Malice

“How's it going up there?” Winnie asked her one afternoon.

“Okay.” Grace was embarrassed to admit to her how unpleasant she'd been, but she hadn't made any friends on the twenty-ninth floor so far, and her old bosses had been told by several people how disagreeable she was. She knew the reputation she was getting, and that she deserved it. And it embarrassed her even more when Winnie said she'd heard from a number of people that Grace was being very hard on Mr. Mackenzie.

After he talked to her, she made an effort to be pleasant to him a little bit, at least, and she actually started to enjoy the job. She had resigned herself by then to the fact that she was probably not going back to work with Winnie, and her two junior partners. She was no longer fighting it and she had to admit that the job with him was more interesting, when suddenly, in May, Charles Mackenzie told her he had to fly to Los Angeles and he needed her to go with him. She almost had apoplexy over it, and she was shaking when she told Winnie that she was going to refuse to go with him.

“Why, for heaven's sake? Grace, what an opportunity!” For what? To get laid by her boss? No! She wasn't going to do it. In her mind, it was all a setup, and she would be walking into a trap. But when she went in to tell him the next day that she wouldn't go, he thanked her so nicely for being willing to give up her own time and come with him, that she felt awkward refusing to go with him. She even thought about quitting over it, and much to her own surprise, she found herself talking to Father Tim about it at St. Andrew's.

“What are you afraid of, Grace?” he asked gently. She had fear stamped all over her, and she knew it.

“I'm afraid … oh I don't know,” she was embarrassed to tell him but she knew she had to, for her own sake, “that he'll be like everyone else in my life and take advantage of me, or worse. I finally got away from all that when I came here, and now it's starting all over again with this stupid trip to California.”

“Has he ever shown signs of wanting to take advantage of you?” Father Tim asked quietly, “or of sexual interest in you?” He knew exactly what they were talking about and what she was afraid of.

“Not really,” she conceded, still looking miserable.

“Even a little bit? Be honest with yourself. You know the truth here.”

“All right, no, not even a little bit.”

“Then what makes you think that's going to change now?”

“I don't know. People don't take their secretaries on trips unless they want to … you know.” He smiled at her discretion in talking to him. He had heard a lot worse in his life, and a lot more shocking stories. Even her own story wouldn't have shocked him.

“Some people do take their secretaries on trips without ‘you know.’ Maybe he really does need help. And if he misbehaves, you're a big girl, get on a plane and come home. End of story.”

“I guess I could do that.” She thought about it and nodded.

“You're in control, you know. That's what we teach people here. You know that better than anyone. You can walk away anytime you want to.”

“Okay. Maybe I'll go with him.” She sighed and looked at him gratefully, still not totally convinced though.

“Do whatever you think is right, Grace. But don't make decisions out of fear. They never get you anywhere you want to go. Just do what's right for you.”

“Thank you, Father.” The next morning she told Charles Mackenzie that she was definitely able to go to California with him. She still had misgivings about the trip, but she had told herself repeatedly that if he misbehaved, all she had to do was buy herself a ticket and come home. Simple as that, and she had a credit card with which to do it.

He picked her up in a limousine on the way to the airport, and she came out carrying a small bag and looking very nervous. He had a briefcase with him, and he made calls from the car, and jotted down some notes for her. And then he chatted with her for a few minutes and read the paper. He didn't seem particularly interested in her, and she could tell that one of his phone calls had been to a woman. She knew that there was a well-known socialite who called him fre-quently at the office, and he sounded as though he liked her. But Grace didn't get the feeling that he was madly in love with anyone at the moment.

They flew to Los Angeles in first class, and he worked most of the way there, while Grace watched the movie. He was going out to help put together the financial end of a big movie deal for one of his clients. The client had an entertainment lawyer on the West Coast, but Mackenzie represented the big money in the deal, and it was interesting watching him put it together.

It was even more interesting once they got to L.A. They arrived at noon, local time, and went straight to the offices of the entertainment lawyer, and Grace was fascinated by the meetings that took place all day. They were there till six o'clock, which was nine o'clock for her and Charles Mackenzie. He had a dinner date after that, and he dropped her off at the hotel, and told her to charge anything she wanted to the room. They were staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and she had to admit she was excited by four movie stars she saw just passing through the lobby.

She tried to get David Glass's number that night, but he wasn't listed in Beverly Hills or L.A. And she was disappointed. She hadn't heard from him in years, but she would have loved to try to see him. She had a feeling, though, that his wife had wanted him to break the connection with her. She'd divined that just from little things he'd said in his letters. And now she hadn't heard from him at all since the birth of their first baby. It would have been nice to tell him that she was doing well, had a good job, and was happy with her new life. She hoped that all was well with him and was sorry that she couldn't reach him. She still thought of him sometimes, and now and then she missed him.

She ordered room service and watched TV, and ordered a movie she had wanted to see for years but never had time to. It was a comedy, and she laughed out loud alone in her room, and then locked all the windows and doors and even put the chain on the door. She half expected him to pound on her door when he got back, and try to get in, but she slept soundly until seven the next morning.

He called and asked her to meet him in the dining room, and at breakfast he explained the meetings that would take place that day, and what he expected her to do. Like her, he was extremely organized, and he enjoyed his work, and always made hers easier by telling her exactly what was expected.

“You did a great job yesterday,” he praised her, looking very proper in a gray suit and a starched white shirt. He looked more like New York than LA. She had worn a pink silk dress and she had a matching sweater over her shoulders. It was a dress she had bought two years before in Chicago, and it was a little softer-looking than most of the clothes she wore to work at the law firm.

“You look very pretty today,” he said casually, and she stiffened imperceptibly, but he didn't see it. “Did you see any movie stars in the lobby last night?” And then, forgetting his remark about how she looked, she told him excitedly about the four she'd seen, and the movie that had made her laugh so hard when she watched it. For a brief instant, they were almost friends, and he sensed it. She had relaxed a little bit, which made things easier for him. It was so difficult being with her when she was so uptight, he wondered why she was like that sometimes, but he would never have dared to ask her.

“I love that movie,” he laughed, thinking about it. “I saw it three times when it first came out. I hate depressing movies.”

“So do I,” she admitted as their breakfast came. He was eating scrambled eggs and bacon, and she had oatmeal.

“You don't eat enough,” he said sounding fatherly, watching her.

“You should watch your cholesterol,” she chided, although he was very thin, but eggs and bacon were out of favor.

“Oh God, spare me. My wife was a vegetarian, and a Buddhist. All of Hollywood is. It was worth getting divorced just so I could eat cheeseburgers in peace again.” He smiled at Grace and she laughed in spite of herself.

“Were you married for a long time?”

“Long enough,” he grinned. “Seven years.” He had been divorced for two. It had cost him nearly a million dollars to get out of it, but at the time it had seemed worth it, in spite of the economic stress it had caused him. No one had snagged his heart seriously since, and the only thing he really regretted was never having children. “I was thirty-three when I married her, and at the time, I was sure that being married to Michelle Andrews was the answer to all my prayers. It turned out that being married to America's hottest movie star wasn't as easy as I thought. Those people pay a high price for celebrity. Higher than the rest of us know. The press is never kind to them, the public wants to own their souls … there's no way to survive it, except religion or drugs, and either way is not an ideal solution, as far as I'm concerned. Every time we turned around there was another headline, another scandal. It was tough to live with, and eventually it takes a toll. We're good friends now, but three years ago we weren't.” Grace knew from People magazine that she had been married twice since, to a younger rock star, and her agent. “Besides, I was too square for her. Too stiff. Too boring.” Grace suspected that he had offered his former wife the only stability she'd ever had, or would have. “What about you? Married? Engaged? Divorced seven times? How old are you anyway, I forget. Twenty-three?”

“Almost,” she blushed, “in July. And no, not married or engaged. I'm too smart for either one, thanks very much.”

“Oh sure, Grandma, give me a lecture.” He laughed and she tried not to think about how attractive he was when he did. She didn't really want to get to know him. “At twenty-two, you're too young to even go out. I hope you don't.” He was teasing but she wasn't, and he sensed that.

“I don't.”

“You don't? You're not serious?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you planning to become a nun when you grow up, after your career in a law firm?” He was amused by her now that she was opening up a little bit. She was an intriguing girl. Smart and bright, and funny when she let it show, which wasn't often.

“I have a friend who's trying to talk me into it actually.”

“Who is that? I'll have to have a talk with this friend. Nuns are completely out of style these days. Don't you know that?”

“I guess not,” Grace laughed again, “she is one. Sister Eugene. She's terrific.”

“Oh God, you're a religious fanatic. I knew it. Why am I cursed with people like you … my wife wanted me to bring the Dalai Lama over from Tibet to stay with us … you're all crazy!” He pretended to brush her away, as a waiter poured their coffee and Grace laughed at him.

“I'm not a religious fanatic, I swear. Sometimes it's appealing though. Their life is so simple.”

“And so unreal. You can help the world without giving it up,” he said solemnly. It was something he felt strongly about. He liked helping people without taking extreme positions. “Where do you know this nun from?” He was still curious and they didn't have to leave the hotel for another ten minutes.

“We work together at a place where I do volunteer work.”

“And where's that?” She saw as he talked to her that he was perfectly shaved, and everything about him was immaculate, and she tried not to notice. This was business.

“It's called St. Andrew's, on the Lower East Side. It's a home for abused women and children.”

“You work there?” He seemed surprised, there was more to her than he had suspected, even though she was young, and sometimes very crabby. He was starting to like her better.

“I do. I work there three times a week. It's an amazing place. They take in hundreds of people.”

“I never figured you for doing something like that,” he said honestly.

“Why not?” she was surprised.

“Because that's a big commitment, a lot of work. Most girls your age would rather go to the discos.”

“I've never been to one in my life.”

“I'd take you, but I'm too old, and your mother probably wouldn't want you to go with me,” he said, implying no threat at all, and for once even Grace didn't react. But she also didn't tell him she had no mother.

The limousine picked them up for their meetings a few minutes after ten. And the next day they concluded the deal, in time to fly back to New York on the nine p.m. flight, which got them back to New York at six the following morning. As they were landing he told her to take the day off. It had been a long two days, and they hadn't slept on the plane. He had worked, and she had helped him.

“Are you taking the day off?” she asked.

“I can't. I've got a meeting at ten with Arco, and I've got a lot to do. Besides, I have a partners’ lunch and there's some complaining I want to do.”

“Then I'm going to work too.”

“Don't be silly. I'll make do with Mrs, Macpherson or someone from the typing pool.”

“If you're working, so am I. I don't need a day off. I can sleep tonight.” She was very definite about it.

“The joys of youth. Are you sure?” He eyed her thoughtfully. She was becoming just what the others had said she was, loyal, hardworking, and nice to be around. It had been a long time coming.

He dropped her off at her apartment on the way home, and told her to take her time coming in, and if she changed her mind, he'd understand. But she was there before he was. She had all his notes from the plane typed up, his memos for his ten o'clock meeting on his desk, and a series of files she knew he'd want laid out. And his coffee exactly the way he liked it.

“Wow!” He smiled at her. “What did I do to deserve all this?”

“You put up with me for the past three months. I was pretty awful, and I'm sorry.” He had been a perfect gentleman in California, and she was prepared to be his friend now.

“No, you weren't. I guess I had to prove myself. We both did.” He seemed to understand it perfectly, and he was really grateful for the caliber of her work, and the minute attention she paid to detail.

At three-thirty that afternoon, he forced her to go home, and said he'd fire her if she didn't. But something had changed between them, and they both knew it. They were allies now, not enemies, and she was there to help him.

Chapter 11

June was incredible in New York that year. It was warm and lush, with hot, breezy days, and balmy nights. The kind of nights where people used to sit on their stoops and hang out the windows. The kind of weather that made people fall in love or wish they had someone to fall in love with.

There were two new women in Charles Mackenzie's life that month, and Grace was aware of both of them, though she wasn't sure she liked either one of them.

One was someone he said he had grown up with, she was divorced and had two kids in college. The other was the producer of a hit Broadway show. He seemed to have a definite attraction to the theater. He had even given two tickets to the play to Grace, and she had taken Winnie and they'd loved it.

“What's he really like?” Winnie asked her afterwards when they went to Sardi's for cheesecake.

“Nice … very, very nice …” Grace admitted. “It took me a long time to say that. I kept thinking he was going to try and tear my clothes off, and I hated him for it before he even tried.”

“Well, did he?” Winnie asked hopefully. She was desperate for Grace to fall in love with someone.

“Of course not. He's a perfect gentleman.” She told her about California.

“That's too bad.” Winnie sounded disappointed. Grace was her vicarious thrill in life, her only contact with youth, and the daughter she'd never had. She wanted great things for her. And especially a handsome husband.

“He's got a bunch of women running after him. But I don't think he's really crazy about anyone. I think his ex-wife really burned him. He doesn't say much, and he's pretty decent about her, but I get the impression she took a chunk of him.” Not only financially, but a piece of his heart that had never recovered.

“One of the girls on fourteen said it cost him close to a million dollars,” Winnie said in a whisper.

“I meant emotionally,” Grace said primly. “Anyway, he's a nice man. And he works like a dog. He stays there till all hours.” He always called a cab for her, or a limousine when she worked late for him, and he was always careful to let her go on time the nights she worked at St. Andrew's. “He's very considerate.” And he had been complaining ever since she'd told him about St. Andrew's. He thought the neighborhood was just too dangerous for her to be going there by subway at night. He didn't even like it on Sundays.

“At least take a cab,” he growled. But it would have cost her a fortune. And she had been doing it for months now with no problem.

Winnie told her then that Tom's wife was having another baby. And they both laughed wondering how long it would take for Bill's wife to start another baby too. The two men were like clones of each other.

After they left the restaurant, they hailed a taxi and Grace dropped Winnie off and went home herself, thinking how much she liked her job now.

Charles went to California again in June, but he didn't take her this time. He only stayed for a day, and he said it wasn't worth it. And the weekend he came back, she worked with him on Saturday in the office. They worked till six o'clock, and he apologized for not taking her to dinner afterwards. He had a date, but he felt terrible working her all day and then not doing anything to reward her.

“Next week you should take a friend to ‘21’ and charge it to me,” he suggested, looking pleased at the idea, “or tonight, if you like.” Grace knew immediately that she'd take Winnie, and the older woman would be ecstatic about it.

“You don't have to do that for me,” Grace said shyly.

“I want to. You have to get something out of this, you know. There are supposed to be perks for working for the boss. I'm not sure what they're supposed to be, but dinner at ‘21’ should definitely be one of them, so make yourself a reservation.” He never tried to take her out and she loved that about him. She was completely relaxed with him now. And she thanked him again before they both left. She thought he had a date with someone new, and she somehow had the impression that she was a lawyer in a rival law firm. There had been a lot of messages lately from Spielberg and Stein.

She stayed home and watched television that night, but she called Winnie and told her about their dinner at ‘21,’ and Winnie was so excited, she said she wouldn't sleep in the meantime.

And the next day, Grace went down to St. Andrew's as usual. The weather was still warm, and there were lots of people in the streets now, which, in some ways, made it safer for her.

She had a long, hard day, working with the new intakes. The warm weather was bringing them in in droves. Somehow, there always seemed to be new excuses for their beatings.

She had dinner in the kitchen with Sister Eugene and Father Tim and she was telling them about the movie stars she'd seen in the lobby of the hotel when she went to California.

“All was well?” he asked. They hadn't had time to talk about it in the month since she'd been there and back, but he assumed so, or she would have told him.

“It was great.” She beamed.

It was eleven o'clock when she left, which was later than she usually left on a Sunday. She thought about taking a cab, but the weather was so warm, she decided to take the subway after all. She hadn't even gotten a block away when someone grabbed her arm and yanked her hard into a doorway. She saw instantly that he was a tall, thin black man, and she suspected that he was a drug addict or just a petty thief. Something in her gut went tight, and she watched him as he shook her hard and then slammed her against the door where they were standing.

“You think you're a smart bitch, don't you? You think you know it all …” He put his hands around her throat, and her eyes never left his. He didn't seem to want her money. All he wanted was to abuse her.

“I don't know anything,” she said calmly, not wanting to frighten him, as he almost strangled her in a fury. “Let go, man … you don't want to do this.”

“Oh yes, I do,” and then, in a single gesture, he flicked out a long, thin knife and pressed it to her throat with a single practiced gesture. Without moving an inch, she was instantly reminded of her time in prison. But there was no one to save her now … no Luana … no Sally …

“Don't do it … just take my bag. There's fifty dollars in it, it's all I've got … and my watch.” She held her arm out. It was the farewell gift Cheryl had given her in Chicago, A small price to pay for her life now.

“I don't want your fucking watch, bitch … I want Isella.”

“Isella?” She had no idea what he was talking about. He reeked of cheap Scotch and sweat as he held her against his chest with his switchblade at her throat.

“My wife … you took my wife … and now she won't come back … she says she's goin’ back to Cleveland …”

It was about St. Andrew's, then, and one of the women she'd helped there.

“I didn't take her … I didn't do anything … maybe you should talk to her … maybe if you get help, she'll come back …”

“You took my kids …” He was crying then, and his whole body seemed to be twitching, as she frantically searched her memory for a woman named Isella, but she couldn't remember her. She saw so many women there. She wondered if she'd ever seen this one. Usually, she remembered who they were. But not Isella.

“No one can take your kids away from you … or your wife … you have to talk to them … you need help … what's your name?” Maybe if she called him by name he wouldn't kill her.

“Sam … why do you care?”

“I care.” And then she thought of what might have been her only salvation. “I'm a nun … I gave my life to God for people like you, Sam … I've been in prisons … I've been in a lot of places … it's not going to do anyone any good if you hurt me.”

“You a nun?” he practically shrieked at her. “Shit … nobody told me that … shit …” He kicked the door behind her hard, but no one came. No one saw. No one cared on Delancey. “Why you messin’ with my bizness? Why you tell her to go home?”

“So you can't hurt her anymore. You don't want to hurt her, Sam … you don't want to hurt anyone …”

“Shit.” He started to cry in earnest. “Fucking nun,” he spat at her, “think you can do anything you want, for God. Fuck God … and fuck you … fuck all of you, bitch …” He grabbed her by the throat then, and banged her head hard into the door, it felt like it was full of sand and everything went gray and blurry for an instant, and then as she started to fall, she felt him kick her hard in the stomach, and then again, and someone was pounding on her face and she couldn't stop him. She couldn't call out to him. She couldn't say his name. It was a hailstorm of fists pounding on her face, her head, her stomach, her back, and then it stopped. She heard him run, she heard him shouting at her again, and then he was gone, and she lay tasting her own blood in the doorway.

The police found her that night, on their late night rounds, slumped over in the doorway. They poked her with their nightsticks, like they did the drunks, and then one of them saw her blood on it, shining in the streetlights.

“Shit,” he said, and called out to his partner, “get an ambulance, quick!” The officer knelt down next to Grace and felt for a pulse. It was barely there, but she still had one. And as he turned her over slowly on her back, he could see how badly she'd been beaten. Her face was covered with blood, and her hair was matted to her head. He wasn't sure if there were any broken bones or internal injuries, but she was gasping for air even in her unconscious state, and his partner came up to him a minute later.

“Whatcha got?”

“A bad one … she's not dressed for this neighborhood. God only knows where she came from.” He opened her handbag and looked in her wallet as they waited for the ambulance to come from Bellevue. “She lives on Eighty-fourth, she's a long way from home. She should know better than to walk around down here.”

“There's a crisis center down the street,” the policeman who had called the ambulance said as the other one checked her pulse again and put her handbag under her head as they laid her gently on the street. “She might work there. I'll check it out after you hop the ambulance, if you want.” One of them had to ride with her to make the report, if she lived that long. She wasn't looking good to either of them, her pulse was getting weaker, and so was her breathing.

The ambulance came less than five minutes later, with shrieking sirens, and the paramedics were quick to put her on a backboard and give her oxygen as they slid the board into the ambulance.

“Any idea how bad it is?” one of the cops asked the senior paramedic. Grace was completely unconscious and had never stirred since they found her. All she'd done was gasp for air, and they were giving her oxygen with a bag and mask.

“It doesn't look good,” the paramedic said honestly. “She's got a head injury. That could mean anything.” From death to retardation to a permanent coma. There was no way for them to tell there. She looked terrible in the light as they raced uptown to Bellevue.

Her face was battered almost beyond recognition, her eyes were swollen shut, there was a knife wound on her neck, and when they pulled open her shirt and unzipped her jeans, they saw how bad the bruises were there. Her attacker had very nearly killed her. “It looks pretty bad,” the paramedic said to the cop in a whisper. “There's not much left of her. I wonder if the guy knew her. What's her name?”

The policeman opened her wallet again and read it aloud to one of the paramedics, as he nodded. They had work to do here. They had to try to keep her going till they got to Bellevue.

“Gome on, Grace … open your eyes for us … you're okay … we're not going to hurt you … we're taking you to the hospital, Grace … Grace … Grace … shit…” They had an IV going and a blood pressure cuff on her and it was dropping sharply. “We're losing her,” he said to his colleague. It was going down, down, down … and then it was gone, but the paramedics were quick to respond and one of them grabbed a defibrillator and literally yanked her bra off and put it on her.

“Stand back,” he told the cop as they pulled into the driveway, “got'er,” her body received a huge shock, and her heart started again, just as the driver yanked open the doors and two attendants from the emergency room rushed forward.

“She was in cardiac arrest a second ago,” the paramedic who had shocked her explained as he covered her bare chest with her jacket. “I think we're dealing with some internal bleeding … head injury …” He told them everything he knew and had seen as all five of them ran into the emergency room, running beside the gurney. Her blood pressure plummeted again as soon as they got inside, but this time her heart didn't stop. She already had an IV in her, and the chief resident came in with three nurses and started issuing orders, as the paramedics and the policeman disappeared, and went to the front desk to fill out papers.

“Christ, she's a mess,” one of the paramedics who'd come in with her said to the policeman. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“Just your average New York mugging,” the policeman said unhappily. He could see from her driver's license that she was twenty-two years old. It was too young to give your life to a mugger. Any age was, but especially a young kid like that. There was no way of telling if she'd been pretty, or ever would be, if she even lived, which seemed doubtful.

“Looks like more than a mugging,” the paramedic said, “nobody can beat up someone like that unless they've got a beef with them. Maybe it was her boyfriend.”

“In a doorway on Delancey? Not likely. She's wearing designer jeans, and she's got an Upper East Side address. She was mugged.”

But when his partner went to St. Andrew's, Father Tim suspected that it was more than bad luck that had felled Grace Adams. He'd had a visit from the police only the day before to tell him that a woman called Isella Jones had been murdered by her husband that day, he had killed both of his kids as well, and then disappeared. And the policeman had suggested that Father Tim warn his nurses and social workers that the man was violent and on the run. It was possible that he would never come to St. Andrew's at all. Or he might, if he blamed them for encouraging Isella to leave him and try to get home to Cleveland. But it never dawned on him to say anything to Grace. She had been in California when Isella had shown up, beaten and terrified, with her children. Father Tim had warned the others and told them to spread the word and watch out for a man called Sam Jones. They had been going to put a bulletin on the board to alert everyone, but they had had so much to do for the past two days that they never did it.

When Father Tim heard what had happened to Grace, he was sure that the incident was related, and they put out an APB on Sam Jones, with a mug shot and his description. He'd been in plenty of trouble before and he had a record an arm long, and a history of violence. If they ever found him, the murder of his wife and kids would put him away forever, not to mention what he had done to Grace in the doorway on Delancey.

Father Tim looked sick when he asked him, “How bad is it?”

“It looked pretty bad when the ambulance left, Father. I'm sorry.”

“So am I.” There were tears in his eyes, as he pulled off a black T-shirt, and grabbed a black shirt with a Roman collar. “Can you give me a ride to the hospital?”

“Sure, Father.” Father Tim quickly told Sister Eugene where he was going, and hurried out to the patrol car with the officer. Four minutes later they were at Bellevue. Grace was still in the emergency room and a whole team of doctors and nurses was working on her. But so far, none of them was encouraged by the results. She was barely hanging on at that moment.

“How is she?” Father Tim asked the nurse at the desk.

“Critical. That's all I know.” And then she looked at him, he was a priest after all, and she probably wasn't going to make it. That's what one of the interns had told her. She was so bashed up inside, it was almost hopeless. “Do you want to see her?” He nodded, feeling responsible for what had happened. Sam Jones had gone after Grace, and nearly killed her.

Father Tim followed the nurse into the room and he was shocked at what he saw there. Three nurses were hovering over her, two interns, and the resident. She was almost naked, swathed in sheets, and her whole body was black it was so bruised and swollen. Her face looked like a deep purple melon. She was covered in ice packs, swathed in bandages, there were screens and scans and IVs and instruments everywhere. It was the worst thing he'd ever seen, and at a nod from the resident, he gave her last rites. He didn't even know what religion she was, but it didn't matter. She was a child of God, and He knew how much she had given Him. Father Tim was crying as he stood in the corner and prayed for her, and it was hours before they stopped working on her, and looked up. Her head was wrapped in bandages by then, they had stitched up her face and her throat. He had only used the knife on her neck, he had lacerated her face with his fist. One arm was broken, and five ribs. And they were going to operate as soon as she was stable. They knew by then from scans that she had a ruptured spleen, and he had damaged her kidneys, and her pelvis was broken too.

“Is there anything he didn't get?” Father Tim asked miserably.

“Not much.” The resident was used to it, but this time it looked bad even to him. She had barely survived it. “Her feet look pretty good.” The doctor smiled and the priest tried to.

She went to surgery at six o'clock and it was noon before they were through. Sister Eugene had joined him by then, and they were sitting together quietly, praying for her, when the chief resident came to find them.

“Are you her next of kin?” he asked, confused by the priest's collar. At first he'd just thought he was the hospital priest, but now he realized that he was there specifically for Grace, as was the woman with him.

“Yes, I am,” Father Tim said without hesitation. “How is she?”

“She made it through the surgery. We took out her spleen, patched up her kidneys, put a pin in her pelvis. She's a lucky girl, we managed to get all the important stuff put back together. And the house plastic surgeon sewed up her face and swears it'll never show. The big question mark right now is the head injury. Everything looks okay on the EEG but you can't always tell. It could look fine and she might never wake up again, and just stay in a coma. We just don't know yet. We'll know a lot more in the next few days, Father. I'm sorry.” He touched his arm, and nodded at the young nun before he walked away to get some rest. She had been a tough case, but at least she'd made it and they hadn't lost her. For a while there, it had been mighty close. Grace had been lucky.

Before the resident left, Father Tim had thanked him and asked when they could see her and he said that as soon as she was out of the recovery room in a few more hours, she would be taken to ICU upstairs. He and Sister Eugene went to the cafeteria for something to eat then, and she told Father Tim that he should go home and get some rest, but he didn't want to leave yet.

“I was thinking that maybe we should call her office. No one knows what's happened to her, except us. They must be wondering why she didn't come in,” which was exactly the case. Charles Mackenzie had had one of the secretaries call her half a dozen times at home, but there was no answer. She could have overstayed on a weekend romance, but he kept insisting that it wasn't like her. He had no idea who else to call, but for all he knew, she could have slipped and hit her head in the bathtub. He had even thought of trying to locate her superintendent but decided to let it wait till after lunch. As soon as he got back, there was a call from Father Timothy Finnegan, and the secretary who answered said it was about Grace.

“I'll take it,” he said, and picked up the phone with a sudden queasy feeling. “Hello?”

“Mr. Mackenzie?”

“Yes, Father, what can I do for you?”

“Not a great deal, I'm afraid. It's about Grace.” Charles felt his blood run cold. Without hearing more, he knew something terrible had happened to her.

“Is she all right?”

There was an endless silence.

“I'm afraid not. She had a terrible accident last night. She was mugged and badly beaten after leaving St. Andrew's, the crisis center where she does volunteer work. It was late, and … we don't know all the details yet, but we're afraid it may have been the crazed husband of one of our clients. He killed his wife and children on Saturday. We're not sure if it was he that attacked Grace. But whoever did it, beat Grace within a hair of killing her.”

“Where is she?” Charles's hand shook as he grabbed his pen and a notepad.

“She's at Bellevue. She's just come out of surgery.”

“How bad is it?” It was so unfair, she was so young, and so alive, and so pretty.

“Pretty bad. She lost her spleen, though the doctor says she can live without it. Her kidneys are damaged, she has a broken pelvis and half a dozen broken ribs. Her face was pretty badly cut up, and he sliced her throat but only superficially. The worst of it is that she has a head injury. That's the main concern now. They said we'll just have to wait and see. I'm sorry to call with such bad news. I just thought you'd want to know,” and then, he didn't know why he told him, but he felt he had to, “She thinks a lot of you, Mr. Mackenzie. She thinks you're a great person.”

“I think the world of her too. Is there anything we can do for her at this point?”

“Pray.”

“I will, Father, I will. And thank you. Let me know if there's any change, will you?”

“Of course.”

The moment he hung up, Charles Mackenzie called the head of Bellevue, and a neurosurgeon he knew well, and asked him to have a look at Grace immediately. The head of the hospital had promised to put her in a private room, and see that she had private nurses. But first she was going to intensive care, where they were experts at dealing with trauma.

Charles couldn't believe what they'd told him when he called the hospital. He remembered telling her how dangerous the neighborhood was, and that she should be taking cabs. And now look what had happened. He felt shaken for the rest of the afternoon, and he called at five and asked if there was any improvement. She was in intensive care by then, but they didn't have any news. She was listed as critical. And at six o'clock, he was still at the office when his neurosurgeon friend called him back.

“You wouldn't believe what that guy did to her, Charles. It's inhuman.”

“Will she be all right?” Charles asked him sadly. He hated to see something like that happen to her, or anyone. And he was surprised to realize how fond of her he had grown. She was so young, she could have been his daughter, he realized, feeling startled.

“She could be all right,” the doctor answered. “It's hard to say yet. The other injuries should heal pretty well. The head is another story. She could be fine, or she couldn't. It all depends if she comes out of it in the next few days. She didn't need brain surgery, which is fortunate, but there's going to be some swelling for a while. We just have to be patient. Is she a friend of yours?”

“My secretary.”

“Damn shame. She's just a kid, from what I saw on the chart. And there's no family, is there?”

“I don't really know. She doesn't talk about it. She never told me.” It made him wonder now what her situation was. She never talked about her personal life and family. He knew almost nothing about her.

“I spoke to a nun who was sitting with her. The priest who came in earlier had apparently gone home to rest. But the Sister says she has no one in the world. That's pretty rough for a young kid. The Sister says she's a nice-looking girl, though it's a little hard to tell at the moment. The plastic resident sewed her up so she should look okay. It's just the head we have to worry about now.” Charles felt sick when he hung up. It was too much to bear. And how could she not have any family? How could she be alone at twenty-two? That didn't make sense to him. All she had was a nun and priest with her. It was hard to believe she had no one else, but maybe she didn't.

He sat at his desk for another hour, trying to work, and got nowhere, and finally he couldn't stand it any longer.

At seven o'clock he took a cab down to Bellevue, and went to the ICU. Sister Eugene had left by then too, though they were calling regularly from St. Andrew's for news, and Father Tim had said he'd be back later that night when things settled down at the shelter. But there were only nurses with her now, and for the moment nothing had changed since that morning.

Charles went and sat with her for a while, unable to believe what she looked like. She would have been completely unrecognizable, except for her long, graceful fingers. He held her hand in his own and gently stroked it.

“Hi Grace, I came down to see you.” He spoke quietly, so he wouldn't disturb anyone, but he wanted to say something to her, on the off chance that she could hear him, although it certainly seemed unlikely in the state she was in. “You're going to be fine, you know … and don't forget that dinner at ‘21.’ I'll take you there myself if you hurry up and get well … and you know, it would be nice if you would open your eyes for us … it's not too exciting like this … open your eyes … that's right, Grace … open your eyes …” He went on talking soothingly to her, and just as he was thinking about leaving her, he saw her eyelids flutter and signaled to the nurses at the desk. His heart was pounding at what he'd seen. Her survival was vital to him. He wanted her to live. He barely knew her, but he didn't want to lose her. “I think she moved her eyelids,” he explained.

“It's probably just a reflex,” the nurse said with a sympathetic smile. But then she did it again, and the nurse stood and watched her.

“Move your eyes again, Grace,” he said quietly. “Come on, I know you can do it. Yes, you can.” And she did. And then she opened them briefly, moaned, and closed them. He wanted to shout with excitement. “What does that mean?” he asked the nurse.

“That she's regaining consciousness.” She smiled at him. “I'll call the doctor.”

“That was great, Grace,” he praised her, stroking her fingers again, willing her to live, just to prove she could do it, just so one more mugger wouldn't win a life he didn't deserve to take. “Come on, Grace … you can't just lie there, sleeping … we've got work to do … what about that letter you promised me you'd do …” He was saying anything he could think of and then he almost cried when he saw her frown, the eyes opened again and she stared at him blankly.

“… What … letter? …” she croaked through bruised swollen lips as her eyes closed again, and this time he did cry. The tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked at her. She had heard him. And then the doctor came, and Charles explained what had happened. They did another EEG on her, and her brain waves were still normal, but now her reactions were slowly returning. She turned away when they tried to shine a light in her eyes, and she moaned and then cried when they touched her. She was in pain, which they thought was a great sign. Now she would have to move through various stages of misery in order to improve.

And at midnight, Charles was still there with her, he couldn't bring himself to leave her. But it appeared now that her brain was not damaged. They would have to do more tests, and they had to be sure that there was no further hidden trauma, but it looked as though she would in fact recover and be all right eventually.

Father Tim had come back by then, and he was in ICU too when the doctor told Charles that the prognosis looked pretty good. And then the two men went out into the hall to talk while one of the nurses attended to Grace and gave her a shot for the pain. She was in agony from all her bruises and the operation, and the damage to her head and face.

“My God, she's going to make it,” Father Tim said with a look of joy and excitement. He had prayed for her all day, and had two masses said for her. And all the nuns were praying for her that night. “What a great girl she is.” They had also caught Sam Jones earlier that night, and charged him with the murder of his wife and two children, and the attempted murder of Grace Adams. He had admitted mugging her, because she was the first one he saw come out of St. Andrew's, and he felt that that was where all his troubles began. “You don't know how much she's done for us, Mr. Mackenzie. The girl is a saint,” Father Tim said to Charles in the hallway.

“Why does she do it?” Charles looked puzzled, as the two men sat drinking coffee. They suddenly felt like brothers, and they were both relieved that Grace was going to recover.

“I think there's a lot about Grace that none of us know,” Father Tim said quietly. “I don't think the life of battered women and children is new to her. I think she's a girl who's suffered a great deal and survived it, and now she wants to help others do the same. She'd make a great nun,” he grinned, and Charles pointed a finger at him.

“Don't you dare! She should get married and have kids.”

“I'm not sure she ever will,” Father Tim said honestly. “I don't think that's what she wants, to be honest. Some of them heal, the way she has, but many of the children who suffer like the ones we see can never cross over into a life where they can trust enough to be whole people again. I think it's miraculous if they come as far as Grace has, and can give so much to others. Maybe wanting more than that is too much to ask.”

“If she can give to so many, why not to a husband?”

“That's a lot harder.” Father Tim smiled philosophically at him, and then decided to admit something to him. It might give him an insight. “She was desperately afraid to go to California with you. And eternally grateful when you didn't hurt her, or use her.”

“‘Use’ her? What do you mean?”

“I think she's seen a lot of pain. A lot of men do unspeakable things. We see it every day. I think she fully expected you to do something unsuitable to her.” Charles Mackenzie looked embarrassed at the mere idea of it, and he was horrified that she would think that of him, and even say it to another person.

“I guess that's why she was so upset when she first came to my office. She didn't trust me.”

“Probably. She doesn't trust anyone a great deal. And I don't suppose this will help. But at least this wasn't personal. That's very different. It's when someone you love really hurts you that it destroys the soul … like a mother with a child, or a man and a woman.” He was a wise man and Charles listened to him with interest, wondering how much of what he said applied to Grace. It sounded like he wasn't sure of her history either, and Charles wondered if he could be wrong about her. But he seemed to know Grace a lot better than Charles did. And the things he said about her tore at his heart. He wondered what terrible things had happened to her to leave her so badly scarred as a woman. He couldn't even begin to imagine what lay behind her cool facade and gentle manner.

“Do you know anything at all about her parents?” Charles was curious about her now.

“She never talks about them. I only know they're dead. She has no family at all. But I don't think that bothers her. She came here from Chicago. She never talks about relatives or friends. I think she's a very lonely girl, but she accepts it. Her only interest is working for you, and coming to St. Andrew's. She works twenty-five or thirty hours a week there.”

“That doesn't leave much time for anything else except sleeping. She works forty-five or fifty for me.”

“That's the whole of it, Mr. Mackenzie.”

Charles was dying to talk to her now, to ask her questions about her life, to ask her why she really worked at St Andrew's. Suddenly she wasn't just a girl he worked with every day, she was a great deal more interesting than that, and there were a thousand questions he wanted to ask her.

The nurse let them back in then. And Father Tim stood a little apart to let Charles talk to her about trivial things. He sensed that there was more interest there than the man knew, or than Grace suspected.

She was fuzzy again when Charles sat down at her bedside, the shot had made her woozy, but at least she wasn't in as much pain.

“Thank you … for coming …” She tried to smile but her lips were still too swollen.

“I'm so sorry this happened to you, Grace.” He was going to have a talk with her about working at St. Andrew's, but that would come later, if she'd listen. ‘They caught the guy who did it.”

“He was … angry … about his wife … Isella.” She would remember the woman's name forever.

“I hope they hang him,” Charles said angrily, and she opened her eyes and looked at him again. And this time she did manage a small smile, looking very dizzy. “Why don't you sleep … I'll come back tomorrow.”

She nodded, and Father Tim spent a few minutes with her too, and then both men left to let her sleep. Charles dropped him off at the shelter in a cab, and then drove uptown, after promising to stay in touch with the young priest. He liked him. And Charles had also promised to come and visit the center. He was going to, too, he wanted to know more about Grace, and that was one way to do it.

Charles went back to visit Grace for the next three days, canceling his lunches to be there, even one with his producer friend, but he didn't want to let Grace down. When they moved her to a private room, Charles brought Winnie to the hospital with him. She cried when she saw Grace, and wrung her hands, and kissed her on the only tiny patch of her face with no bandages or bruises. She looked slightly better by then. A lot of the swelling had gone down, but everything hurt, and she found she could hardly move, between her ribs and her head, and her pelvis. Her kidneys were healing well, and the doctor said she wouldn't miss her spleen, but she was pretty miserable, every inch of her ached and felt as though it had been shattered.

On Saturday, almost a week after the accident, the nurse Charles had insisted on hiring for her coaxed her out of bed and made her walk to the bathroom. It hurt so much to do it that she almost fainted, but she celebrated her victory with a glass of fruit juice when she got back to bed. She was sheet white, but smiling, when Charles arrived with a huge bunch of spring flowers. He had been bringing flowers for her daily, and magazines, and candy, and books. He had wanted to cheer her up, and he wasn't sure how to do it.

“What are you doing here?” She looked embarrassed to see him, and it brought a little color back to her face when she blushed. “Today's Saturday, don't you have something better to do?” she scolded him, sounding more like herself than she had in days. She looked more like herself too. Her face looked like a rainbow of blues and greens and purples, but the swelling was almost all gone, and the stitches were healing so well you almost couldn't see them. The only thing Charles wondered about now was her spirit, after his conversation with Father Tim about what must have led her to St Andrew's in the first place. But it was too soon to ask her how she felt about that.

“Aren't you supposed to be going away for the weekend?” She remembered making arrangements for him to attend a regatta on Long Island. She had rented him a small house in Quogue, and now it was wasted if he stayed in New York.

“I canceled.” He was matter-of-fact, and watched her face carefully. “You're looking pretty good.” He smiled and handed her some magazines he had brought her. All week he had sent her little trinkets, a bed jacket, some slippers, a pillow for her neck, some cologne. It was embarrassing, but she had to admit, she liked it. She had mentioned it to Winnie on the phone, and the older woman tittered like an old mother hen. Grace had laughed at her, and told her that she was outrageous, she never gave up on romance. “Of course not,” Winnie confessed proudly. She had promised to come and visit Grace on Sunday.

“I want to go home,” Grace said to Charles, looking mournful.

“I don't think that's in the cards for a while,” Charles said with a smile. They had said three weeks the day before, which didn't appeal to Grace at all, and meant she'd still be in the hospital on her birthday.

“I want to go back to work.” They had told her she'd be on crutches for a month or two, but she still wanted to go back to work as soon as she got out of the hospital. She had nothing else to do. And she also wanted to go back to St. Andrew's as soon as they'd let her.

“Don't push yourself, Grace. Why don't you take some time off when you get out, and go have some fun somewhere?”

But she only laughed at the idea. “Where? Like the Riviera?” She couldn't afford the time to go anywhere for very long. Maybe a weekend at Atlantic City. She didn't have any vacation coming. She hadn't worked at the firm long enough to qualify for a week off. She knew she had to work there a year before she could take two weeks off. It was already too much that he had told her the firm would pay for everything her insurance didn't Her whole three weeks at Bellevue and everything they had to do for her would probably cost close to fifty thousand dollars.

“Sure, why not go to the Riviera? Charter yourself a yacht,” Charles teased her. “Do something fun for a change.” She laughed at him, and they sat talking for a while. She was surprised by how easy it was to talk to him, and he didn't seem to want to go anywhere at all. He was still there when her nurse went to lunch, and he even helped her hobble to the chair clutching his arm, and gently propped a pillow behind her when she got there, victorious but pale and exhausted.

“How come you never had any children?” she asked suddenly, as they sat and chatted, and he fussed over her and poured her a glass of ginger ale. He would have made a great father, she thought, but didn't say so.

“My wife hated kids,” he smiled. “She wanted to be a child herself. Actresses are like that. And I indulged her,” he said, sounding a little embarrassed.

“Are you sorry? That you didn't have kids, I mean?” She made him sound very old, as though it was too late now, and he laughed as he gave it a moment's careful thought.

“Sometimes. I used to think I'd remarry and have children after Michelle left me. But maybe not. I think I'm too comfortable like this to do anything dramatic now.” In the last couple of years, he had gotten lazy about finding a serious involvement. He liked his temporaries, and his freedom and independence. It was tempting to stay that way forever. But the question she had asked him opened a door for him as well. “What about you? Why don't you want a husband and children?” He knew a lot more about her now, but the question surprised her. It came out of nowhere.

“What makes you say that?*’ She looked away from him uncomfortably, afraid of his question. But when she looked back into his eyes, she saw someone she could trust there. “How did you know that's how I felt?”

“A girl your age doesn't spend all her time doing volunteer work, and with sixty-year-old spinsters like Winnie, unless she's got very little interest in finding a husband. I assume that I'm correct?” he questioned, looking at her pointedly with a smile.

“You are.”

“Why?”

She waited a long time before she answered. She didn't want to lie to him, but she wasn't ready to tell him the truth either. “It's a long story.”

“Does it have to do with your parents?” His eyes bore into hers, but not unkindly. He had already proven that she could trust him, and that he cared about her welfare.

“Yes.”

“Was it very bad?” She nodded, and he felt a deep grief for her. It hurt him to think of anyone hurting her. “Did anyone help you?”

“Not for a long time, and it was too late by then. It was all over.”

“It's never all over, and it's never too late. You don't have to live with that pain for the rest of your life, Grace. You have a right to be free of it, and have a future with a decent guy.” He felt proprietary now and wanted her to have a good, solid future.

“I have a present, which means more to me. Used to be I didn't even have that. I don't ask too much of the future,” Grace said quietly with a look of sorrow.

“But you should,” he tried to urge her forward. “You're so young, you're practically half my age. Your life is just beginning.”

But she shook her head, with a smile that was full of wisdom and sadness. “Believe me, Charles,” he had insisted she call him that now that she was in the hospital, “my life is not beginning. It's half over.”

“It just feels that way. It won't be over for a long time, which is why you need more in it than just working for me, and at St. Andrew's.”

“You trying to fix me up with someone?” She laughed, stretching her long legs before her. He was a kind man, and she knew he meant well, but he didn't know what he was doing. She was not an ordinary twenty-two-year-old girl with a few rocky memories and a rosy future. She felt more like a survivor of a death camp, and in some ways she was. Charles Mackenzie had never encountered anything like that, and he wasn't sure what to do for her.

“I wish I knew someone worth fixing you up with,” he answered her with a smile. All the men he knew were either too old, or too stupid. They didn't deserve her.

They talked of other things then, sailing, which he loved, and summers on Martha's Vineyard when he was a boy, and places he'd been. He still had a house in Martha's Vineyard, though he rarely ever went there anymore. They didn't talk about painful things again, and at the end of the afternoon, he left and told her to get some rest. He told her he was going to see friends in Connecticut the next day. She was touched that he spent so much time with her.

Winnie came Sunday afternoon, and Father Tim, and Grace was just settling down to watching television before she went to sleep that night, when Charles strode in, in khaki pants and a starched blue shirt, looking like an ad in GQ and smelling like the country.

“I was on my way back into town, and I thought I'd stop by and see how you were,” he said, looking happy to see her. And in spite of herself, she beamed at him. She had actually missed him that afternoon, and that had worried her a little. He was only her boss after all, not a lifelong friend, and she had no right to expect to see him. She didn't, but she enjoyed him, more than she would ever have expected.

“Did you have fun in the country?” she asked, feeling relieved that he was there.

“No,” he said honestly, “I thought of you all afternoon. You're a lot more fun than they were.”

“Now I know you're crazy.” He came to sit on the foot of the bed and told her funny stories about the afternoon, and in spite of herself, she was disappointed when he left. It was ten o'clock by then, and he thought she should get some sleep, although he didn't want to leave either.

But that night, as she lay in bed and thought about him, she started to panic. What was she doing with him? What did she want from him? If she opened up to him like this, he would only hurt her. She forced herself to remember the anguish and embarrassment of Marcus, who had been so good to her at first, so patient, and then betrayed her. It terrified her just thinking about Charles. Maybe all she was to Charles Mackenzie was a conquest. She could feel her chest tighten as she thought about it, and as though he had read her mind, the phone rang next to her bed. She couldn't imagine who it was, but it was Charles, and he sounded worried.

“I want to say something to you … and you may think I'm crazy, but I'm going to say it to you anyway … I want to be your friend, Grace. I won't hurt you, but I just got worried, trying to imagine what you were thinking. I don't know what's happening. I just know that I think about you all the time, and I worry about what's happened to you in the past, although I can't even imagine it … but I don't want to lose you … I don't want to scare you away, or frighten you, or make you worry about your job. Let's just be two people for a little while, two people who care about each other, if we do, and go very slowly from there.” She couldn't believe what she was hearing, but in a way, it was a relief to have him say it.

“What are we doing, Charles?” she said nervously. “What about my job? We can't pretend I don't work for you. What happens when I come back?”

“You're not coming back for a while, Grace. We'll know a lot more by then. I think we're both feeling something we don't understand right now. Maybe we're just friends, maybe your accident scared us both. Maybe it's more than that. Maybe it never can be. But you need to know who I am, and I want to know who you are … I want to know your pain … I want to know what makes you laugh. I want to be there for you … I want to help you. …”

“And then what? You walk away from me? You find another secretary who amuses you for a few weeks and have her tell you all her secrets?” She was relieved that he called her but she was too afraid to let herself trust him.

Charles remembered Father Tim's words, that some of the survivors just can't let go. But he wanted her to be one who could, no matter what it took to get there.

“That's not fair,” Charles chided her. “I've never been in a situation like this before. I've never gone out with anyone at the law firm, or anyone who worked for me.” And then he smiled in spite of himself. “And you can hardly say I'm going out with you. You can't go anywhere except from the bed to the chair, and even I wouldn't have the bad taste to attack you.”

She laughed at what he said, and her voice sounded deep and sexy as she lay in bed, and she wanted to let herself trust him, but she knew she couldn't … or could she?

“I just don't know,” Grace said, still sounding nervous.

“You don't have to know anything right now … except if it's okay with you if I visit you. That's all you need to decide right now. I was just afraid you'd panic and start to go crazy once you were alone, and got to thinking.”

“I was … tonight …” she said honestly with a little girl's smile. “I was starting to panic over what we're doing.”

“We're not doing anything, so just shut up and get better. And one of these days,” he said so gently, it was almost a caress, “when you feel strong enough, I want you to tell me what happened to you in the past. You can't expect me to really understand till you do that. Have you ever told anyone?” He worried about that. How could she live with all those dark secrets?

“Two people,” she admitted to him. “A wonderful woman I knew, a therapist … she was killed in a plane crash on her honeymoon almost three years ago. And a man who was my lawyer, but I haven't talked to him in a long time either.”

“You haven't had a lot of luck, have you, Grace?”

She shook her head sadly, and then shrugged. “I don't know … lately I have. I can't complain.” She decided to take a huge leap then. “I was lucky when I met you.” Saying those words to him almost choked her and he knew it.

“Not as lucky as I was. Now get some sleep, sweetheart …” he said softly into the phone, “I'll come by at lunch. And maybe I'll even come back for dinner. Maybe I can bring you something from ‘21.’ “

“I was going to take Winnie there next week,” she said guiltily.

“You'll have plenty of time for that when you're well. Now go to sleep,” he whispered to her, wishing he could put his arms around her and protect her. She made him feel different than he had ever felt with any woman before. All he wanted to do was take care of her and keep her safe from harm. So many terrible things must have happened to her, even as recently as a week ago. But he wanted to change all that now.

They said good night and hung up, and she lay there thinking about him for a long time. He frightened her with the things he said to her, and his persistent attention, but oddly enough, as terrifying as it was, she liked it. And she felt a tingling sensation in her gut that she had never felt before for any man, until Charles Mackenzie.

Chapter 12

Charles came to see her twice the next day, and either once or twice a day for the next three weeks, until she was finally released from Bellevue. She could get around more easily on crutches by then, and take care of herself, but she still didn't have as much stamina as she would have liked. The doctor told her to wait another two weeks before she went back to work.

At the office, Charles was making do with temps, and Grace felt terribly guilty about it, but he was the first one to tell her not to rush back to work, not to come back in fact, until she was ready.

They spent hours together while she was in the hospital. She knew he'd had to cancel almost all his plans to be with her, but he pretended not to even notice. They laughed, and they talked, and played cards, and he joked with her. He didn't force any confidences from her, and he helped her walk down the hall, and promised her you couldn't see a single scar, and when she complained about how horrible the hospital gowns were, he brought her exquisite nightgowns from Pratesi. In a way, it was all embarrassing, and she was still terrified of where it would all lead, but she was no longer able to stop it. If he didn't come to lunch, she didn't eat, and if he had to miss an evening with her, she was so lonely she could barely stand it. Every time she saw his face appear in the doorway of her hospital room, she looked like a child who had found its only friend, or its teddy bear, or even its mother. He took care of everything for her, talked to the doctors, called in consultants, filed her insurance. No one at the office knew how involved he was with her, and even Winnie had no idea how much time he was spending with her. Grace had had a lifetime of practice at keeping secrets.

But once she went home, she was frightened again that everything would change. For about two hours, until he appeared at her apartment with champagne and balloons, and a picnic lunch. It was only two hours after he had brought her back from the hospital in a rented limo and left her briefly to do some errands.

“What are people going to think?” she said, as he drove her from the hospital, back to Eighty-fourth street. She imagined that everyone knew her boss was hanging out with her day and night, and they were going to put it up on billboards.

“I don't think anyone really cares, to tell you the truth. Except us. Everyone is busy screwing up their own lives. And frankly, I don't think we're screwing up ours. You're the best thing that ever happened to me.” He repeated that to her when he arrived on her doorstep with a picnic. More importantly, he had a small blue box with him, and in it was a narrow gold bracelet.

“What's this for?” she said, awed by his generosity. It was from Tiffany, and it fit her perfectly, but she wasn't sure if she should accept it.

But he was laughing at her. “Do you know what day this is?” She shook her head. She had lost track of dates while she was in the hospital. She had spent the Fourth of July there, but she hadn't paid much attention after that. “It's your birthday, silly girl. That's why I had them let you out today instead of Monday. You can't stay in the hospital on your birthday!” Tears filled her eyes as she realized what he'd done, and he'd even brought a small birthday cake for her from Greenberg's. It was all chocolate, and very rich, and incredibly gooey and delicious.

“How can you do all this for me?” She felt shy with him suddenly, but so pleased. He had done nothing but spoil her since the mugging. Spoil her and be kind to her, and spend time with her. No one had ever been as kind to her as he was.

“Easy, I guess,” he answered, “I don't have kids. Maybe I should adopt you. Now there's a thought. That certainly simplifies things for you, doesn't it?” She laughed at the suggestion. It would certainly have been easier than dealing with her feelings and fears of getting involved with him.

Their relationship changed subtly once she was back in her apartment. It was instantly more intimate, closer, and more difficult to pretend that they were just friends. They were suddenly all alone without nurses and attendants to chaperon and interrupt them. It made Grace feel shy with him at first, and he pretended not to notice. He had brought a funny nurse's hat with him with her birthday cake and gift and picnic lunch, and he put it on, and forced her to go to bed and rest. He watched TV with her, and made dinner for her in her tiny kitchen. She hobbled out to help, and he made her sit in a chair and watch, while she protested.

“I'm not helpless, you know,” she objected vociferously.

“Yes, you are. Don't forget, I'm the boss here,” he overruled her, and she laughed. It was so easy being with him, and so comfortable. They lay on her bed after dinner, and talked, and he held her hand, but he was desperately afraid to go any further, or of what would happen if he did. And finally, unable to stand it any longer, he turned and asked her one of the things he had wanted to know for weeks now.

“Are you afraid of me, Grace? I mean physically … I don't want to do anything that will frighten or hurt you.” She was touched that he had asked her. He had been lying next to her on her bed for two hours, and holding her hand. They were like old friends, but there was also an undeniable electricity between them. And now it was Charles who was frightened. He didn't want to do anything that would jeopardize their relationship, or make him lose her.

“Sometimes, I'm afraid of men,” she said honestly.

“Someone did some awful stuff to you, didn't they?” She nodded in answer. “A stranger?” She shook her head and there was a long pause.

“My father.” But there were other things, and she knew she needed to explain those too. She sighed, and picked up his hand again and kissed his fingers. “All my life, people tried to hurt me, or take advantage of me. After … after he was gone … my first boss tried to seduce me. He was married, I don't know … it was just so sleazy. He just assumed that he had a right to use me. And another man I had business dealings with did the same thing.” She was talking about Louis Marquez and didn't want to explain him to Charles just yet, although she knew that eventually, if this got serious, she'd have to. “This other man kept threatening, threatened that I'd lose my job if I didn't sleep with him. He used to show up at my apartment. It was disgusting … and then there was someone I went out with. He did pretty much the same thing, used me, made a fool of me, never gave a damn. He put something in my drink and I got horribly sick. But he didn't rape me at least. At first I was afraid that maybe he had after he'd drugged me, but he hadn't. He just made me look like a fool afterwards. He was a real bastard.”

Charles looked horrified. He couldn't imagine people doing things like that. Especially to someone he knew. It was appalling. “How did you know he hadn't raped you?” he asked in an agonized voice, thinking of what she must have been through.

“My roommate took me to a doctor she knew. Nothing had happened. But he pretended that it had, and told everyone that. He told my boss, which was why he went after me, and I guess why he expected to sleep with me. That was why I quit my job and left Chicago.”

“Good luck for me.” He smiled, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer.

“Those were the only men I really had any dealings with. I only went out with that one guy in Chicago, and he made a real ass of me. I never went out with anyone in high school … because of my father …”

“Where did you go to college?” he asked, and she smiled at the memory.

“In Dwight, Illinois,” she said honestly.

“And who did you go out with there?” This time she laughed, remembering what would have been her choices.

“Not a soul. It was an all-girls school, so to speak.” But she knew then that she'd have to tell him soon. She just didn't want to tell him all of it on her birthday. It was too hard to go through, and they'd had such a nice time. It was the best birthday she'd ever had, even with her broken bones and her stitches and her crutches. He had made up for everything and a lot of years with his dinner, and his present, and his kindness.

He didn't want to push her much further than he already had, but he wanted to understand something more clearly. “Am I correct in believing that you're not a virgin?”

“That's right,” she glanced up at him, looking breathtakingly beautiful in a blue satin bathrobe he'd bought her.

“I just wondered … but there hasn't been anyone in a long time, has there?”

She nodded. “I promise we'll talk about it sometime … just not tonight. …” He didn't want to talk about it on her birthday either. He suspected correctly that it was going to be hard for her, and he didn't want to spoil their evening.

“Whenever you're ready … I just wanted to know … I don't ever want to do anything that scares you.” But as he said the words, and she had her face turned up to his, listening to him, he found himself melting toward her and he couldn't help it. He gently took her face in his hands, and ever so carefully kissed her. She seemed cautious at first, and then he felt her responding to him. He lay down next to her, and held her close to him, and kissed her again, wanting her desperately, but he never allowed his hands to wander toward her body.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and kissed him this time. “For being so good to me, and so patient.”

“Don't press your luck,” he almost groaned after he'd kissed her again. This was not going to be easy. But he was determined to bring her back across the bridge eventually. He knew that whatever it took, and however long, he was going to save her.

He left her apartment late that night, after he'd tucked her into bed, and she was almost sleeping. He kissed her again, and let himself out. He had borrowed a key from her, so she didn't have to get up, and he could lock the door behind him. And the next morning, as she hobbled to the bathroom and brushed her hair, she looked startled as she heard him let himself into the apartment. He had brought orange juice and bagels with cream cheese, and the New York Times, and he made her scrambled eggs and bacon.

“High cholesterol, it's good for you, trust me.” She laughed at him. And he told her to get dressed. He took her for a short walk down First Avenue, and then brought her back when she was tired. And he watched the baseball game while she slept in his arms that afternoon. She looked so beautiful and so peaceful. And when she woke up, she looked up at him, wondering how she'd been so lucky.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Mackenzie?” She smiled sleepily at him, and he leaned down to kiss her.

“I came over so you could work on your dictation.”

“No kidding.”

They ordered pizza that night, and he had brought some work with him, but he absolutely refused to let her help him. And after he'd finished, she looked at him, feeling guilty. It seemed late in the day to be keeping secrets from him, although she knew that he would never press her.

“I think I ought to tell you some things, Charles,” she said quietly after a few minutes. “You have a right to know. And you may feel differently about me after you hear them.” But it was time, before they went any further. Not everyone wanted a woman who had committed murder. In fact, she suspected that most wouldn't. And maybe Charles wouldn't either.

He took her hands in both of his, before she started and looked her in the eye squarely. “I want you to know that whatever happened, whatever they did to you, whatever you did, I love you. I want you to hear that now … and later.” It was the first time he had told her that he loved her, and it made her cry before she'd even started. But now she wanted him to listen and see how he felt after she had told him all of it. Maybe everything would change then.

“I love you too, Charles,” she said, holding him, with her eyes closed, and tears rolling down her cheeks. “But there's a lot you don't know about me.” She took a deep breath, felt for the inhaler in her pocket, and started at the beginning. “When I was a little girl, my father beat my mother all the time … I mean all the time … every night … as hard as he could … I used to hear her screams, and the sound of his fists on her … and in the morning I'd see the bruises … she always lied and pretended it was nothing. But every night he'd come home, he'd yell and she'd cry and he'd beat her again. After a while, you stop having any kind of life when those things happen. You can't have friends, because they might find out. You can't tell anyone, because they might do something to your daddy,” she said sadly. “My mother used to beg me not to tell, so you lie, and cover up, and pretend you don't know, and act like nothing's wrong, and little by little you become a zombie. That's all that I remember of my childhood.” She sighed again. It was hard telling him, but she knew she had to. And he squeezed her hand more tightly.

“Then my mother got cancer,” Grace continued. “I was thirteen. She had cancer of the uterus, and they had to do some kind of radiation, and …” She hesitated, looking for the right words, she didn't know him that well yet. “I guess that changed her … so …” Her eyes began to swim with tears, and she felt the asthma closing her throat, but she wouldn't let it. She knew she had to tell him. Her survival depended on it now just as it had on opening her eyes at Bellevue. “My mother came to me then, and told me I had to ‘take care’ of my father, to ‘be good to him,’ to be ‘his special little girl,’ and he would love me more than ever.” Charles was looking seriously worried as she told the story. “I didn't understand what she meant at first, and then she and Daddy came into my room one night, and she held me down for him.”

“Oh my God.” Tears filled his eyes as he listened.

“She held me down every night, until I knew I had no choice. I had to do it. If I didn't, no matter how sick she was, he would beat her, I had no friends, I couldn't tell anyone. I hated myself, I hated my body. I wore baggy old clothes because I didn't want anyone to see me. I felt dirty and ashamed, and I knew that what I was doing was wrong, but if I didn't do it, he would beat her, and me. Sometimes he beat me anyway, and then raped me. It was always rape. He loved violence. He loved hurting me, and my mother. Once when I didn't do it, because …” she blushed, feeling fourteen again, “because I had … my period … he beat her so bad, she cried for a week. She already had bone cancer by then, and she almost died of the pain. I did it anytime he wanted after that, no matter how much he hurt me.” She took a deep breath. It was almost over now. He'd heard the worst, or almost, and he couldn't stop crying. She gently wiped the tears from Charles's cheeks and kissed him.

“Oh Grace, I'm so sorry.” He wanted to take the pain away from her, to erase her past, and change her future.

“It's all right … it's all right now …” And then she went on. “My mother died after four years. We went to the funeral, and lots of people came over afterwards. Hundreds of them. Everybody loved my father. He was a lawyer, and everyone's friend. He played golf with them, went to Rotary dinners with them, and Kiwanis. He was the nicest guy in town, people said. He was the man everyone loved and trusted. And no one knew what he really was. He was a sick, sick man, and a real bastard.

“The day of the funeral, everyone spent the afternoon eating and talking and drinking, and trying to make him feel better. But he didn't care. He still had me. I don't know why, but somehow in my mind, it was all tied up with my mother. I was doing it for her, so he wouldn't hurt her. But I figured when she was gone, he'd find someone else. But of course he didn't want that. He had me. Why did he need anyone else? Not right off anyway. So when everyone left, I cleaned up, washed the dishes, put everything away, and locked the door to my room. He came after me, he threatened to knock the door down, and he got a knife and sprung the lock. He dragged me into her room, and he'd never done that before. He always came to my room. But going to her room was like becoming her, it was like knowing that it was forever and it would never stop, never, until he died or I did. And suddenly, I just couldn't do it.” She was choking again, and Charles had stopped crying, horrified by everything she'd told him. “I don't know what happened after that. He really hurt me that night, he pounded at me, he hit me, he'd won, I was his to beat and rape and torture forever. And then I remembered the gun my mother kept in her nightstand. I don't know what I was going to do with it, hit him, or scare him, or shoot him. I don't really know anything except that he was hurting me so much and I was so scared and half crazy with misery and pain and fear. He saw the gun, and he tried to grab it from me, and then the next thing I knew, it went off, and he was bleeding all over me. I shot him through the throat, and it severed his spinal cord and punctured his lung. He fell on top of me and bled horribly, and after that I don't remember anything until the police came. I'm not sure what I did. I called the police, I guess, and the next thing I remember was talking to them, wrapped in a blanket.”

“Did you tell them what he'd done to you?” Charles asked anxiously, wanting to change the course of history, and agonized that he couldn't.

“Of course not. I couldn't do that to my mother. Or to him. I thought I owed him total silence. In my own way, I guess, I was as crazy as he was. But that's what happens to children, and women too, in situations like that. They never tell. They'll die first. They called in a psychiatrist to talk to me, when they took me to jail that night, and she sent me to the hospital, and they found out that he'd raped me, or ‘someone had had intercourse’ with me, according to the DA”

“Did you ever tell them the truth?”

“Not for a while. Molly, the psychiatrist, hounded me to tell her. She knew. But I lied to her. He was still my daddy. But finally, my lawyer wore me down, and I told them.”

“And then what? I assume they let you off after that.”

“Not exactly. The prosecution concocted a theory that I was after my father's money, that if I killed him, I'd get everything. Everything being one small but highly mortgaged house, and half of his law practice, which was a lot smaller than yours. I couldn't inherit any of it anyway, because I killed him. I had no friends. I had never told anyone. My teachers said that I was withdrawn and strange, kids said they never knew me. It was easy to believe I'd just flipped out and killed him. His law partner lied and claimed I'd asked about Dad's money after the funeral. I'd never said a word to him, but he claimed that Dad owed him a lot of money. And in the end, he grabbed everything, and gave me fifty thousand dollars to stay out of town and leave him to take it all. I did, and I still have the money by the way. Somehow, I can't bring myself to spend it.

“But the D.A. decided that I had killed my father for his money, and that I'd probably been out screwing around, and when I came home, Dad got mad and yelled at me, so I killed him.” She smiled bitterly, remembering every detail. “They even said that I'd probably tried to seduce my father too. They'd found my nightgown on the floor where he threw it after he tore it in half, and they claimed I had probably exposed myself to him, and when he didn't want me, I shot him. They charged me with murder one, which would have required the death penalty. I was seventeen, but they tried me as an-adult. And aside from Molly, and David, my attorney, no one ever believed me. He was too good, too perfect, too loved by the community. Everyone hated me for killing him. Even telling the truth didn't save me. By then it was too late. Everybody loved him.

“They found me guilty of voluntary manslaughter, and I got two and two. Two years of prison, two years of probation. I served two years almost to the day in Dwight Correctional Center, where,” she smiled sadly at him, “I did a correspondence course and got an AA degree from a junior college. Actually, it was quite an education. And if it weren't for two women there, Luana and Sally, who were lovers, I'd probably be dead now. I was kidnapped by a gang one night, and they were going to gang-bang me and use me as a slave, and Sally, who was my cellmate, and Luana, her friend, stopped them. They were the two toughest but kindest women you could ever meet, and they saved me. No one ever touched me after that, nor did they. I don't even know where they are now. Luana is probably still there, but Sally's time would be up, unless she did something dumb so she could stay with Luana. But when I left, they told me to forget them, and put it all behind me.

“I never went home again, and that was when I went to Chicago, where my probation officer kept threatening to send me back if I didn't sleep with him. But somehow I managed not to. And you pretty much know the rest. I told you that last night. I worked in Chicago for two years while I was on probation. No one ever knew where I'd been, or where I came from. They didn't know I'd been in prison, or had killed my father. They didn't know anything. You're the first person I've ever told since David and Molly.” She felt drained but a thousand pounds lighter when she finished. It had been a relief to tell him.

“What about Father Tim? Does he know?”

“He's just guessed, but I've never said anything to him. I didn't think I had to. But I worked at St. Mary's in Chicago, and now St. Andrew's, because it's my way of paying back for what I did. And maybe I can stop some other poor kid from going through what I did.”

“My God, my God … Grace … how did you survive it?” He held her close to him, cradling her head against his chest, unable to even begin to fathom the kind of pain and misery she'd been through. All he wanted to do now was hold her in his arms forever.

“I just survived, I guess,” she answered him, “and in some ways, I didn't. I've only been out with one man. I've never had sex with anyone but my father. And I'm not sure I could. The man who drugged me said I almost killed him when he tried to lay a hand on me, and maybe I would have. I don't think that can ever be part of my life again.” And yet … she had kissed him, and he hadn't frightened her at all. In some ways, she wondered if she could learn to trust him. If he even wanted her now, after all he'd heard. She searched his eyes looking for some sign of condemnation, but there was only sorrow and compassion.

“I wish I could have killed him for you. How could they send you to prison for that? How could they be so blind and so rotten?”

“It happens that way sometimes.” She wasn't bitter. She had long since come to accept it. But she realized that if he betrayed her now, and told people about her past, her life in New York would be ruined. She'd have to move on again, and she didn't want to. Telling him had required a great deal of trust from her, but it was worth it.

“What makes you think that you could never deal with intimacy again? Have you ever tried to?”

“No. But I just can't imagine doing that, without reliving the nightmare.”

“You've left the rest of it, and moved on. Why not that too? You owe it to yourself, Grace, and to anyone who loves you. In this case, me,” he smiled, and then he asked her another question.

“Would you go to a therapist if you needed to?” he asked gently, but she wasn't sure. In a funny way, it would seem like a betrayal of Molly.

“Maybe,” she said uncertainly, maybe even therapy would be too hard to handle.

“I have a feeling you're sounder than you think. I don't know why, but I don't think you could come through all you did, if you weren't. I think you're just scared, and who wouldn't be. And you're not exactly a hundred years old, you know.”

“I'm twenty-three,” she said, as though it were a major achievement, and he laughed at her and kissed her.

“I'm not impressed, kiddo. I'm almost twenty years older than you are.” He would be forty-three in the fall, and she knew that.

But she was looking at him very seriously then. “Tell me honestly. Isn't that history more than you want to deal with?”

“I don't see why. It's not your fault, any more than being mugged on Delancey Street was your fault. You were a victim, Grace, of two very sick people who used you. You didn't do anything. Even when you had sex with him, you had no choice. Anyone would have done the same, any kid would have been terrorized into thinking they were helping their dying mother. How could you possibly resist them? You couldn't. You've been a victim all along. It sounds like you stayed a victim right up until you left Chicago and came to New York last October. Don't you think it's time you changed that? It's been ten years since the nightmare began. That's almost half your life. Don't you think you have a right to a good life now? I think you've earned it,” he said, and then kissed her hard, and with everything he felt for her. There was no mistaking what he was feeling. He was deeply in love with her, and willing to accept her past, in exchange for her future. “I love you. I'm in love with you. I don't care what you did, or what happened to you, I'm just sorry as hell that you had to suffer so much pain, and so much misery. I wish I could wash it all away, and change your memory of it, but I can't. I accept you exactly as you are, I love you exactly as you are, and all I want is what we can give each other now. I want to thank my lucky stars for the day you walked into my office. I can't believe how blessed I was to have found you.”

“I'm the lucky one,” she said, in awe of his reaction. She could hardly believe what he was saying. “Why are you saying all this to me?” she asked, near tears again. It was impossible to fathom.

“I'm saying it because I mean it. Why don't you just relax and stop worrying for a while, and enjoy it? You've had a lot of worrying to do for a long time. Now it's my turn. I'll worry for both of us. Okay?” he asked, moving toward her again with a smile and wiping the tears from beneath her eyes. “Okay?”

“Okay, Charles … I love you.”

“Not as much as I love you,” he said, taking her in his arms again and holding her tight as he kissed her. And then after a while, he laughed softly.

“What's funny?” she whispered, touching his lips with her fingertips, which only aroused him further. He was dying for her, but he knew it would be a while before anything happened between them.

He smiled at her as he answered, “I was just thinking that, never mind your delicate psychology, I think the only thing that's saving you from being ravaged by me, is the pin they just put in your pelvis. Frankly, I think that's the only thing that stopped me.”

“Shame on you,” she teased, suddenly wondering if she wanted to be saved from him. It was an interesting question.

Charles took care of her for the next two weeks, coming to the apartment constandy, whenever he could, and sleeping next to her in the bed on weekends. It was a cozy feeling lying next to him, and waking up in his arms in the morning. He told her stories about his childhood, and his parents, who were no longer alive, but whom he had loved very much and had been very good to him. He was an only child, and he'd had a good life, and he knew it. And she told him funny things about Luana and Sally. It was an odd assortment of memories and exchanges. And after the first week, he hired a limousine and took her for a drive in Connecticut on the weekend. They stopped and had lunch at Cobbs Mill Inn in Weston, which was wonderful, and came back to New York relaxed and exhausted.

Her doctors said that she was doing well, and after another week they told her she could go back to work, but Charles convinced her to take one more week off. And she asked the doctors one other important question, and was satisfied with the answer. She went to visit her friends at St. Andrew's too, arriving by cab, in the daytime, and they were all thrilled to see her. She promised them that she would come back to work soon, but probably not until September, when she would be off crutches.

And the following weekend Charles took her to the Hamptons for the weekend. They stayed in a cozy little inn, and the smell of the sea was delicious. They arrived late Friday night, and she made him take her for a walk on the beach, even with her crutches. She lay down on the sand, listening to the sound of the ocean, and he sat down next to her.

“You don't know how great this is. You know, before I came to New York, I'd never seen the ocean,”

“Wait till you see Martha's Vineyard.” He promised to take her there over Labor Day, but she was still worried about their future. And what were they going to do in another week when she went back to the office? They'd have to keep their relationship a secret. It was odd to think of it. It wasn't an affair yet, but it was much, much more than a friendship.

“What were you thinking then?” he asked comfortably, as they sat on the beach in the dark.

“About you,” she teased him a little bit, and he loved it.

“What about me?”

“I was wondering when we were going to sleep with each other,” she said casually, and he stared at her in confusion.

“What does that mean? Besides,” he grinned, “I thought we already had. You even snore sometimes.”

“You know what I mean,” She pushed him gently, and he laughed at her. She was so lovely.

“You mean …” He raised an eyebrow and pretended to look surprised. “Are you suggesting …”

“I think so.” She blushed. “I saw the orthopedic surgeon yesterday and he says I'm okay … now all we have to worry about is my head and not my pelvis.” As she said it, he laughed, and he was grateful they had had all these weeks to get to know each other without the complications of her history and their sex life. It had been well over a month now, and it was as though they had always been together. They were completely at ease with each other.

“Is this an invitation?” he said with a grin that would have melted any heart, hers had melted long since, but it dissolved yet again as she watched him. “Or are you just toying with me?”

“Possibly both.” But she had been thinking about it for days now, and she wanted to try it. She had to know what would happen and if there was any chance at all for a future.

“Is this my cue to jump up off the warm sand and drag you back to our room by the hair, leaving your crutches behind us?”

“That sounds pretty good.” She made him feel so young, and in spite of her serious history, she made him laugh all the time, and he loved it. It was so different from his time with his first wife. She'd been so intense, so self-involved, and so nervous. Life with Grace was completely different. She was relaxed, intelligent, giving, caring. She had been through so much, and yet she was still so kind and so gentle. And she still had a sense of humor.

“Come on, you, let's go back to the hotel.” He pulled her up off the sand, and they made their way slowly back, and then stopped for ice cream.

“Do you like banana splits?” she asked him casually, as she licked her ice-cream cone, and he smiled. She was like a kid sometimes, and a woman of the world at others. He loved the contrast and the combination. It was the advantage of her youth, and with it came endless possibilities, and a most appealing future. He wanted to have children with her, a life with her, make love with her … but first, she had to eat her ice cream.

“Yes, I like banana splits,” he said, with a grin. “Why?”

“Me too. Let's have one tomorrow.”

“Okay. Can we go back now?” It had taken them four hours to get to the Hamptons in the traffic from New York, and it was almost midnight.

“Yes, we can go back to the hotel now.” She smiled at him, mysterious and womanly again. It was like watching different creatures appear from behind clouds. He loved her playfulness and the fact that she wasn't quite grown up yet.

Their room at the inn was done in rose-patterned chintzes and Victorian furniture. There was a sweet marble sink in the room, and the bed was canopied and very pretty. Charles had asked for champagne to be left cooling in the room, and there was a huge bouquet of lilac and roses, her favorites.

“You think of everything.” She kissed him as they closed the door to their room.

“Yes,” he said, proud of himself, “and I can't even ask my secretary to do it.”

“You'd better not.” She eyed him happily as he poured the champagne and handed her a glass, but she only took a small sip and then set it down. She was too excited to drink it. This was like a honeymoon, and the expectation was terrifying for them both, particularly since they didn't know what ghosts would join them.

“Scared?” he whispered as they slid into bed, he in his shorts, and she in a nightgown, and she nodded. “Me too,” he confessed, and she nuzzled her face into his neck and held him. He had turned off the lights. And there was a single candle burning at the far end of the room. It was unforgettably romantic.

“What’11 we do now?” she whispered in his ear after a minute.

“Let's go to sleep,” he whispered back.

“You mean it?” she asked, looked startled, and he laughed.

“No … not really …” He kissed her then, almost wanting to get it over with, but not daring to yet, not sure which way to turn or what to do, and he didn't want to hurt her various injuries either. It was all a little more difficult than he'd expected. But as they kissed, he forgot about her broken bones, and the ugliness of her past slipped slowly from her. There was no memory, no time, no other person, there was only Charles and his incredible gentleness, his endless passion and love for her, as he moved ever so gently toward her, and they moved closer and closer, until suddenly they became one and she could feel herself melt into him and she could bear it no longer. It was all so exquisite, and then suddenly they both exploded in unison, and Grace lay in his arms in complete amazement. She had never known anything even remotely like that. There was no similarity at all with what had happened to her before, no memory, no pain, there was nothing but Charles now and the love they shared, and a little while later, it was Grace who wanted him, who teased him and played with him, until he could bear it no longer.

“Oh God,” he said afterwards, “you're too young for me, you're going to kill me … but what a way to die.” And then suddenly he wondered if he had committed an awful faux pas, and looked at her in horror, but she only laughed. It was all all right now, much to their joint amazement.

She forced him to buy her a banana split the next day, and they had a lovely weekend. They spent much of it in their room, discovering each other, and the rest on the beach, in the sun, and when they got back to New York on Sunday night, they lay in her bed and made love again, just to make sure it had the same magic in her apartment. And Charles decided it was even better.

“By the way,” he rolled over sleepily afterwards and whispered to her, “you're fired, Grace.” He was half asleep but she sat bolt upright. What was he saying to her? What was this all about? She looked frightened.

“What?” She almost shouted the word in the darkness, and he opened an eye in surprise. “What do you mean?” She was staring at him.

“You heard me. You're fired.” He smiled happily.

“Why?” She was near tears. She loved working for him, especially now, and she was due to go back that week. This wasn't fair. What was he doing?

“I don't sleep with my secretaries,” he explained, and then he grinned as he lay there. “Don't look so worried. I have a new job in mind for you. It's a step up, or it could be, depending on how you see it. How would you like to be my wife?” He was wide-awake now, and she looked stunned. She was shaking when she answered.

“Are you serious?”

“No. I'm just kidding. What do you think? Of course I'm serious. Will you?”

“Really?” She still couldn't believe it as she sat looking at him in disbelief and he laughed at her.

“Of course really!”

“Wow!”

“Well?”

“I'd love to.” And with that, she leaned down and kissed him, and he grabbed her.

Chapter 13

Grace never went back to work, and they were married six weeks later, in judge's chambers, in September. They flew to Saint Bart's for two weeks for a honeymoon, and she moved her few belongings to his apartment. He lived on East Sixty-ninth Street in a small, but extremely elegant little town house. They'd been home for exactly a week when they had their first real fight, and it was a lulu. She wanted to go back to do volunteer work at St. Andrew's, and she was horrified that he wanted to stop her.

“Are you crazy? Do you remember what happened the last time you went there? Absolutely not!” He was adamant. She could do anything she wanted, but not that. And he wasn't budging.

“That was a fluke,” she kept insisting, but Charles was even more stubborn than she was.

“That was no fluke. Every one of those women has a dangerous husband. And you're down there advising them to bail out, and the guys are just as liable to come after you as Sam Jones was.” He had plea-bargained himself into a lighter sentence with parole by then, for his attack on Grace, and the murders of his wife and children. And as far as they knew he was already in Sing Sing. “You're not going. I'll talk to Father Tim if I have to, Grace, I forbid it.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do with myself?” she said, near tears. She was twenty-three years old and she had absolutely nothing to do until he came home at six o'clock. He wouldn't let her work at the law firm either. She could have lunch with Winnie once in a while, but that was hardly enough to keep her busy. And Winnie was talking about moving to Philadelphia to be close to her mother.

“Go shopping. Go to school. Find a charity you like and sit on a committee. Go to the movies. Eat banana splits,” Charles said firmly. He was trying to come home to her every day for lunch, but sometimes he couldn't and when Grace turned to Father Tim for support he turned her down too. In spite of himself, and how good she was at the work, Father Tim supported Charles in that decision. She had already paid too high a price for working there, and it was time for her to stop paying for other people's sins. She had her own life to live now.

“Enjoy your husband, be good to yourself, Grace. You've earned it,” the priest said wisely, but Grace still fumed and was looking for a project. She was thinking of applying to school, but in November it became a moot point, six weeks to the day after they were married.

“What are you looking so smug about? You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.” Charles had just dashed home to have lunch with her. He was becoming famous in the office for his long lunches, and his partners were teasing him about how much work it was to have a young wife. But he knew that they were all jealous, and would have given anything to be in his shoes … or his boxers. “What have you been up to?” he questioned, wondering if she had found something to do with herself. She'd been unhappy for weeks over his edict about St. Andrew's. “Where'd you go today?”

“The doctor.” She grinned.

“How's the pelvis?”

“Fine. It's healed beautifully.” She was grinning from ear to ear by then, and he was laughing at her. She looked so cute when she had a secret. “There's something else though.”

Charles's face grew serious. “Something wrong?”

“No.” She grinned and kissed him on the lips as she unzipped his trousers. Considering how cautiously they had begun, they had certainly made up for it since their engagement. “We're having a baby,” she whispered as he grew passionate and was about to lay her down on their bed, and he looked at her with complete amazement.

“We are? Now?”

“Not now, silly. In June. I think I got pregnant in Saint Bart's.”

“Wow!” He was going to be a father for the first time, at forty-three, and it completely bowled him over. He had never been as happy in his life, and he could hardly wait to tell the entire world. “Is it still all right if we make love?”

“Are you kidding?” she laughed at him. “We can make love till June.”

“Are you sure we won't hurt anything?”

“Promise.” They made love, as they always did, instead of lunch, and then he grabbed a hot dog from a stand on the street, and dashed back to his office. It was the best life had ever been for him, far better than being married to a movie star, far better than any romance he'd had as a kid. She was perfect for him, and he adored her.

They spent Christmas in St. Moritz, and at Easter he wanted to take her to Hawaii, but took her to Palm Beach instead because it was closer, and she was almost seven months pregnant.

She had an easy pregnancy, and everything had gone smoothly. The doctor was only mildly concerned about what would happen to her pelvis when she delivered. And if there was any sign of strain at all, he had warned her that he would do a cesarean section. But failing that, Charles had promised to be there, and in May they went to their Lamaze class at Lenox Hill. She had already decorated the nursery by then, and they went for long walks at night, up Madison Avenue, or down Park, and talked about their life, their good fortune, and their baby. It still startled them both, and they were both still amazed that, in bed at least, her past had never come back to haunt them.

He had asked her once how she would feel if the story ever came out, about her father, and going to prison, and she had said honestly that she would hate it.

“Why?” She wondered why he had even asked her.

“Because those things come out some times,” he said philosophically. He had learned that with his last wife, and her constant exposure in the tabloids. Their divorce had made a huge stink and they had said everything from the rumor that she was on drugs, to the one that she was gay, to the one that he was. And finally, they had just left them alone, and they had gone their separate ways. But Grace's would undoubtedly be a much bigger story if it ever came out. But fortunately, for both of them, they were not in the public eye, and not important. He was just an ordinary citizen now, since he was no longer married to a star, and Grace was just his wife. It was perfect.

She went into labor one night as they walked home. They had been window shopping on Madison Avenue, and she scarcely noticed the first pains. It was only after a while that she realized what had happened. They called the doctor and he told them to take their time, first babies were usually in no hurry.

“Are you okay?” he asked her a thousand times, and she lay on their bed, watching TV, and eating Jell-O. “Are you sure that's what you're supposed to do?” he asked nervously. He felt a thousand years old as he watched her, fearing that she might have a hard time, or have the baby before they left the house. Lately, her belly had looked enormous. But she seemed unconcerned as she watched her favorite shows, drank ginger ale and ate ice cream. It was almost midnight when she finally started to look seriously uncomfortable and could no longer talk through the pains, which he knew was his sign to take her to the hospital and call the doctor.

He called him again, and the doctor told them to come in. And as Charles helped her down the stairs, she snapped at him several times, and he smiled at her. This was the real thing. Pretty soon, they'd have a baby. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him, and to her. And by the time they settled her in a labor room, she had calmed down again, but Grace was surprised by how much the contractions hurt, and how strong they were. Finally, by two a.m. she was panting and said she couldn't stand them any longer.

Charles was doing everything he'd been taught to do, but none of it was helping, and he was starting to worry that they'd have to do a cesarean section. But as the pains got worse, she started to scream, and clutch at him, and he would have done anything to make it end. He kept asking the nurses to give her some medication.

“Everything is fine, Mr. Mackenzie. Your wife is doing beautifully.” His wife looked like she was ready to die as she screamed again, and then finally they took her to the delivery room, and she started pushing. Charles thought he had never seen anything so painful, and he was sorry they'd ever done it. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms again, and make the pain stop for her. But nothing helped her now, and the doctor didn't want to give her medication. He said he really preferred natural childbirth, for mother and child. Charles wanted to kill him, as he watched what Grace was going through.

She pushed for an hour, and it was five in the morning by then, Grace was beside herself with pain, and incoherent with the agony of each contraction. And as he watched her, he vowed they'd never do this again. He wanted to apologize to Grace for putting her through it. And he swore to himself that if she and the baby both came out of it alive, he'd never let this happen again. And just as he was about to promise never to lay a hand on her again, there was a terrifying scream from her, and a long, thin howl, and suddenly he found himself looking into the face of the son they had decided to call Andrew Charles Mackenzie. He had huge blue eyes like Grace, and dark red hair, but everything else about him was Charles, right down to his tiny fingers. For his father, it was exactly like looking into the mirror. He laughed and cried all at once as he looked at him.

“Oh my God … he's so beautiful,” Charles said in awe of the baby, and bent to kiss his wife. She was lying flat now, after so much hard work, and looking suddenly ecstatic as she laughed and smiled at her husband.

“Is the baby all right?” she asked over and over again, and as soon as they had cleaned him off and checked his lungs again, they handed him to his mother, and he lay at her breast, and immediately nuzzled close to her, while Charles watched them.

“Grace … how can I ever thank you?” Charles said, wondering how he had managed to live so long without this baby. And how brave she was to go through all that for him. He had never been as touched or as much in love with anyone as he was with Grace at that moment.

They went back to her room after that, and little Andrew lay by her side, and much to Charles's astonishment, they all went home the next morning. She was healthy and young, the baby was fine, and weighed just under nine pounds. They had had natural childbirth. There was no reason for them not to go home, her obstetrician explained. And Charles realized that he had a whole new world to discover. It was terrifying taking a baby home so soon, but Grace acted as though it was completely natural, and seemed totally at ease with her son from the very first moment he was born. It took Charles a few days, but within a week, he seemed like a practiced hand, and he bragged to everyone constantly about the baby. The only thing his friends didn't envy him was the sleepless nights he was having to live with. He left for the office every day feeling as though he'd been running on the wheel of a hamster cage all night. Master Andrew was waking up every two hours to be nursed, and it took him roughly an hour to go back to sleep again, and Charles only slighdy longer. He figured out that he was sleeping in fifteen-minute increments, and getting approximately two and a half hours sleep a night, which was roughly five and a half less than he needed. But it was fun anyway, and he was crazy about his wife and the baby.

They rented a house in East Hampton for the month of July, and spent Grace's birthday there. Charles commuted two or three times a week, and she came back and forth with the baby to be with him. And in August he took two weeks off and they went to Martha's Vineyard to his old house. Grace thought she'd never been happier, and in October she found out she was pregnant again, and Charles was as delighted as she was.

“Why don't we just have twins this time, and get it over with?” he said good-naturedly. He was really enjoying their son. And he was only getting four or five hours sleep a night which seemed like a lot now. It amused him that life could change so quickly.

Their second baby took longer to come, and once again Charles found himself ready to promise to the gods that he would never touch his wife again, but this time the doctor finally gave in, and gave her some medication. It didn't help much, but it was something. And nineteen hours after labor began, Abigail Mackenzie pushed her way into the world and looked up at her father with an expression of amazement. He melted on the spot when he saw her. She was a miniature version of her mother, 6nly with her father's dark hair. She was a real beauty. And she managed to make a complete spectacle of herself by arriving on her mother's twenty-fifth birthday. Charles was almost forty-five, and those were the happy years.

Grace was constantly busy with her children. She went to playgrounds and play groups and kindergyms, and music classes for toddlers. She was totally involved in doing everything with them. She worried a lot about being boring to Charles, but he seemed to love their life. It was all so new to him, and he was the envy of all who knew him, with a young, beautiful wife and a young family, he seemed to have the world by the tail.

Grace had never gotten back to her charity work again, although she still talked about it. But just after Andrew was born, she gave a gift, in his name, to St. Andrew's Shelter. She gave them every penny she had left from Frank Wills. It seemed the best use for it she could think of. In some ways, it was blood money to her, and a relic of a life that had brought her nothing but grief. She was sure that Father Tim would find a happier use for it. And they gave another, smaller gift, when Abigail was born. But she hadn't been there to visit for a long time. She was too involved with her husband and children.

For three years after Abigail was born, Grace spent every daytime moment with them, and her evenings with Charles, going to partners’ dinners and dinner parties. They went to the theater, and he introduced her to the opera, and she found that she liked it. Her entire life was opening up, and at times she felt guilty, knowing that in other places, other lives, people were less fortunate, and were suffering as she once had. She was so lucky and so free now.

She wondered what had happened to Luana and Sally sometimes, and the women she had tried to help at St. Andrew's. But there didn't seem to be time for things like that anymore. She thought about David in California sometimes too, and wondered where he was now. Her life seemed so far removed from those troubled years. Sometimes even she had a hard time remembering that she had had any other life before marrying Charles. It was as though she had been born again the day she met him.

She wanted to have another baby once Abigail started nursery school, but this time it didn't seem to happen. She was only twenty-eight by then, and her doctor said it was hard to know why sometimes it was easier to get pregnant than others. But she also knew that with all she'd been through before, she'd been lucky to get pregnant at all, and she was grateful to have the two children she had. She would stand there and just smile at them sometimes, watching them. And then she and Andrew would go to the kitchen and make cupcakes, or she and Abigail would cut out paper dolls, or string beads, or make pictures with spaghetti. She loved being with them, and she never got bored, or tired of them.

And then one morning, as she was waiting to pick them up from nursery school, she sat in her kitchen reading the paper and having a cup of coffee. And as she read the headline of the New York Times, she felt her stomach turn over. A New York psychiatrist had killed his adopted child, a six-year-old girl, and his battered, hysterical wife had stood by helplessly and watched him do it. It brought tears to her eyes as she read about it. It was inconceivable, he was an educated man, with an important practice, and a teaching position with a major medical school. And still he had killed their little girl. They had had her since birth, and their natural child had died in an accident two years before, which was now considered suspect. Grace started to cry as she read about it, wanting to comfort the little girl, imagining her cries as her father beat her. It was so vivid that even after she left for school, she was still crying. And she was quiet as she and the children walked home for lunch. Andrew asked his mother what was the matter.

“Nothing,” she started to say, and then thought better of it. She wanted to be honest with him. “I'm sad.”

“Why, Mommy?” He was four years old and the cutest little boy she'd ever seen. He looked just like Charles except for his dark red hair and blue eyes, but all his features and expressions were his father's. It always made her smile just looking at him, but today, even seeing her own children made her grieve for the little girl who had been killed. “Why are you sad?” Andrew persisted, and her eyes filled with tears as she tried to answer.

“Somebody hurt a little girl, and it made me sad when I heard about it.”

“Did she go to the hospital?” he asked solemnly. He loved ambulances and police cars and sirens, even though they scared him a little too. But mostly they fascinated him. He was a lively child.

Grace wasn't sure what to say to him then, whether or not to tell him that she was dead. But that was just too much to tell a four-year-old child. “I think so, Andrew. I think she's very sick.”

“Let's make her a picture.” Grace nodded, and turned her head away so he wouldn't see her cry. There would be no more pictures for that little girl … no loving hands … no one to save her.

There was a huge outcry in New York over the next few days. People were shocked and outraged. Teachers at the private school where she had been in first grade defended themselves, claiming that they had suspected nothing. She had been a frail child and bruised easily, and she had never said anything about what was happening at home. But hearing that infuriated Grace. Children never told of abuse at home, they always defended their abusers. And teachers knew that, and had to be especially alert these days.

For days people left flowers and bouquets outside the Park Avenue building where she'd lived, and when Grace and Charles drove by it the next day, on their way to dinner with friends, Grace felt a sob catch in her throat as she caught sight of a big pink heart, made of tiny roses, with the little girl's name written on a pink ribbon across it.

“I can't bear it,” she cried into a handkerchief he handed her. “I know what it's like,” she whispered … why don't people understand? Why don't they see? Why can't they stop it? Why did no one suspect what went on behind closed doors when atrocities were happening there? The real tragedy was that sometimes people did know and did nothing about it. It was that indifference that she wanted to stop. She wanted to shake people to wake them.

Charles put an arm around her shoulders then. It hurt him to think of what she must have gone through, it made him want to be good to her every day, to make up for all of it, and he had been.

“I want to go back to work,” she said as they drove along in the cab, and he looked at her, startled.

“In an office?” He couldn't imagine why she would want to do that again. She was so happy at home with their children.

But she smiled at him as she shook her head and blew her nose again. “Of course not … unless you need a new secretary,” she teased, and he grinned.

“Not that I know of. So what did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking of that little girl … I'd like to go back to working with battered women and kids again.” Her death had reminded Grace again of her debt, to help those who were living the same hell that she had. She had escaped, and she had come to a better place in her life, but she could not forget them. She knew that, in some way, she would always have a need to reach a hand back to them, to offer to help them.

“Not at St. Andrew's,” he said firmly. He had never let her go back there to work again, only to visit, once they were married. And Father Tim had been transferred to Boston the year before, to start a similar shelter there. They had had a Christmas card from him. But Grace had something else in mind. Something more complicated, and far-reaching.

“What about starting some kind of organization,” she had been thinking about it for two days, trying to figure out how she could help, and really make a difference, “that would reach out to people, not only in ghettos but middle-class neighborhoods, where the abuse is more of a surprise and better hidden. What about reaching out toward education, to teach educators and parents and clergymen and day-care workers, and everyone who works with kids, what to look for and how to deal with it when they see it … and reaching out to the public, people like you and me, and our neighbors and all the people who see abused kids every day and don't know it.”

“That sounds like a big bite,” he said gendy, “but it's a great idea. Isn't there some existing program you could latch on to?”

“There might be.” But five years ago there hadn't been, there was only the occasional shelter like St. Andrew's. And the various committees set up to help victims of abuse she heard of seemed to be badly run and ineffective. “I don't really know where to start. Maybe I need to do some research.”

“Maybe you need to stop worrying so much,” he said, smiling at her in the cab, as he leaned over and kissed her. “The last time you let your big heart run away with you, you got pretty badly beaten up. Maybe it's time for you to let other people take care of it. I don't want you getting hurt again.”

“If I hadn't, you'd never have married me,” she said smugly, and he laughed.

“Don't be so sure. I'd had my eye on you for a while. I just couldn't figure out why you hated me so much.”

“I didn't hate you. I was scared of you. That's different.” They both smiled, remembering the days when they had met and fallen in love. Things hadn't changed at all since, they were more in love than ever.

And when they came back from dinner that night, Grace started talking about her idea again. She talked about it for weeks, and finally Charles couldn't stand it.

“Okay, okay … I understand. You want to help. Now where do we start? Let's do something about it.”

In the end, he talked to a few friends, and some of his partners at the law firm, some of their wives were interested, and others had useful references and suggestions. At the end of two months, Grace had a wealth of research and material, and she knew exactly what she wanted to do. She had talked to a psychologist she had met, and the head of the children's school, and she decided that she had what she needed. She even tracked down Sister Eugene from St. Andrew's, and she gave her some names of people who would be willing to work hands-on and wouldn't expect a lot of money for it. She needed volunteers, psychologists, teachers, some businessmen, women, and even victims. She was going to put together a team of people who were willing to go out into the community and tell people what they needed to know about abuse of all kinds against children.

She set up an organization and gave it a simple name. “Help Kids!” was what she called it, and at first she ran it out of her home, and after six months she rented an office on Lexington Avenue two blocks from their house. By then, she had a team of twenty-one people who were talking to schools, parents’ groups, teachers’ associations, people who ran extracurricular activities like ballet and baseball. She was amazed at how many bookings they got. And she shook like a leaf the first time she gave a talk herself. She told a group of people she had never met how she had been abused as a child, how no one had seen it, and no one had wanted to, and how everyone had thought her father was the greatest guy in town. “Maybe he was,” she said, her voice shaking as she fought back tears, “but not to me, or my mother.” She didn't tell them that she had killed him to save herself. But what she did tell them moved them deeply. All of their speakers had stories like that, some of them firsthand, and some of them about students or patients. But the people she organized to speak were all powerful in their message. It was a message that came straight from the heart. Help kids! And they meant it.

The next thing she did was set up a hot line for people who knew about abusive friends or neighbors, or parents who wanted help, or kids in bad situations. She did everything she could to raise funds to place ads and buy billboards with the hot line number on it, and she managed to keep it manned twenty-four hours a day, which was no small feat. It was almost a relief when a year and a half later Abigail went to kindergarten, because it gave her more time for “Help Kids!” although she missed having her at home at eleven-thirty. She managed to keep all her work down to a dull roar so that she could spend her afternoons with her children. But “Help Kids!” had grown to a full-scale office by then, and it was funded by five foundations. And they were currently in the process of raising money and free creative help for commercials. She wanted to organize a TV campaign to reach even deeper into the community. Again and again she tried to touch the kids who were being abused, and the people who knew it. She was less interested in reaching the abusive parents. Most of them were too sick even to want help, and it was rare that they themselves would step forward and ask for it. It was easier to get the point across to observers.

It was hard to judge what kind of results they were getting, except that their hot line was jammed night and day with desperate callers. They were usually neighbors, friends, teachers who weren't sure whether or not to come forward, and more and more lately they had been getting calls from kids telling horrifying stories. Grace and Charles answered phones themselves for two long shifts a week, and more often than not, Charles came home and ached over the things he heard. It was impossible not to care about those children. The only people who didn't were their parents.

Grace was so busy she hardly noticed the days fly by anymore, and she was happier than ever. She was particularly surprised when she got a letter, praising what she'd done, from the First Lady. She said that people like Grace made a real difference in the world, like Mother Teresa.

“Is she kidding?” Grace laughed in embarrassment as she showed the letter to Charles when it arrived. It was embarrassing, but exciting. What meant more than anything to her was helping those kids, but it was nice to be recognized for it too. And Charles was generous with his praise. He was pleased for her, and genuinely excited when they got invited to the White House for dinner. It had been declared the Year of the Child, and they wanted to give Grace an award for her contribution with “Help Kids!”

“I can't accept that,” she said uncomfortably, “think of all the people it took to put ‘Help Kids!’ together, think of all the people who work with us now in one capacity or another.” Almost none of them was paid, and all of them gave of their hearts and souls, some gave generously from their pockets. “Why should I get all the recognition?” It didn't seem right to her, and she didn't want to go to the dinner. She thought the award should be given to “Help Kids!” as an organization, not to her as an individual person.

“Think of who started it,” Charles said, smiling at her. She had no idea what a difference she was making in the world, and he loved that about her. She had turned a lifetime of pain into a blessing for so many. And every moment of happiness he could give her was a joy to him. Charles had never been happier, and he loved her deeply. She was a good wife, a good woman, and someone he respected deeply. “I think we should go to Washington. I, for one, would certainly enjoy it. Tell you what, I'll collect the award and tell them it was all my idea to start ‘Help Kids!’ “He was teasing her and she laughed about it. She argued with him for two weeks, but he had already accepted the invitation on her behalf, and finally, grumbling, they hired a sitter they knew to help their housekeeper, and flew to Washington on a snowy afternoon in December. She swore it was an omen of doom, but as soon as they reached Pennsylvania Avenue, she knew that she had been foolish. The White House Christmas tree sparkled cheerily in front of them and the entire scene looked like a Norman Rockwell painting.

They were led inside by Marines, and Grace almost felt her knees shake as she shook hands with the President and then the First Lady. There were several people at the reception Charles knew, and he kept Grace's hand tucked into his arm to give her courage, and introduced her to a number of attorneys and some congressmen who were old friends. An old friend from New York teased Charles about when he was going to get brave and get into the political waters himself. He had once been a partner in Charles's law firm.

“I don't think that's for me. I'm too busy taking kids to school and answering phones for Grace,” Charles said with a smile, but he had a good time, and even chatted for a few moments with the President, who said he was familiar with Charles's law firm, and complimented him on his handling of a difficult matter the year before that involved some government contracts.

After dinner, they danced, and there was a wonderful children's chorus to sing carols. They were the cutest kids Grace had ever seen, and for a minute they made her homesick for their children.

The congressman sought Charles out again before they left and told him to think about it again. “The political arena needs you, Charles. I'd be happy to talk to you about it anytime you like.” But Charles was insistent that he was happy at his law firm. “It's a big world out there, a lot bigger than Park Avenue and Wall Street. One forgets that in one's ivory tower at times. You could do a lot of good, there are some important issues at hand. I'll call you,” he said, and moved on, and Charles and Grace went back to the Willard at midnight. It had been a wonderful evening, and she'd been given a handsome plaque to commend her for her unselfish gifts to children.

“I'll have to show this to the kids the next time they tell me how mean I am,” she smiled, and set it down on a table in their hotel suite. She was glad they had come after all. She had really enjoyed it, and then as they lay in bed, talking about the people they'd met, and how impressive it was to be in the company of the President and the First Lady, she asked Charles about his congressman friend.

“Roger?” he asked casually. “He used to be a partner in the firm. He's a good man, I always liked him.”

“What about what he said?” She was curious about Charles's reaction.

“About going into politics?” He looked amused. “I don't think so.”

“Why not? You'd be great at it.”

“Maybe I'll run for president one day. You'd make a beautiful first lady,” he teased, and then he turned to her with love on his mind, and kissed her hungrily, and as always she was quick to return his passion.

They were back in New York by two o'clock the next afternoon. Charles was in a festive mood, and decided not to go back to his office. He went home with Grace instead, and the children were delighted to see them. They jumped all over them and wanted to know what their parents had brought them from the trip.

“Absolutely nothing,” Charles lied with a blank stare, and they squealed in disbelief. Their children knew them better. They had bought some toys and souvenirs for them at the airport. Whenever Charles went away on business, which was rare, he never came back empty-handed. And Grace told them what the White House had been like, and about the children who sang there, and the Christmas tree all lit up on the White House lawn.

“What did they sing?” Andrew wanted to know, but like the little lady she was, Abigail wanted to know what they were wearing. The children were five and six then.

Christmas was the following week, and that weekend they put up the tree, and it looked beautiful when they finished it. She and Charles put the ornaments up high, and the children decorated everything within reach below that, and strung popcorn and cranberries, which was a tradition they loved.

Grace took them ice-skating at Rockefeller Plaza, and to see Santa Claus at Saks, and all the beautifully decorated windows on Fifth Avenue once school was out, and they even dropped in on Daddy at work, and took him out to lunch. They went to Serendipity on Sixtieth Street between Second and Third Avenues, and had huge hot dogs and giant ice-cream sodas. Grace ordered a banana split and Charles laughed, remembering the banana split he'd bought her the first time they went away for the weekend. This time she finished all of it, and he complimented her for being a member of the clean plate club.

“Are you making fun of me?” she grinned at him, with a spot of whipped cream on her nose. Abigail chuckled looking at her, and even Andrew loved it.

“Certainly not. I think it's wonderful that you didn't waste a bit of it” Charles smiled, feeling happy and young.

“Be nice, or I'll order another one.” But she was as thin as she'd ever been, until after the New Year, when she explained that she couldn't get into any of her clothes. She had been answering the hot line several times a week over the holidays, she knew what an important time it was for troubled families and helpless kids, and she wanted to do it herself as much as she could. And as they all did, while she was answering phones at all hours, she sat around and ate cookies and popcorn, particularly at Christmas.

“I feel huge,” she said miserably, zipping up her jeans to go for a walk in the park with him at the end of a lazy weekend.

“Most women would love to be as ‘huge’ as you are.” In spite of two children, and the fact that she had turned thirty that year, she still looked like a model. And he had just turned fifty and was as handsome as ever.

They were a good-looking couple as they strolled along. She was wearing a big cozy fox hat, and a fox jacket he had given her for Christmas. It was perfect for the frigid New York winter.

There was snow on the ground in the park, and they had left the kids at home with a sitter for a few hours because the housekeeper was away. They liked to go for long walks sometimes on Sundays, or take a cab down to SoHo and go to a coffeehouse, or have lunch and browse through galleries looking at paintings or sculpture.

But this afternoon, they were content to stroll, and eventually wound up at the Plaza Hotel. They decided to go in and have some hot chocolate in the Palm Court. And they walked into the elegant old hotel hand in hand, talking softly.

“The kids will never forgive us if they find out,” Grace said guiltily. They loved the Palm Court. But it was romantic being alone with him. She was talking about some plans she had for “Help Kids!” for the next year, to expand it further. She was always trying to broaden their outreach. And as she chatted with him, she devoured an entire plate of cookies and two hot chocolates with whipped cream. And as soon as she finished them, she felt sick, and was sorry she'd eaten.

“You're as bad as Andrew,” Charles laughed. He loved being with her, she was like a girl to him, and at the same time very much a woman.

When they left the Plaza, he hailed a hansom cab, and had it drive them home, as they snuggled in the back, kissing and whispering and giggling under heavy blankets, just like teenagers, or honeymooners. And when they got to the house, he ran in to get the kids, and let them pet the horse. And then the driver agreed to take them around the block for an additional fee, and the four of them rode around the block to the house again. And then they went inside, and the sitter left, and Grace made pasta for dinner.

She was busy for the next few weeks, with new plans, and keeping up with the children. But she was surprised to find that she was exhausted all the time, so much so that she even skipped two shifts on the hot line, which was rare for her. And when Charles noticed it, he was worried, and asked about it

“Are you all right?” He worried sometimes that her past life, and the beating outside St. Andrew's, would take a toll on her one day, and whenever she was sick, it really scared him.

“Of course I am,” she said, but the circles under her eyes, and her pallor, didn't convince him. She hardly ever suffered from asthma anymore, but she was starting to look the way she had when he first met her. A little too drawn and a little too serious, and not entirely healthy.

“I want you to go to the doctor,” he insisted.

“I'm fine,” she said stubbornly.

“I mean it,” he said sternly.

“Okay. Okay.” But she didn't do anything about it, and insisted that she was busy. Finally, he made an appointment himself and told her he'd take her there if she didn't go the following morning. It was a month after Christmas by then, and she was in the midst of a big fund drive for “Help Kids!” She had a thousand calls to make, and a million people to visit “For heaven's sake,” she said irritably when he reminded her again the next morning. “I'm just tired, that's all. It's no big deal. What are you so upset about?” she snapped at him, but he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him.

“Do you have any idea how important you are to me, and this family? I love you, Grace. Don't screw around with your health. I need you.’ *

“Okay,” she said quietly. “I'll go.” But she always hated going to the doctor. Doctors still reminded her of bad experiences, of being raped, and her mother dying, and the night she killed her father, and even when she'd been in Bellevue after the attack at St. Andrew's. To Grace, except for the babies she'd had, doctors never meant anything pleasant.

“Any idea what might be wrong? How do you feel?” their family doctor asked her pleasantly. He was a middle-aged man with an intelligent face and an easy disposition. He knew nothing of Grace's past, or her dislike for doctors.

“I feel fine. I'm just tired, and Charles is hysterical.” She smiled.

“He's right to be concerned. Anything else except fatigue?” She thought about it and shrugged.

“Nothing much. A little dizziness, some headaches.” She made light of it, but the truth was she had been very dizzy more than once lately, and several times she had been sick to her stomach. She thought it was nervous tension over their fund drive. “I've been pretty busy.”

“Maybe you need some time off.” He smiled. He gave her some vitamins, checked her blood count and it was fine. He didn't want to run any serious tests. She was obviously young and healthy, and her blood pressure was low, which accounted for the dizziness and headaches. “Eat lots of red meat,” he advised, “and eat your spinach.” He said to say hello to Charles, and she called from the phone outside to tell Charles she was fine. And then feeling better than she had in a while, she walked home in the brisk January air. It was cold and crisp and sunny, and she felt wonderful and strong as she walked along, feeling stupid for even having gone to see the doctor. She smiled thinking of what good care Charles took of her and how lucky she was, as she turned the corner and walked toward their town house. She felt a little light-headed as she did, but it was no worse than it had been before, until she reached their front door, and she suddenly found she was so dizzy, she could hardly stand. She reached out to steady herself, and found herself clutching an elderly man who stared at her strangely. She looked at him as though she didn't see him at all, and then she took two steps toward her house, said something unintelligible, and collapsed, unconscious, to the sidewalk.

Chapter 14

When Grace came to on the street outside their house, there were three people standing over her, and two policemen. The old man she had almost pulled down with her had gone to a phone booth and dialed 911, but she was conscious again by the time they came, and she was sitting on the sidewalk. She was embarrassed more than hurt, and still too dizzy to get up.

“What happened here?” the first policeman asked amiably. He was a big friendly man, and he had keen eyes as he took in the situation. She wasn't drunk or on drugs, from what he could see, and she was very pretty and well dressed. “Would you like us to call an ambulance for you? Or your doctor?”

“No, really, I'm fine,” she said, getting up. “I don't know what happened. I just got light-headed.” She had skipped breakfast that day, but she'd been feeling fine.

“You really should go to a doctor, ma'am. We'll be happy to take you to New York Hospital. It's straight down the street here,” he said kindly.

“Really. I'm fine. I live right here.” She pointed at the town house only a few feet away from them. She had almost made it. And she thanked the old man and apologized for almost knocking him down. He patted her hand and told her to have a nap and eat a good lunch, and then the policemen escorted her into her house, and looked around at the attractive surroundings.

“Do you want us to call anyone? Your husband? A friend? A neighbor?”

“No … I …” The phone interrupted them, and she picked it up as they stood in the hallway. It was Charles.

“What did he say?”

“I'm fine,” she said sheepishly, except for the fact that she had just keeled over on the sidewalk.

“Do you want us to stay for a few minutes?” the policeman in charge asked and she shook her head.

“Who was that? Is someone there?” She was afraid to tell him what had happened.

“It's nothing, I just … the doctor said I'm in great shape. And …”

“Who was that talking to you?” He had a sixth sense about her, and he knew something was wrong as he listened.

“It's a policeman, Charles,” she sighed, feeling foolish, but also feeling sick again, and the policeman watched her turn green and then swoon again as he caught her with one arm. She had no idea what was happening, but she felt awful. She actually felt too sick to talk to him, as she set down the phone, and sat down on the floor and put her head down between her knees. One of the policemen went to get a glass of water for her, and the other picked up the phone where she'd left it on the floor beside her.

“Hello? Hello? What's going on there?” Charles was frantic.

“This is Officer Mason. Who is this?” he said calmly, as Grace looked up at him in helpless mortification.

“My name is Charles Mackenzie and that's my wife there with you. What's wrong?”

“She's fine, sir. She had a little problem … she passed out just outside your house. We brought her inside, and I think she's feeling a little woozy again. Probably stomach flu, there's a lot of it going around.”

“Is she all right?” Charles looked ghastly, as he stood up and grabbed his coat while he was still talking to the officer at his house.

“I think she's fine. She didn't want to go to the hospital. We asked her.”

“Never mind that. Can you take her to Lenox Hill?”

“We'd be glad to.”

“I'll meet you there in ten minutes.”

The policeman looked down at her with a smile after he hung up. “Your husband wants us to take you to Lenox Hill, Mrs. Mackenzie.”

“I don't want to go.” She sounded like a child and he smiled at her.

“He was pretty definite about it. He's going to meet you there.”

“I'm okay. Really.”

“I'm sure you are. But it doesn't hurt to get it checked out. There's a lot of nasty bugs around. A woman passed out at Bloomingdale's yesterday with that Hong Kong flu. You been sick long?” he asked while he helped her toward the door as they chatted, and his partner joined them.

“Really, I'm fine,” she said, as the police locked her door and put her in the squad car. And then suddenly she realized what it must have looked like, as though she were being arrested. It would have seemed funny to her except that suddenly it reminded her of the night she had killed her father, and by the time they got to Lenox Hill, she was having an asthma attack, the first she'd had in two years. And she wasn't even carrying her inhaler. She had gotten so confident, she left it home most of the time now.

They took her inside, and she explained to the nurse in the emergency room about her asthma, and they were quick to bring her an inhaler. But by the time Charles arrived, she was still deathly pale from the asthma and the medication, and her hands were shaking.

“What, happened?” He looked horrified, and she spoke in an undertone.

“The police car made me nervous.”

“That's why you fainted?” He looked confused by what was happening, and she shook her head.

“That's why I have asthma.”

“But why did you faint?” ‘I don't know that.’

The policemen left them then, and it was another hour before they could be seen by one of the emergency room doctors. And she was much better by then, her breathing was almost normal, and she was no longer dizzy. He had brought her some chicken soup from a machine, and some candy and a sandwich. Her appetite was good, she explained to the doctor who examined her.

“Excellent,” Charles confirmed.

The doctor checked her over carefully, and then asked a pointed question. He said it was probably the flu, but he had one other idea. “Gould you be pregnant?”

“I don't think so.” She hadn't used birth control since Abby was born, and she was going to be six in July. And Grace had never gotten pregnant again. “I doubt it”

“Are you on the pill?” She shook her head. “Then why not? Any reason?” He glanced at Charles.

“I just don't think so,” Grace said firmly. She would have loved another child, but she just didn't think she could get pregnant. After six years, why would she?

“I think you are,” Charles smiled slowly at her. He'd never even thought of it, but she had all the symptoms. “Could you check?” he asked the resident.

“You can buy a kit at the drugstore on the corner. My bet is you're right, and she isn't.” He smiled at Grace. “I think maybe you have denial. You've got pretty much all the symptoms. Nausea, dizziness, increased appetite, fatigue, sleepiness, you feel bloated, and you missed your last period, which you think was from nerves. Professionally speaking, I don't. My guess is you're having a baby. I can call our o.b./gyn to check it out if you want, but it's just as easy to buy the kit and call your own doctor.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking stunned. She hadn't even thought of it. She had hoped for another baby for so long, and then finally given it up, and convinced herself it would never happen.

They went to the corner and bought the kit, and took a cab home, and Charles held her close to him, grateful that nothing terrible had happened. When the policeman had answered his phone, he had panicked, and feared the worst.

She did all the steps in the kit, and they waited precisely five minutes, using Charles's stopwatch, and she was smiling as they waited for it. They were both convinced now that she was pregnant, and she was.

“When do you suppose it happened?” she asked, looking stunned. She still couldn't believe it.

“I’ ll bet right after we had dinner at the White House,” Charles laughed, and kissed her.

And he was right. She went to her obstetrician the next day, and the baby was due in late September. Charles made a few noises about being an old man when it was born. He would be fifty-one, but Grace wouldn't listen to his complaints about being “old.”

“You're just a kid,” she grinned. They were both excited and happy. And when the baby came, he was a beautiful little boy who looked like both of them, except he had pale blond hair, which they insisted was nowhere in their families. He was an exquisite child, and he looked almost Swedish. They named him Matthew, and the children fell in love with him the moment they saw him. Abby walked around holding him all the time and called him “her baby.”

But with three children, their town house on Sixty-ninth began to burst at the seams, and that winter they sold it and bought a house in Greenwich. It was a pretty white house with a picket fence, and a huge backyard. And Charles bought a big chocolate Labrador for the children. It was the perfect life.

“Help Kids!” continued to thrive, and Grace went into town twice a week to check on things, but she had hired someone else to run the office, and she opened a smaller office in Connecticut, where she spent her mornings. Most of the time she took the baby with her in his stroller.

It was a comfortable life for them in Connecticut. The kids loved their new school. Abigail and Andrew were in first and second grades. And it was the following summer when Charles heard from Roger Marshall, his old partner who was now in Congress.

Roger wanted Charles to think about getting into politics, there was a very interesting seat in Connecticut coming up the following year, when a senior congressman finally retired. Charles couldn't imagine pursuing it, he was so busy at the firm, and he enjoyed his work. Running for Congress, if he won, would mean moving to Washington, at least some of the time, and that would be hard on Grace and the children. And political campaigns were costly and exhausting. They had lunch and talked about it, and Charles turned him down. But when the junior congressman from his district had a heart attack and died later that year, Roger called again, and this time Grace surprised Charles by pressing him to think about it.

“You're not serious,” Charles looked at her cautiously, “you don't want that life, do you?” He had been in the public eye once, when he was married to his first wife, and he didn't really enjoy it. But he had to admit that government had always been something that intrigued him, particularly Washington.

In the end, he told Roger he'd think about it. And he did. He decided against it finally, but Grace argued with him about what a difference he could make, and how much he might enjoy it. She thought it would mean a great deal to him and, more than once recently, he had admitted to her that he wasn't feeling as challenged at the law firm. He was feeling old in the face of his fifty-third birthday. The only things that really mattered to him anymore were the children and her.

“You need something new in your life, Charles,” she said quietly. “Something that excites you.”

“I have you,” he smiled, “that's exciting enough for any man. A young wife and three children ought to keep me busy for the next fifty years. Besides, you don't really want all that craziness in our life, do you? It'll be hard on you and the children. It's like living in a fishbowl.”

“If it's what you want, we'll manage it. Washington's not on the moon. It's not that far. We can keep this house, and spend time here. You can even commute part of the week when Congress is in session.”

He laughed at all the plans she was making. “I'm not sure we'll need to worry about it. There's a good possibility I won't win. I'm a dark horse, and no one knows me.”

“You're a respected man in this community, with good ideas, a lot of integrity, and a real interest in your country.”

“Do I get your vote?” he asked as he kissed her.

“Always.”

He told Roger he would run, and he began gathering people to help him campaign. They started in earnest in June, and Grace did everything she could from licking stamps to shaking hands to going from door to door handing out leaflets. They ran a real “common man's” campaign, and although they never made any secret of the fact that Charles was wellborn and well-heeled, it was equally obvious that he was also caring and sincere and well-meaning. He was an honest man with the country's well-being at heart. The public trusted him, and much to Charles's own surprise, the media loved him. They covered everything he did, and reported fairly.

“Why shouldn't they?” Grace was surprised that Charles was so amazed by his good press, but he knew them better than she did.

“Because they're not always that fair. Wait. They'll get me sooner or later.”

“Don't be such a cynic.”

She stayed pretty much out of the campaign, except to stand by him when he needed her with him, and to do as much legwork as she could, even if she had to take the children with her. But she had no desire to push herself forward. Charles was the candidate and what he stood for was important. She never lost sight of that.

She hardly had time for her own projects anymore, and “Help Kids!” had to struggle without her most of the time during the campaign. She still took shifts on the hot line whenever she could, but she worked for Charles more than she did anything else, and she could see that he loved what he was doing. He was excited about it, and they went to picnics and barbecues and state fairs, he spoke to political groups and farmers and businessmen. And it was obvious that he really wanted to help them. They believed him, and they liked everything he stood for. They liked Grace too. Her work with “Help Kids!” was well known, yet it was clear that her husband and children were her first priorities, and they liked that about her.

In November he won by a landslide. He put his partnership in the firm in trust, and they gave a huge party for him at the Pierre before he left. And then he and Grace and the children went to Washington to find a house. They were going to be moving there after Christmas. The children were going to change schools, and they were scared, but excited. It was a big change for them. And they found an adorable house in Georgetown, on R Street.

Grace enrolled the children in Sitwell Friends. And in January, Abigail and Andrew entered third and fourth grades, and Grace found a play group to join with Matthew. He was just two then.

They went back to Connecticut on holidays and for vacations, and whenever Congress wasn't in session and the children were out of school. Charles stayed close to his constituents and in touch with old friends, and he enjoyed every moment in Congress. He helped pass new legislation whenever he could, and found the endless committees he was on fascinating and fruitful. And during their second year there, Grace started an inner city “Help Kids!” in Washington modeled on the two in Connecticut and New York. She manned the phones a lot of the time, and made several appearances on television and radio shows. As the wife of a congressman she had more influence than she'd had before, and she enjoyed using it for worthwhile causes.

They also entertained a great deal, and went to political events. They were invited to the White House regularly. For them, the quiet years were over. And yet they were still able to lead a quiet life in Connecticut. And although he was an elected official, their life remained remarkably private. They weren't showy people. He was a hardworking congressman who stayed in close touch with his roots at home, and Grace was discreet and hardworking in her own arena, and with her children.

They had been in Washington for nearly three terms, five years, when Charles was approached again, and this time with an offer that interested him greatly. Being congressman had meant a lot to him and it had been a valuable experience, but he had also come to understand that there was more power and more influence on the country's destiny in other quarters. The Senate held a great lure to him, and he had many friends there. And this time he was approached by sources close to the President, anxious to know if he was willing to run for the Senate.

He told Grace about it immediately, and they talked about it endlessly. He wanted it, but he was also afraid to pursue it. There was more pressure, greater demands, tougher responsibilities, and far greater exposure. As a congressman, he had been well liked, and in many ways, one of the people. As a senator he could be viewed as a source of envy and a threat to many. All those anxious for the presidency would be looking at him, and anxious to throw him out of his traces.

“It can be a vicious job,” he explained candidly, and he worried about her too. They had left her alone so far. She was known for her good works, her solid marriage, and her sense of family, but she was rarely in the public eye. As the wife of a senator, she would be much more in the spotlight, and who knew what that would bring. “I don't ever want to do anything to hurt you,” Charles said, looking worried. She, and their family, were always his first concern, and she loved him all the more for it.

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm not afraid. I don't have anything to hide,” she said, without thinking, and he smiled, and then she understood. “All right, I do. But no one's said anything yet. No one's ever come forward to talk about my past. And I paid my dues. What could they say now?”

It was all so long ago. She was thirty-eight years old. Her troubles were all so far behind her … twenty-one years … it was all over, and in many ways, to Grace, it seemed like a distant dream.

“A lot of people probably don't realize who you are, you have a different name, you've grown up. But as the wife of a senator, they could start delving into your past, Grace. Do you really want that?”

“No, but are you going to let it stop you? Is this what you want?” she asked him, as they sat in their bedroom talking late into the night, and slowly he nodded. “Then don't let anything stop you. You have a right to this. You're good at what you do. Don't let fear take over our lives,” she said powerfully. “We have nothing to be afraid of.”

They believed it too, and two weeks later he announced that in November he would be running for the Senate.

It was a tight race, and he would be fighting a tough incumbent. But the man had been in the Senate for a long time, and people thought it was time for a change. And Charles Mackenzie was very appealing. He had a great track record, a clean reputation, and a lot of friends. He was also very good-looking, and had a family people liked, which never hurt in an election.

The campaign began with a press conference, and right from the beginning, Grace saw the difference. They asked him questions about his history, his law firm, his personal worth, his income, his taxes, his employees, his children. And then they asked about Grace, and her involvement in “Help Kids!” and St. Andrew's before that. Mysteriously, they knew about the donations she'd made. But in spite of their probing, they seemed inclined to like her. Magazines called her up to do interviews, and photograph her, and at first she refused them. She didn't want to be in the forefront of the campaign. She wanted to do what she had done for him before, work hard, and stand just behind him. But that wasn't what they wanted. They had a fifty-eight-year-old candidate for senator with movie star good looks, and a pretty wife who was twenty years younger. And by spring they wanted to know everything about her, and the children.

“But I don't want to do interviews,” she complained to him one morning over breakfast. “You're the candidate, I'm not. What do they want with me for heaven's sake?” she said, pouring him a second cup of coffee. They had a housekeeper who came in halfway through the day, but Grace still liked being alone with Charles and the children and cooking breakfast for them herself every morning.

“I told you it would be this way,” Charles said calmly about the press. Nothing seemed to ruffle him, even when the stories about him were unflattering, which they often were now. It was the nature of the political beast, and he knew that. Once you entered the ring, you belonged to them, and they could do anything they wanted. Gone the peaceful congressional days when he only had to worry about the constituents he represented, and the local press. Now he was dealing with the national press, and all their demands and quirks, love affairs and hatreds. “Besides,” he smiled at her and finished his coffee, “if you were ugly, they wouldn't want you. Maybe you should stop looking like that,” he said as he leaned over and kissed her.

He took the kids to school as he always did. Matthew, their baby, was in second grade now. And Andrew had just started high school. They still all went to the same school, and they had gotten to the point where most of their friends were in Washington and not Connecticut, but they were at home in both places.

Things rolled along smoothly until June, the campaign was going well, and Charles was pleased with it. And they were just about to go back to Greenwich for the summer, when Charles appeared at the house unexpectedly in the afternoon, looking pale. For a sick moment Grace thought something had happened to one of the children. She heard him come in, and hurried down the stairs to the front hall just as he put down his briefcase.

“What's wrong?” she asked without pausing for breath. Maybe they had called him first … which one was it … Andy, Abigail, or Matt?

“I've got bad news,” he said, looking at her unhappily and then taking two quick steps toward her.

“Oh God, what is it?” She squeezed his hand without thinking, and when she took it away again she'd left a mark from the pressure of her fingers.

“I just got a call from a source we have at Associated Press …” then it wasn't the children, “Grace … they know about your father and your time at Dwight.” He looked devastated to have to tell her, but he wanted to prepare her. He was only desperately sorry to have put her in a position where she could have gotten so badly hurt. And he realized now that he never should have done it. He had been foolish and selfish and naive to think they could survive the campaign unscathed. And now the press were going to devour her.

“Oh,” was all she said, staring at him. “I … okay.” And then she looked at him worriedly, “How badly is this going to hurt you?”

“I don't know. That's not the point. I didn't want you to have to go through this.” He led her slowly into their living room with an arm around her shoulder. “They're going to break the story at six o'clock, on the news, and they want a press conference before, if we'll do it.”

“Do I have to?” she looked gray.

“No, you don't, Why don't we wait and see how bad it is, and then deal with it afterwards?”

“What about the kids? What should I say to them?” Grace looked calm, but very pale, and her hands were shaking badly.

“We'd better tell them.”

They picked them up from school together that afternoon, and took them home, and sat them down in the dining room around the table.

“Your mom and I have something to say,” he said quietly.

“You're getting divorced?” Matt looked terrified, all of his friends’ parents had been getting divorced lately.

“No, of course not,” his father said with a smile in his direction. “But this isn't good either. This is something very hard for your mom. But we thought that we should tell you.” Charles looked very serious, as he held Grace's hand firmly.

“Are you sick?” Andrew asked nervously, his best friend's mom had just died of cancer.

“No, I'm fine.” Grace took a breath and felt the first tightening of her chest she'd felt in a long time. She didn't even know when she'd last seen her inhaler. “This is about something that happened a long time ago, and it's very hard to explain, and understand. It's very hard unless you've been there, or seen it happen.” She was fighting back tears, and Charles squeezed her hand.

“When I was a little girl, like Matty's age, my dad used to be very mean to my mom, he used to beat her,” she said calmly but sadly.

“You mean like hit her?” Matthew said in astonishment with wide eyes, and Grace nodded solemnly.

“Yes. He hit her a lot, and he really hurt her. He beat her for a long time, and then she got very, very sick.”

“Because he beat her up?” Matthew asked again.

“Probably not. She just did. She got cancer, like Zack's mom.” They all knew Andrew's friend. “She was very sick for a long time, four years. And while she was sick, sometimes he'd beat me … he did a lot of terrible things … and sometimes he still beat my mom. But I thought that if I let him hurt me …” Her eyes filled with tears and she choked as Charles squeezed her hand still harder to give her courage. “I thought that if I let him hurt me, then he wouldn't hurt her as much … so I let him do anything he wanted … it was pretty terrible … and then she died. I was seventeen, and the night of her funeral,” she closed her eyes and then opened them again, determined to finish the story that she had never wanted her children to know. But now she knew she had to tell them, before someone else did. “The night of the funeral, he beat me again … a lot … very badly … he hurt me terribly, and I was very scared … and I remembered a gun my mom had next to her bed, and I grabbed it … I think I just wanted to scare him,” she was sobbing now and her children stared at her in stupefied silence, “I don't know what I thought … I was just so scared and I didn't want him to hurt me anymore … we fought over the gun … it went off accidentally, and I shot him. He died that night.” She took a big gulp of air, and Andrew stared at her, stunned.

“You shot your dad? You killed him?” Andrew asked, and she nodded. They had a right to know. She just didn't want to tell them about the rapes, if she didn't have to.

“Did you go to jail?” Matthew asked, intrigued by the story. It was sort of like cops and robbers, or something on TV. It sounded interesting to him, except for the part where he beat her.

“Yes, I did,” she said quietly, looking at her daughter, who so far, had said nothing at all. “I went to prison for two years, and I was on probation in Chicago for two years after that. And then it was all over. I moved to New York and met your dad, we got married and had you, and everything's been happy ever since then.” It had all been so simple for the past fifteen years and now it was going to get difficult again. But it couldn't be helped now. They had taken the chance of exposure along with Charles's political career, and now they had to pay the price for it.

“I can't believe this,” Abigail said, staring at her. “You've been in jail} Why didn't you ever tell us?”

“I didn't think I had to, Abby. It wasn't a story I was proud of. It was very painful for me.”

“You said your parents were dead, you never said you killed them,” Abigail reproached her.

“I didn't kill them both. I killed him,” Grace explained.

“You make it sound like you were defending yourself,” she argued with her mother.

“I was.”

“Isn't that self-defense? Then how come you went to jail?”

Grace nodded miserably. “It is, but they didn't believe me.”

“I can't believe you've been in prison.” All she could think of were her friends and what they would say now, when they heard the story. It was worse than anything she could imagine.

“Did you kill Dad's parents too?” Matt asked, intrigued.

“Of course not.” Grace smiled at him. He was really too young to understand it.

“Why are you telling us this now?” Andrew asked unhappily. Abigail was right. It wasn't a pretty story. And it wouldn't sit well with their friends.

“Because the press has found out,” Charles answered for her. He hadn't said anything till then, he wanted to let Grace tell them in her own way, and she had done well. But it wasn't easy to absorb, for anyone, least of all for children to hear about their mother. “It's going to be on the news tonight, and we wanted to tell you first.”

“Gee, thanks a lot. Ten minutes before it goes on. And you expect me to go to school tomorrow? I'm not going,” Abigail stormed.

“Neither am I,” Matt said, just for good measure, and then he turned to his mother with a curious expression. “Did he bleed a lot? Your dad, I mean.” Grace laughed in spite of herself, and so did Charles. To him, it was all like a TV show.

“Never mind, Matt,” his father scolded.

“Did he make a lot of noise?”

“Matthew!”

“I can't believe this,” Abigail said, and burst into tears. “I can't believe you never told us all this, and now it's going to be all over the news. You're a murderer, a jailbird.”

“Abigail, you don't understand the circumstances,” Charles said. “You don't have any idea what your mother went through. Why do you think she's always been so interested in abused children?”

“To show off,” Abby said angrily. “Besides, what do you know? You weren't there either, were you? And besides, this is all because of you, and your stupid campaign! If we weren't here in Washington, none of this would have happened!” There was a certain truth to that, and Charles felt guilty enough without having Abby rub it in, but before he could answer her, she ran upstairs and slammed the door to her bedroom. Grace stood up to go, but Charles pulled her into her seat again.

“Let her calm down,” he said wisely, and Andrew looked at them and rolled his eyes.

“She's such a little bitch, why do you put up with her?”

“Because we love her, and all of you,” Charles said. “This isn't easy for any of us. We have to work it out in our own ways, and support each other. This is going to be very hard once the press start tearing your mom apart.”

“We'll be there for you, Mom,” Andrew said kindly, and got up to give her a hug, but Matthew was thinking about what she'd said. He kind of liked the story.

“Maybe Abby will shoot you, Dad,” he said hopefully, and Charles could only laugh at him again.

“I hope not, Matt. No one is going to shoot anyone.”

“Mom might.”

Grace smiled ruefully as she looked at her youngest son. “Remember that the next time I tell you to clean up your room or finish your dinner.”

“Yeah,” he said with a broad grin, showing that his two top front teeth were missing. Surprisingly, unlike his siblings, he wasn't upset. But he was too young to really absorb the implications of what had happened.

Eventually, Grace went upstairs and tried to talk to Abigail, but she wouldn't let her mother into her room, and at six o'clock they all gathered downstairs to watch the television in the den. Abby came down silently and joined them, and sat in the back of the room without talking to her parents.

The telephone had been ringing off the hook for two hours by then, but Grace had put it on the machine. There wasn't a soul alive they wanted to talk to. And there was an unlisted emergency line where Charles's aides called him. They called several times, and warned that they had been advised again that the story was ugly.

It was presented as a special bulletin, with a full screen photograph of her mug shot from prison. What startled Grace above all was how young she looked. She was barely more than a baby, only three years older than Andrew, and she looked younger than Abigail in the picture.

“Wow, Mom! Is that you?”

“Shhh, Matthew!” they all said at once, and watched in horror as the story unraveled.

The story was definitely not pretty. It opened with the news that Grace Mackenzie, wife of Congressman Charles Mackenzie, candidate for a Senate seat in the next election, had shot her father in a sex scandal at seventeen, and had been sentenced to two years in prison. There were photographs of her going into the trial, in handcuffs, and of her father looking very handsome. They said he had been a pillar of the community, and his daughter had accused him of rape, and shot him. She had claimed self-defense and a jury had not believed her. A two-year sentence for voluntary manslaughter was the result, followed by two years’ probation.

There were more photographs of her then, leaving the trial, again in handcuffs, and as she left for Dwight, in leg irons and chains, then another photograph of her at Dwight. She sounded like a gang moll by the time they were finished. They went on to say that she had been at Dwight Correctional Center in Dwight, Illinois, for two years, and was released in 1973 for two years of probation in Chicago. There had been no further problems with the law subsequently, to the best of their knowledge, but that possibility was currently under investigation.

“Under investigation? What the hell do they mean?” Grace asked, and Charles silenced her with a gesture, he wanted to hear what they were saying.

They explained that people in the community had not believed the sex scandal story at all. And then they followed it with a brief interview with the chief of police who had charged her. Twenty-one years later, he was there, and he claimed to have total recall of the night she was arrested.

“The prosecutor felt she'd been trying to …” he smiled wickedly and Grace wanted to throw up as she listened,“… I'd say, tantalize her father, and she got angry when he didn't take the bait. She was a pretty sick girl, back then, I don't know anything about her now of course, but a leopard don't change his spots much, does he?” She couldn't believe what she was hearing, or what they'd encouraged him to say.

They explained again, for all who hadn't caught it the first time, that she was a convicted felon, convicted of murder. They showed her mug shot yet again. And then a photograph of her looking like a moron, with Charles, as she stood next to him when he was sworn into Congress. And they explained that Charles was now running for the Senate. And then it was over, and they moved on to something else, as Grace fell back in her seat in horrified amazement. She felt completely drained of all emotion. It was all there, the mug shots, the story, the attitude of the community as expressed by the chief of police.

“They practically said I raped him! Did you hear what that bastard said?” Grace was outraged by what the chief of police had said about her, he had called her “pretty sick” and said she had “tantalized” her father. “Can't we sue them?”

“Maybe,” Charles said, trying to sound calm, for hers and the children's sake. “First we have to see what happens. There's going to be a lot of noise over this. We have to be ready for it.”

“How much worse can it get?” she asked angrily.

“A lot,” he said knowingly. His aides had warned him, and he knew that from his experience with the press years before.

By seven o'clock there were television cameras outside their house. One channel even used a bullhorn to address her, and urge her to come out and talk to them. Charles called the police, but the best they could do for them was get the reporters off their property, and force them to stand across the street, which they did. They put two camera crews in the trees so they could shoot into their bedroom windows. And Charles went upstairs and closed the shades. They were under siege.

“How long is this going to last?” Grace asked miserably after the children went to bed. They were still out there.

“Awhile probably. Maybe a long while.” And then as they sat in the kitchen, looking at each other in exhaustion, he asked her if she wanted to talk to them at some point and tell them her side of the story.

“Should I? Can't we sue them for what they said?”

“I don't know any of the answers.” He had already put in calls to two major libel lawyers, but he also realized that their phones could be tapped by the press, and he didn't want to talk to the attorneys from the house, or even from his office. For the moment, at least, it was a genuine disaster.

The next morning, the press were still there, and Charles and Grace were tipped off again about new coverage on local and national talk shows. She was the hot news of the hour all over the country.

Two guards were interviewed at Dwight, who claimed they knew her really well. Both were young and Grace knew for certain she'd never seen them.

“I've never laid eyes on them,” she said to Charles, feeling sick again. He had stayed home with her, to lend her support, as she was stuck in the house, and Abby had refused to get out of bed. But a friend had offered to take Andrew and Matt to school, and Grace was relieved they'd gone. It was hard enough dealing with Abby, and herself.

The two prison guards said that Grace had been a member of a real tough gang, and they implied, but didn't actually say, that she'd used drugs in prison.

“What are they doing to me?” She burst into tears and put her face in her hands. She didn't understand it. Why were these people lying about her?

“Grace, they want a piece of the action. A moment of glory. That's all it is. They want to be on television, they want to be a star just like you are.”

“I'm not a star. I'm a housewife,” she said naively.

“To them, you're a star.” He was a lot wiser than she was.

On another channel, they were interviewing the chief of police again. And in Watseka, a girl who claimed to have been Grace's best friend in school, and whom Grace had also never seen before, said that Grace had always talked to her a lot about how much she loved her father and how jealous she was of her mother. The impression being created there was that she had killed her father in a jealous rage.

“Are these people crazy, or am I? That woman looks twice my age, and I don't even know who she is.” Even her name was unfamiliar.

They interviewed one of the arresting officers from that night, who looked like an old man now, and he admitted that Grace had looked really scared and she was shaking really badly when they found her.

“Did she look like she'd been raped?” the interviewer said without hesitation.

“It was hard to tell, you know, I'm no doctor,” he said shyly, “but she didn't have any clothes on.”

“She was naked?” The interviewer looked straight into the camera, shocked, and the policeman nodded.

“Yeah, but I don't think the doctors at the hospital said she'd been raped. They just said she'd had sex with her boyfriend or something. Maybe her father walked in on them.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Johnson.”

And then came the pièce de résistance on yet another channel. A moment with Frank Wills, who looked even worse and sleazier than he had twenty years before, if that was possible, and he said bluntly that Grace had always been a strange kid and had always been after her father's money.

“What? He got everything there was, and God knows it wasn't much,” she shouted at Charles, and then laid her head back in despair again.

“Grace, you have to stop going crazy over everything they say. You know they're not going to tell the truth. Why should they?” Where were David Glass and Molly? Why wasn't someone saying anything decent about her? Why didn't anybody love her? Why hadn't they? Why had Molly died, and David disappeared? Where the hell were they now?

“I can't stand this,” she said hysterically. There was no getting away from it, and it was unbearable. There was no relief and in this case, there was no reward for this kind of pain and torture.

“You have to stand it,” Charles said matter-of-factiy. “It's not going to disappear overnight.” Charles knew better than anyone that it could take a long time to die down once the flames had grown to such major proportions.

“Why do I have to stand this?” she asked, crying again.

“Because people love this garbage. They eat it up. When I was married to Michelle, the tabloids crawled all over her constantly, they told lies, they snuck stories, they did everything they could to torture her. You just have to accept that. That's the way it is.”

“I can't. She was a movie star, she wanted the attention. She must have wanted what went with it.” Grace was refusing to see the similarity in their lives.

“And the presumption is that I do too, because I'm a politician.”

She sat in the den with him for an hour and cried, and then she went upstairs and tried to talk to Abby. But Abby didn't want to hear any of it from her. She had been flipping the dial, and hearing all the same things in her mother's bedroom.

“How could you do those things?” Abby sobbed as Grace looked at her in anguish.

“I didn't,” Grace said through tears. “I was miserable, I was alone, I was scared. I was terrified of him … he beat me … he raped me for four years … and I couldn't help it. I don't even know if I meant to kill him. I just did. I was like a wounded animal. I struck out any way I could to save myself from him. I had no choice, Abby.” She was sobbing as Abby watched her, crying too. “But most of the other things they said on TV aren't true.” Grace hated them for what they were doing to her daughter. “None of those things was true. I don't even know those people, except the man who was my father's partner, and what he said wasn't true either. He took alt my father's money. I hardly got anything, and what I got I gave to charity. I've spent my life trying to give back to people like me, to help them survive too. I never forgot what I went through. And oh God, Abby,” she put her arms around her, “I love you so much, I don't ever want you to suffer because of me. It breaks my heart to see you so unhappy. Abby, I had a miserable life as a kid. No one was ever decent to me until I met your father. He gave me a life, he gave me love and all of you. He's one of the few human beings who's ever been kind to me … Abby,” she was sobbing uncontrollably, and her daughter was hugging her, “I'm so sorry, and I love you so much … please forgive me …”

“I'm sorry I was so mean to you … I'm sorry, Mommy …”

“It's okay, it's okay… I love you …”

Charles was watching them from the doorway with tears running down his face, and he tiptoed away to call the lawyers again. But when one of them came to see them that afternoon, he didn't have good news. Public figures, like politicians and movie stars, had no rights of privacy whatsoever. People could say anything they wanted to about them without having the burden of proving whether it was true. And if celebrities wanted to sue, they had to prove that what was being said about them were lies, which was often impossible to do, and they also had to prove that they'd suffered a loss of income as a result, or the impaired ability to make a living, and they had to prove yet again that what had been said had been said in actual malice. And the wives or husbands of politicians, particularly if they had either campaigned, or appeared in public with them, as she obviously had, had the same lack of rights as the politicians. In fact, Grace had no rights at all now.

“What that means,” the attorney who'd come to see them explained, “is that you can't do anything against most of what people are saying. If they claim that you killed your father and you didn't, that's a different story, although they have a right to say you were convicted of it, but if they say you were in a gang in prison, you have to prove that you were not, and how are you going to do that, Mrs. Mackenzie? Get affidavits from the inmates who were there at the time? You have to prove that these things have been said intentionally to hurt you, and that they have affected negatively your ability to make a living,”

“In other words, they can do anything they want to me, and unless I can prove they're lying, and everything else you mentioned, I can't do a damn thing about it. Is that it?”

“Exactly. It's not a happy situation. But everyone in the public eye is in the same boat you are. And unfortunately these are tabloid times we live in. The common belief of the media is that the public wants not only dirt, but blood. They want to make people and destroy people, they want to tear people apart, and feed them to the public bit by bit. It's not personal, it's economic. They make money off your corpse. They're vultures. They pay up to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a story, and then treat it as news. And unreliable sources who're being paid that kind of money will say anything to keep the spodight on them, and the money coming. They'll say you danced naked on your father's grave and they saw you do it, if it gets them on TV, and makes them a buck. That's reality. And the so-called legitimate press behave the same way these days. There's no such thing anymore. It's disgusting. And they take innocent people like you, and your family, and trash them, for the hell of it. It's the most malicious game there is, and yet ‘actual malice’ is the hardest thing of all to prove. It isn't even malice anymore, it's greed, and indifference to the human condition.

“You paid a price for what you did. You suffered enough. You were seventeen. You shouldn't have to go through all this, nor should your husband and your children. But there's very littie I can do to help you. We'll keep an eye on it, and if anything turns up we can sue for, we will. But you have to be prepared for the fallout from that too. Lawsuits only encourage the feeding frenzy more. The sharks love blood in the water.”

“You're not very encouraging, Mr. Goldsmith,” Charles said, looking depressed.

“No, I'm not,” he smiled ruefully. He liked Charles, and he felt sorry for Grace. But the laws were not made to protect people like them. The laws had been made to turn them into victims.

The feeding frenzy, as he had called it, went on for weeks. The children went back to school, reluctantly. Fortunately, they got out for summer vacation after a week, and the family moved to Connecticut for the summer. But it was more of the same there. More tabloids, more press, more photographers. More interviews on television with people who claimed to be her best friends, but whom she had never heard of. The only good thing that came of it, was that David Glass emerged from the mists. He had called, and was living in Van Nuys, and had four children. He was desperately sorry to see what was happening to her. It broke his heart, knowing how much pain it caused her to go through it. But no one could do anything to stop the press, or the lies, or the gossip. And he knew as well as she did that even if he talked to the press on her behalf, everything he said would be distorted. He was happy to know that other than the current uproar in the press, she was happily married, and had children. He apologized for staying out of touch for so long. He was now the senior partner of his late father-in-law's law firm. And then he admitted sheepishly that Tracy, his wife, had been fiercely jealous of Grace when they first moved to California. It was why he had eventually stopped writing. But he was happy to hear her now, he had felt compelled to call, and Grace was happy he'd called her. They both agreed that the press didn't want the facts. They wanted scandal and filth. They wanted to hear that she'd been giving blow jobs to guards, or sleeping with women in chains in prison. They didn't want to know how vulnerable she'd been, how terrorized, how traumatized, how scared, how young, how decent. They only wanted the ugly stuff. Both David and Charles agreed that the best thing was to step back and let them wear themselves out, and offer no comment.

But even after a month of it, the furor hadn't died down. And all the principal tabloids were still running stories about her on their covers. The tabloid TV shows had interviewed everyone except the janitor in jail, and Grace felt it was time to come forward and say something. Grace and Charles spent an entire day talking to Charles's campaign manager, and they finally agreed to let her do a press conference. Maybe that would stop it.

“It won't, you know,” Charles said. But maybe if it was handled well, it wouldn't do any harm either.

The conference was set for the week before her birthday on an important interview show, on a major network. It was heavily advertised, and television news cameras started appearing outside their house the day before. It was agony for their children. They hated having anyone over now, or going anywhere, or even talking to friends. Grace understood it only too well. Every time she went to the grocery store, someone came over to her and started a seemingly innocuous conversation that would end up in Q&A about her life in prison. It didn't matter if they opened with melons or cars, somehow they always wound up in the same place, asking if her father had really raped her, or how traumatic had it been to kill him, and were there really a lot of lesbians in prison.

“Are you kidding?” Charles said in disbelief. It happened to her the most when she was alone or with the children. Grace complained to Charles about it constantly. A woman had walked up to her that day at the gas station, and out of the blue shouted “Bang, ya got him, didn't you, Grace?” “I feel like Bonnie and Clyde.” She had to laugh at it sometimes. It really was absurd, and although people mentioned it to him sometimes too, they never seemed to ask as much or as viciously as they did of Grace. It was as though they wanted to torment her. She had even gotten a highly irritated letter from Cheryl Swanson in Chicago, saying that she was retired now, and she and Bob were divorced, no surprise to Grace, but she couldn't understand why Grace had never told her she'd been in prison.

“Because she wouldn't have hired me,” she said to Charles as she tossed the letter at him to show him. There were lots of letters like that now, and crank calls, and one blank page smeared with blood spelling out the word “Murderess,” which they'd turned over to the police. But she'd had a nice letter from Winnie, in Philadelphia, offering her love and support, and another from Father Tim, who was in Florida, as the chaplain of a retirement community. He sent her his love and prayers, and reminded her that she was God's child, and He loved her.

She reminded herself of it constandy the day of the interview. It had all been carefully staged, and Charles's P.R. people had reviewed the questions, or so they thought. Mysteriously, the questions they'd approved for the interview had disappeared, and Grace found herself asked, first off, what it had meant to her to have sex with her father.

“Meant to me?” She looked at her interviewer in amazement. “Meant to me? Have you ever worked with victims of abuse? Have you ever seen what child abusers do to children? They rape them, they mutilate them … they kill them … they torture them, they put cigarettes out on their little arms and faces … they fry them on radiators … they do a lot of very ugly things … have you ever asked any of them what it meant to them to have boiling water poured on their face, or their arm nearly ripped out of its socket? It means a lot to children when people do things like that to them. It means that no one loves them, that they're in constant danger … it means living with terror every moment of the day. That's what it means … that's what it meant to me.” It was a powerful statement, and the interviewer looked taken aback as Grace fell silent.

“Actually I … we … I'm sure that all your supporters have been wondering how you feel about your prison record being revealed to the public.”

“Sad … sorry … I was the victim of some terrible crimes, committed within the sanctity of the family. And I in turn did a terrible thing, killing my father. But I had paid for it before, and I paid for it after. I think revealing it, in this way, scandalizing it, sensationalizing the agony that our family went through, and tormenting my children and my husband now, serves no purpose. It's done in such a way as to embarrass us, and not to inform the public.” She talked then about the people giving interviews, claiming to know her, whom she had never even seen before, and the lies they told to make themselves important. She didn't mention the tabloid by name, but she said that one of them had told shocking lies in all of their headlines. And the interviewer smiled at that.