Page 126 of Saving Grace

No place on earth exists that I wouldn’t go with this man. A lifetime of hell with him would better than a day spent in heaven with anyone else. I thank god every day we found each other at the exact moment we did.

It forged what we have.

Sowed the seeds so deep nothing could have stopped them from growing, breaking through the surface, unfurling under the sun’s warm rays, and blooming to a fully-fledged, imperfect, living thing.

We pass through the terminal and Mack hails a cab. I regurgitate my childhood home address, and the cab pulls away. Twenty minutes later, we pull into the drive of the home I haven’t seen since I turned eighteen. It’s remarkably the same as I left it. Mack leans forward, paying the driver. He pushes out of the cab and takes the bags. I sit on the back seat, hands gripping the edge of the cracked vinyl seat, focus fixed on the front door. Breathing, taking one breath after the other, requires all my concentration.

“Gracie, we do this together, remember?”

I break my gaze from the door to find a gentle smile and a hand held out. I take his hand, It’s warm and steady. Strong and unwavering. I step out of the car and shut the door. The cabbacks down the drive and speeds off. We round the hedge and the garage door is open. Mama’s car is not there.

Dad’s is.

“I can’t do this.” Spinning backward, I stalk back the way we came. At the curb, I pace up and down the quiet suburban street. What was I thinking? They don’t want me here. Don’t want any part of the life I made for myself. Not after I imploded the one they so carefully curated for me.

A knock rattles the front door. The bags are by the hedge. Mack’s black hat is all I see over the hedge. The front door whines open.

“Hi, Mr. Weston.” His hat slides from his head. It must be in his hands or by his side.

Nausea floods in when I listen to my father’s stern voice. “Last I recall, I wasn’t welcome at your residence. You are also not welcome here, Michael.”

“It’s Mackinlay. And I apologize. Things got heated. But?—”

“You’ve wasted your time, and now mine. Good day.”

The door slams.

A hushed curse. Another knock.

Oh no. Leave it, Mack.

Please.

He doesn’t. Another knock. Persistent, longer, louder.

The door opens with a heavy sigh. “You slow, son? Take a hike.”

“I ain’t leavin’ until you’ve heard us out.” Mack’s voice has dropped an octave. It’s what I imagine he used as a soldier. Harsh. All business.

Shit.

I run my hands through my hair and decide if I’m part of this team, the Mack-and-Grace team, I should be by his side, not cowering behind the shrubbery. I stride across the lawn, coming to Mack’s side. My father’s face turns to stone.

Mack flicks me a look. Thego get ’emface.

“I would like to speak to Mama. Please.”

My father stiffens in the doorway. “She’s not here.”

“When will she be back?” Mack asks.

My father pays him no heed, his eyes trained on me when he spits, “She isn’t coming back.”

The door slams for the second time since we arrived. I glare at it. This time, my fear is replaced by disbelief and annoyance. What does he mean, she’s not here? What the hell?

A soft voice clears to our right. I drag my gaze toward the sound. Old Mrs. Barton leans over her fence, gloved hands holding her pruning shears. “Grace, that you?”

With a huff of a laugh, I cross the grass and hug her over the fence. “Hey, Mrs. Barton.”

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