Hadley & Grace(78)
Mark Wilkes—that was the agent’s name—is survived by a daughter and a son—the girl six and the boy nine. He also had a wife. Grace tried not to hold that against him. His parents live in Boston, and he has a brother in California. He was a decorated veteran, an ex-marine who served two tours in Desert Storm.
She looks through the window of the pawnshop to check the time. The minutes pass slow as hours as they creep closer to nine o’clock, her faith in Jimmy wavering each second the moment of truth draws nearer. He can borrow a bit from his brother, though Brad won’t have much to spare. A dagger of shame pierces her at the thought of asking him again for help. They still haven’t repaid him for the loan he gave them to flee LA and get their apartment in Orange County.
Guiltily, she wonders how much Jimmy will be able to send, her concern about the future and their limited funds growing. The plan is still for her to go to London with Miles and Skipper, and for Hadley to figure out a way to join them down the road.
The idea was so much more hopeful when she had a million dollars in her pocket and with Mattie along to help. Now, she wonders how she will survive, a fugitive posing under an alias in a foreign country with no working papers and two kids, one of whom she isn’t entirely certain how she’ll deal with when things get rough.
At 8:57 a man walks into the pawnshop from the back. He turns on the lights, flips the closed sign to open, then walks toward the door to unlock it.
“Grace.”
She is staring so hard at the man turning the dead bolt she doesn’t immediately hear someone saying her name. The clock reads 8:59.
“Grace,” he says again.
She turns, her eyes blinking as her brain catches up with her ears, to see Jimmy walking toward her, his long strides covering the distance quickly. He wears faded fatigues, his gold hair mussed and his face lined with exhaustion and worry.
Her eyes fill, and she steps toward him; then, realizing what she is doing, she falls back, her head shaking. “I told you not to come,” she says as her anger and panic catch up with her.
Her hands wrap protectively around Miles as if Jimmy’s presence might harm him. Which it will—not in this moment but in the next day, week, year, lifetime.
“I told you, Jimmy. You need to stay away.”
His half smile melts into hurt, and his eyes drop as he says, “I couldn’t. I couldn’t not come.”
Up close, he looks even worse than she originally thought. Even on his worst day, Jimmy is good looking, but this morning, he is bedraggled, his shoulders stooped, his skin parched, and his beard grown out from days of not shaving. But as always, it is his eyes that draw her in, gold like a summer’s day and looking at her as if no one else exists in the world.
“Please, Grace, hear me out—”
“We need to go,” Grace says, cutting him off and walking quickly past him, suddenly aware that the Western Union man is watching them through the glass. His eyes slide from Grace and Miles to Hadley, then stick on Skipper.
Jimmy looks confused, his head cocking to one side.
“Now!” she practically screams. The man has moved to his desk and is lifting the phone.
Hadley has already stood and grabbed Skipper’s hand. “Hadley,” Hadley says to introduce herself as she races past Jimmy to follow Grace, who’s walking quickly toward the street.
“Jimmy,” he says back; then he sweeps Skipper into his arms as if he weighs no more than a sack of flour. “Hey, buddy, how about a ride?”
He is beside Grace and directing her toward a silver Nissan parked at the curb. He pops open the locks, sets Skipper on the ground, and swings open the door. Skipper climbs in, and Hadley climbs in on the other side. Grace, with Miles still strapped to her chest, hops into the passenger seat.
Jimmy’s eyes fix on Miles, but Grace snaps him out of it. “Drive,” she orders, and a second later, they’re peeling away from the curb.
56
HADLEY
Jimmy drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting out the open window. The guy is damn good looking, like Flash Gordon or Captain America, superhero good looking. Long boned and golden all over, he has honeycomb hair, matching gold eyes, and a crooked smile he uses easily and often.
He wears his army fatigues “to lend credibility,” he said with a wink at Grace, who’s still very angry with him. Though even through her fury, love pulses.
Hadley sits in the back of the small car beside Skipper, who conked out an hour ago. She stares out the window, seeing nothing, unable to wrap her head around everything that has happened or how quickly.
Unlike yesterday, it is no longer shocking. Mark. Is. Dead. Somehow that awful fact has settled in, though it hurts too much to think about. So instead, she obsesses over Mattie, wondering where she is, where Frank might go, and how she can get her back. She has cried so much she is certain there are no tears left. Wads of soggy Kleenex overflow from the side compartment of her door, and her skin is raw and parched.
Today is Wednesday, the day she was supposed to be dropping Skipper off with Vanessa before continuing on with Mattie to start their new life, the notion foggy and vague like a dream from another life.
Everything feels so unreal—Frank is a murderer; Mattie is gone; she no longer has a home to flee from or to run back to—and at random moments, Hadley finds herself so completely lost it feels like she is living in an alternate universe, as if floating outside it all and not really here.