell on him. You smile at me like I am crazy,” she said. “She’s been spending money that your father doesn’t have. She buys things for the house and things for herself. The banker has been coming to the house, trying to come to an understanding about the overdraft.” She plucked a stack of fresh towels out of her basket.

  “At least they seem to be in love,” I called after Anca.

  “She’s in love with money, that one.”

  ***

  I walked down to the beach behind Bennett House and headed north. If I walked about three miles, I would reach the steep, rocky cliff wall. On this October day not a single cloud floated in the sky. The sun beat down upon me, its warmth seeping through my skin and into my bones. I had changed into a simple yellow cotton dress, over which I wore a heavy wool sweater. It was cold, but the chill and fresh air felt wonderful. I wriggled my toes in the sand, while over my head the gulls continued to cry as they soared and dipped close to the water. Every now and then, one of the gulls would swoop down and fly away with a fish wriggling in its beak. At the water’s edge, sandpipers landed in flocks, searching for food left by the retreating sea. When I got close to them, they flew away in unison, chastising me for the interruption. I walked along, savoring every step, every moment.

  The lifeguard stations, which were positioned every hundred yards or so along the beach, were now manned by military personnel, who watched the sea with binoculars looking for the Japanese submarines that lurked under the surface, the same submarines that had been trying with some success to sink our merchant ships and had tried to open fire on our shores.

  I looked up at the main lifeguard tower, a tall building with four glass walls, which provided a panoramic view of the ocean. I imagined the men in uniforms stationed there, tense and ready, should our shores be invaded.

  I walked for about an hour, heading north on the beach toward the rocky cliff wall where the road for cars and the sandy beach joined. The road ran parallel to the shore here. Soon I stumbled across an old farmhouse. It was a two-story, with a wrap-around porch and well-worn siding, which spoke of an old building that had been in place for decades. But this one hadn’t. I had walked this part of the beach hundreds of times. This house was new. On closer inspection, I saw the windows, two by the front door and two upstairs, had been bricked shut where the panes should be. Nestled behind the house was a barn, also constructed of the weathered siding, which had turned gray with age. But this barn had no doors or windows.

  Behind these two buildings was another bigger structure with an iron door and small windows near the line of the room. The egress to the road was protected by a gate, which was now closed. A small sentry hut had been constructed near it. Two soldiers sat in the tiny structure, studying a clipboard. A black sedan came to a stop near the hut. The sentry stepped out, checked the driver’s credentials, saluted, and opened the gate in order for the vehicle to pass through. Why not go up to the guard and ask what type of building this was? With a purpose to my step, I headed toward the hut.

  “Put your hands up and turn around,” a voice behind me said.

  My heart started to pound. I did as I had been ordered and turned, holding up my hands. A young man whose face was covered with spots pointed a rifle at me.

  “What are you doing here, ma’am?” he asked. The gun he trained upon me shook a bit.

  “Just walking on the beach,” I said. “I live over there.” I nodded at Bennett House. “I didn’t know that this was off limits.”

  “Private Marks, what in the world are you doing?” An older man came out of the compound by the entrance the truck had used. He walked over to us, kicking up sand behind him. “Stand down, Private.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” the private said. He held his rifle to his side and snapped to attention, holding his salute.

  “At ease,” the man said. “You may go.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young man said. H
e took off at a brisk pace toward the perimeter of the fence.

  “I’m sorry about that,” the man said. “This area is off limits to civilians.” He smiled at me as he extended his hand. “Colonel Matthews, at your service.”

  Colonel Matthews was a tall and lean man with the burnished tan of someone who had spent a lifetime out of doors.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know--I’ve been away--” I stammered like an idiot, not quite sure what to say.

  “Best not walk here in the future.”

  A camouflage truck with a dozen or so soldiers riding in the back pulled up to the gate. The sentry let them in, and Colonel Matthews headed off without a backward glance.

  “Yes, sir, of course,” I said to his retreating figure.

  I turned around and headed back toward Bennett House, not stopping until I reached the familiar stretch of beach closest to the house. The rhythmic waves of the ocean worked their magic on me. I sat down on the beach and stared at the waves, stretching my legs out in the sand. My legs had become pale during my time at the Laurels, where most of the day was spent inside under the watchful eye of the psychiatrist and nurses. I closed my eyes and must have dozed off, for when I awoke, my eyelids burned where the sun had beaten down upon them.

  On a whim I stood up, shrugged off my sweater, and walked into the waves, not caring that my dress got wet. The biting Pacific Ocean cooled my sun-burnt calves. I kept walking into the shore break, letting the waves wash over my thighs, my hips, and my belly, exhilarated by the sensation of the cold salty water on my skin. I had taken a deep breath, planning to submerge myself, when strong arms wrapped around my waist and pushed me under water.

  I tried to break away, but my assailant, who had pinned my arms to my side, had the position of strength. Although I kicked as hard as I could, desperate to get free of him, I couldn’t escape and he didn’t let go. We lost our balance just as a wave crashed over us. It knocked us off our feet and, after what seemed like an eternity, we rose from the foaming waves, sputtering and coughing, gasping for breath.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked, doubled over, heaving for oxygen.

  “Were you--I thought--I thought you were drowning.” He bent over too.

  “Drowning? I was swimming, or at least I was trying to swim.” My legs were like rubber and gave out from underneath me after a few steps.

  We staggered out of the water together and onto the sand. I collapsed. He sat down.

  “I need to take more exercise,” the man gasped.

  We sat next to each other like that for a minute or two, both of us grunting and gasping and coughing, as we recovered from our ordeal. The man’s hair, longer than what was fashionable, clung to his head in water darkened tendrils. When he looked at me, I recognized him right away.

  “I saw you on the bus,” I said.

  He was doubled over, his face a grimace of pain.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him.

  “Cramp,” he said. “I’ll be okay in a minute.” He closed his eyes and lay back on the sand.

  I studied his face as he lay there. He had fine cheekbones and full lips. The stubble on his strong jaw was the same honey gold as his hair. He sat up, still trying to catch his breath. “What were you thinking, going into the water in your dress?”

  “I hadn’t planned on going in the water at all, but it felt so lovely, I just decided to--” How ridiculous I sounded. How in the world could I explain that all I wanted to do was swim?

  “Decided to be spontaneous?” He finished my sentence for me.

  “I suppose,” I said.

  After a few minutes, he stood and held out his hands. I took them without hesitation. He pulled me to my feet and continued to hold me, supporting me as I tested my legs, and once they were steady and I no longer needed him for support, I still held on, not wanting to break the connection between us. Heat radiated off his body. It pulsed through his hands and into me. He was warm and different, and I found myself mesmerized by those green eyes.

  “I’m sorry if I scared you,” he said, his voice soft and deep.

  My body’s involuntary response to him took me by surprise. “I need to go. Thanks for almost saving me.” I let go of his hand. The heat of his touch lingered.

  “Any time,” he said.

  I headed up to the dunes toward Bennett House. When I turned to look at him, he was sitting in the sand, gazing out at the sea.

  Chapter 3

  Never mind having a gun pointed at me, I was still smiling from my encounter with the green-eyed stranger when I walked into Bennett House. Not wanting to explain my wet clothes, I avoided my father by going in the kitchen door and up the servant’s staircase. Once in my room, I slipped out of my wet clothes and stood in my underwear drying my hair with a towel, when my stepmother burst through my bedroom door without knocking. She held a lit cigarette in a long, black holder. She exhaled and a giant plume of smoke filled my room.

  Anca had brought in a chair while I was at the beach, a shabby old thing, covered in an ancient and out-of-fashion Victorian chintz with giant roses growing on their vine. She had tucked it in the corner near the window and topped it with a mohair throw that my mother had crocheted many years ago. Ignoring my near-naked state, Grace walked over to the chair, threw the mohair blanket on the floor, and sat down. She leaned back, crossed her long legs, and stared at me.

  “I saw you holding hands with that man on the beach,” she said. “Do you have any idea who he is?”

  “Excuse me,” I said, not trying to hide the sarcasm. “I’m not dressed.”

  I scurried into the bathroom and grabbed my old blue bathrobe--thankful that Anca had put it back on the hook. I wrapped the towel around my hair, twisting it into place on my head. Through the crack in the door, I watched as Grace stood at my dresser rifling through my handbag, which I had left closed. When I came into the room, she stepped away and acted as though she had been looking out my window.

  I snapped my bag closed and tucked it under my arm. “I would appreciate it if you would stay out of my room. I know you’ve taken my paintings and my jewelry. Will you return my things, or do I need to speak to my father about it?”

  Grace sighed. “Listen, Sarah, I’m afraid we didn’t get off to a very good start. I am sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable or unwelcome.” Now she moved over to my desk, but rather than stare at the papers that lay on it, she affixed her gaze on her reflection in the small mirror that hung on the wall. She checked herself and fooled with her hair, which didn’t need any attention. It was perfect as it was. “I’ve never been a stepmother before and am not quite sure how to go about it. I know we’re very close in age, and it must be awkward for you, but I do love your father. I want him to be happy.”

  She had a tube of lipstick in her cigarette case. She took it out and applied another layer, even though her lips were already coated with cherry red. She rubbed them together and made the type of strange face that women often do when they gaze at themselves in the mirror. Satisfied with her efforts, Grace turned her gaze to me. “Of course you can have your things back. I had planned on painting in here and maybe getting you some new furniture.” She paused for a moment, as if debating what to say next.

  Her eyes lit on the dress Anca had taken and kept for me in her closet. It now lay draped across my bed, ironed and ready for me to wear tonight. Next to it were my dove gray suede slippers, and a brand new pair of stockings, still in the packaging.

  Grace ran her finger over the fabric. “Where did you get those?”

  “Anca kept them for me, bless her,” I said.

  “I would like to be friends, Sarah, but if we can’t do that, let’s at least try to get along, for Jack’s sake.”

  She stood there a moment with her hand on my door, poised, beautiful, and sophisticated.

  The only thought that ran through my head was, What has my father gotten himself into?

  After I had put on dry clothes, I faced the ine
vitable and stepped out in the hallway. My mother’s bedroom wasn’t locked, so I slipped inside before Anca or anyone else saw me. My parents had always kept separate rooms, and I thought this was common until I went to summer camp and realized that everyone else’s parents actually shared a bedroom. Not my parents. My mother loved her own space. We used to curl up in bed on rainy days when I wasn’t in school, reading books out loud to each other--I stopped those nostalgic thoughts. She was gone. There was nothing to be done about it. With her absence, the room had become lifeless and dingy.

  I flung open the velvet curtains and sneezed at the dust that was loosened. In the harsh glare of sunlight, I could see the dust angels in the sun’s rays. Anca, too busy caring for Bennett House to tend to a dead woman’s bedroom, hadn’t dusted or cleaned in here in a while. I wondered if my father had wanted to preserve this room, a reminder of the wife who used to live here, the vibrant woman whose spirit had touched everyone she met. I ran my hand over the cotton counterpane on the four-poster bed, the embroidered roses now dingy with a year’s worth of dust.

  My mother’s nightgown still lay across the bed, as though she had just left it there. The silver comb and hairbrush that my father bought her for a wedding present still lay atop the rosewood dresser with the pink marble top. Memories of the past washed over me. I saw myself as a small girl here in this very room.

  I saw my mother, with her dark hair in pin curls and cold cream on her face, saying, “Go on, honey, jump on the bed. Get it out of your system. It is forbidden and you will never be allowed to do it again.” She stood watching me as I jumped up and down, screaming with glee. I closed my eyes and wished for a stirring of a memory from the night she fell to her death. Even a glimpse, a promise of a memory to come, would do.

  Nothing.

  I walked over to her bed and picked up the nightgown, the cold silk slipped through my fingers like water. Clutching the gown to my breast, I closed my eyes and willed myself to remember what happened. Once again, I remembered nothing.