Chapter Twenty-Two
Grace sat on her bed in her little black cocktail dress and stared at her enviable collection of jewelry, scarves, and purses strewn about her cramped, little apartment. Seven years of high-fashion crap, and none of it meant a thing.
What was wrong with her?
JJ was settled.
The ranch was saved.
With the grant, Spencer’s loan, and Ricky’s partnership, her immediate future was shiny.
Her perfect plan had been anything but perfect, yet she’d gotten everything she’d wanted. Still she felt as empty inside as her apartment felt bare.
The exhibition was a success. The opening of her best New York friend’s bar had gone off beautifully. Said friend, one of the most eligible bachelors in the City, was ready to give her the world—and, in fact, had by helping her tonight. And she’d essentially pushed him away. The only person who’d supported her in New York, the only person who’d never asked for a commitment, never pressured—not even tonight.
Noah was the complete opposite of Spencer. He pushed, he poked. He annoyed the heck out of her with his demands and assumptions and expectations. Expectations she’d never be able to meet, even if she wanted to, which she didn’t.
Then why couldn’t she get him out of her mind?
Her eyes wandered to her carry-on bag sitting on her dresser. She hadn’t even finished unpacking. There’d been too many things to do this past week to get ready for the exhibition. It had nothing to do with a nagging urge to use that dang bag again.
Nothing.
She forced herself up and toward the bag. She’d unpack it now, right this second, and then go to sleep.
She started tossing the contents of the bag onto her bed and an envelope glided to the floor. Her father’s letter. How could she have forgotten about that? Easy, with years of practice.
She eyed the envelope. She knew what the letter inside would say. It would be filled with responsibilities, with expectations. Take care of the ranch, Grace. Take care of your stepbrother, Grace. Fix the mess I made, Grace. Help me up, Grace. Don’t leave me, Grace.
Images of her drunk-with-depression father and all the reasons she’d fled swarmed her mind. She didn’t want to open the envelope. She didn’t even want to touch it. Her eyes welled up. She snatched the envelope off the ground and ripped it open, anger replacing her tears.
My dearest Grace,
If you’re reading this, I imagine I’m no longer around, or at least no longer in full capacity. There are so many things I wish I could tell you. Those things could fill a notebook.
A notebook of regret is too much for one life. It is my hope that with this letter, I spare you from the same.
You are probably surprised to find this chest with the coins I saved for you. Maybe you’re surprised that I used your birthday on the combination lock. You shouldn’t be. Even though we haven’t spoken much these past years, you’ve never left my thoughts. But a pile of unsent birthday cards are lousy proof of a father’s love. I know this now.
I started collecting guns when I was young, before I was married and before you were born, picking up a rifle here, a revolver there. Once I met your mother, though, she wanted nothing to do with them. So when I had an opportunity to trade them with a guy who’d saved silver dollars from the casinos, I did. At the time, it was probably a fair trade, except for that Seated Liberty. I don’t think he realized what he’d traded. I stocked it and the rest of the coins away in the attic, waiting for the right time to surprise your mother. She surprised me first. And when she left, she broke my heart. She took my soul. I was a broken man after that, and I was a broken father, too.
Sheila and JJ rebuilt me. They pulled me out of the darkness and offered me a wonderful life. And love. I know these are things that I couldn’t manage to give to you myself, and I understand now why you ran. I failed you. I’m sorry.
You might never be able to forgive me, but here in this chest is my attempt at redemption. I wasn’t able to give you a very good life without your mother, but now I can help you build your future.
I know JJ loves the ranch, but it’s never been Sheila’s dream. I don’t expect she’ll want to stay there after I’m gone. So, my dear Grace, take the contents of this chest and do with it what you will. When I found out I was sick, I looked up every coin’s value. I hope you get something close to what I calculated. Do not spend it on my dreams or the dreams of others.
I am proud of you. Go live your life, Grace.
I love you,
Daddy
The letter was dated six months ago. Her father had known he was dying. He’d known she’d soon come home and find the chest. Grace stared at the cursive words. She couldn’t possibly have read them right. So she re-read them, once, twice, three times. Her heart kept pace as her eyes ran through the words. Words that never changed. Every time, the letter ended without a should’ve or need-to held over her head.
Her heart banged in her chest, wanting out. Yes, she needed to get out of her apartment before the walls smothered her. She quickly changed into jeans, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes, grabbed her camera, and headed for the street. She needed to walk and clear her mind. It’d be dawn in less than an hour. It’d be safe. Even the bums were sleeping now.
Once outside, ideas flew through her mind, over and over, faster than her feet could move. Her father wanted to give her a chance at life, the life he couldn’t give her seven years ago. He wanted her to make her own decisions. He wanted her to be happy.
She walked and thought and walked and thought, losing track of time and distance, trying to sort through what it all meant, what she felt. She looked up. She was in Greenwich Village now. Shops were opening, sidewalks being swept. She lifted her camera and snapped. How would JJ see things here? The grocery owner placing out the fresh fruit. The street vendor brewing his coffee. She kept clicking the camera button, reveling in the morning bustle.
She’d shut out her father and Noah and everyone else. She’d built a wall so high and so thick she didn’t think anyone would get through. She’d blamed herself for being too weak to “fix” her father. She’d failed as a daughter. Then she’d spent the past seven years proving herself worthy. But worthy of what?
Her father’s love. Something, according to the letter, she’d always had.
Daddy’s words pushed through. Go live your life, Grace. I love you.
Daddy. Where the heck had that word come from?
Grace took a deep breath. Smells of coffee and waffles wafted through the air from the street vendors. It was time to forgive. Him and herself. She didn’t have anything else to prove.
She was free.
And suddenly she knew exactly what she wanted from this newfound freedom. She grabbed her phone and dialed Spencer.
He answered with a groan. “Watch stopped?” he asked sleepily. “Because you can’t possibly use that shitty time-zone excuse again.”
Grace chuckled. “We need to talk.”
“Come on over. But don’t expect me to be strong enough for both of us again.”
“Actually, can you meet me at Joe’s Coffee, the one on Waverly Place?”
“You seriously want to just talk.” He sighed. “Sure, I can meet you.”
Twenty minutes later, she walked toward Spencer, who was waiting on the corner outside the coffee shop. Collared shirt, new jeans. He wore them almost better than his suits. He held her gaze as she approached. His eyes searched for something and then relaxed just slightly, as if they’d found it.
Grace shoved her hands in the front pockets of her sweatshirt and elbowed his arm. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Anytime, babe, you know that.” He cocked his head and the edges of his lips turned up. “When do you leave?”