Helen Brenna - Her Sure Thing

Other memories involved her childhood best friend, Gail Gilbert, who had lived next door. At least they’d been best friends until junior high when Mrs. Gilbert had decided to send her daughter to Bayfield for school for what she’d believed would be a “better, more well-rounded” education. As soon as Gail had made better, more well-rounded friends, she’d dropped Grace like a hot potato. At the time, it’d stung that Gail wouldn’t even look at Grace on the few occasions their paths had crossed, but it was all water under the bridge at this point.

“Grace?” The almost shrill sounding voice came from next door. “Grace Andersen, is that you?”

Grace glanced toward the Gilberts’ and found Gail’s mother heading up her sidewalk from the street. “Hello, Mrs. Gilbert.”

“I heard you were back home,” she said, crossing her lawn to stop at the hedge separating the two yards. “I just didn’t know if I should believe it.”

“Whaddya know,” Grace said, keeping her distance from the smug woman who had never failed to point out to Grace’s mother that the Gilbert house was nearly three times the size of the Andersens’.

“How long will you be staying on Mirabelle?”

“Not sure,” she hedged. “Probably most of the summer.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Gail comes every year over the July Fourth holiday week and she’ll be so excited when she finds out you’re here.”

Naturally. Now that skinny stick Grace Andersen had become famous Grace Kahill. “Tell her I said hello.” Grace waved as she climbed the steps of her father’s wide front porch, effectively cutting off any more conversation.

For a moment, she stood at the ornately carved front door, not sure whether she should knock, ring the doorbell or simply walk inside. It might be her childhood home, but the only time she’d come back to Mirabelle since she’d left had been for her father’s retirement party and her mother’s funeral. In the end, she knocked and waited.

Within a moment or two, footsteps sounded from inside and the door swung wide-open. “Grace! I thought I heard someone out here,” her father said, pushing open the storm door. “For heaven’s sake, since when do you knock at your own house?”

“Since it ceased being my house?” She shrugged and smiled.

“You have me there.” He held out his arms.

As she hugged him, she couldn’t help but notice he’d lost some weight. “How are you, Dad?”

“I’m managing. Some days are better than others.” He gave her a weak smile as he drew her inside and closed the door. “Have you talked to Carl yet?”

“No.” She hadn’t been able to get herself to call her older brother. Not only were they several years apart in age, but so much time and distance had created an even bigger gulf between them.

Carl had been the good child. The straight-A student. The apple of their mother’s eye. He’d been able to do no wrong. Grace, on the other hand, had never been able to do anything right. If she wasn’t getting Cs, she was getting into trouble with teachers and coaches. As far as her mother was concerned, Grace had a tendency to flirt too much with the wrong sort of boys and not enough with the right ones. While her mother had insisted Grace take choir, Grace had wanted to join the basketball team. Grace wore too much makeup, dressed too strangely and swung her hips too much when she walked.

By the time she’d turned sixteen, Grace had simply quit trying to please her mother. Perhaps that’s why modeling had drawn Grace in so thoroughly and completely. She may not have been perfect, but her body had been.

So much for that.

“Carl will be disappointed you haven’t called,” her dad said, reining in her thoughts.

Not likely. “I’ll call him in the next couple of days.”

“Well, come on in.” He motioned toward the kitchen.

If her mother had been home, they’d have gone directly to the living room to visit, but Pastor John Andersen had always been a kitchen man, as simple and relaxed as Grace’s mother had been formal and proper. Though he was retired now and doing only an occasional wedding service, her father had been a soft-spoken preacher, a kind dad and as far as Grace had known, an affectionate and loving husband.

As Grace walked down the slightly uneven hardwood floor of the main hall, she glanced from living room to formal dining area. Even less had changed in the interior of the home than the exterior, but surprisingly the rooms didn’t look the slightest bit dated. Jean Andersen had, by design, decorated with timeless antiques she’d collected through the years. Her father, she noticed, had kept things as immaculate as when her mother had still been alive. Except for in the kitchen.

Her eyes widened at the sight of the mess that had accumulated. Her mother would be rolling in her grave if she could see the state of her domain. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink and on the counter, mail and newspapers lay haphazardly across almost every flat surface, and a distasteful odor came from the garbage can.

“Dad?” she said. “You look like you could use some help around here.”

“Oh, I know, honey. Can’t seem to stay ahead of everything.”

Stay ahead of it? He wasn’t close to keeping up. “Do you mind if I pick up a bit?”

“You don’t need to do that. Carol said she was going to come by tomorrow with a few meals. She usually stays for a while and helps me clean.”

If that wasn’t motivation enough for Grace to clean, she didn’t know what was. Carl’s wife, Carol, was as picture-perfect as Carl. That match had been made in heaven as had its offspring, their two children, Nikki and Alex. All Grace had heard through the years in phone calls with her mother was Carl this and Carol that intermixed with Nicole did this and Alexander did that. There was little doubt that Carol was the daughter Jean Andersen had always wanted.

Her father glanced around and sighed. “I guess I’m not as good as your mother was at keeping things organized.”

“Why don’t you sit over there at the counter and we can talk while I straighten up?” Grace started in on emptying the clean dishes from the dishwasher. “When did you eat last?”

“I think I had some cold cereal for breakfast.”

“You think?” No matter. It was already after lunchtime. She opened the cupboard and found some soup. It was better than nothing. “You hungry?” She showed him the can.

“Now that you mention it, I could do with a little something, but I can do that.” He opened the can, dumped the contents in the bowl, and set it in the microwave, dribbling broth everywhere.

“Sit down, Dad. I’ll get it for you when it’s done.”

“What about you?” he said, sitting with his hands in his lap. “You going to join me?”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“So you got in yesterday. All settled?”

“Pretty much.”

“Caught up with any old friends, yet?”

“No, and I’m not sure I have much of an interest.”

“We’ve had a lot a new folks moving to the island in the past couple years. I think there’s a group about your age.”

Lovely.

“Some good people in that mix. Some…not so much.”

That was about as negative as her father ever got when it came to assessing people. If he didn’t like someone, chances were you’d never know it.

“So in which group is Sean Griffin?”

“Sean? Have you met him?”

“Yesterday. I’m boarding my horse at his stables. He was a bit…abrupt.”

Her father chuckled. “Yep, that’s Sean. Impatient. I’m not sure he’s entirely adjusted to the pace on Mirabelle.”

“Where’s he from?”

“Your neck of the woods, I think. L.A.”

What in the world had brought him here of all places?