Beverly Barton - Grace Under Fire

A book in the Protectors series, 2003

Grace watched Dean bouncing their baby daughter on his knee. Emma Lynn's soft blond curls peeked out from beneath her pale pink bonnet and her big blue eyes sparkled with laughter. Emma Lynn loved her daddy. Grace's heart swelled with pride. She had given this precious gift to the man she loved, and in the years to come, perhaps a brother and a sister would join their perfect family. Life was so incredibly wonderful, so rich and full and delicious. Grace thanked the good Lord every day for her many blessings.

When Dean set his daughter on her feet, she toddled precariously across the green lawn, moving directly toward the tall, elegant, silver-haired man who held his arms open for her.

"Paaa," Emma Lynn said as her grandfather swept her up into his big, strong arms, the same masterful arms that had held and protected Grace all her life.

"How's my big girl, my little moonbeam?" Byram Sheffield planted a kiss on his granddaughter's forehead.

Emma Lynn began jabbering, some of her words quite distinct while others only mimicked the English language.

Grace lifted a glass of lemonade from the wicker table beside her ornate white wicker rocker. She loved this time of day, early evening on the back veranda. The day's hot, humid swelter had faded into a warm, moist twilight. She'd been born and raised in this old Louisiana mansion that had once ruled a thousand acres of the Belle Foret plantation. Six generations of her family had lived and died in La Durantaye parish and she and both her parents had been born right here in St. Camille. Her roots ran deep in this rich, fertile earth. Dean and she would raise Emma Lynn to cherish her heritage, yet teach her to become her own woman, with a vision for the future.

Grace closed her eyes and savored the moment, storing it for future reference.

Suddenly the warmth disappeared. Cold air surrounded her. Had a summer storm cropped up, bringing rain with it? she wondered. She opened her eyes, intending to suggest to Dean they go inside before the storm hit, but Dean wasn't there. Where had he gone?

"Daddy?" she called, but received no answer.

She couldn't see her father. Couldn't see Emma Lynn. And where was Belle Foret? Where had her family and her home gone? What was happening? She cried Dean's name repeatedly, but he didn't respond.

Had she fallen asleep and was now dreaming? Surely that was it. Wake up, Grace, she told herself. End this nightmare. End it right this minute, do you hear me?

"Mrs. Beaumont?" a pleasant voice spoke to her and a gentle hand touched her face.

Grace's eyelids fluttered open. She looked up at a middle-aged woman with a kind face. When Grace opened her mouth to speak, she realized she couldn't. Something prevented her from fully opening her mouth. She tried to lift her hand to touch her face, but her arm felt as if it weighed a ton.

"It's all right, Mrs. Beaumont. You can't speak because your mouth is wired shut, but you'll be able to speak again soon. For now, just blink your eyes once for the word yes and twice for the word no. Do you understand?"

She blinked twice. No, she did not understand at all. Only a few minutes ago she had been at home with Dean and Emma Lynn and her father. Where was she now? How had she gotten here? And where was her family?

"You understood to blink," the woman said. "What is it that you don't understand? Are you confused about where you are?"

Grace blinked once.

"You're in St. Camille Hospital. You were in an automobile accident. Don't you remember?"

Grace blinked twice.

The woman sighed. "I'm Andrea Woods, your special duty nurse. Your cousin Joy Loring hired me. You've been in the hospital for two weeks now and just this morning they moved you from intensive care and I came on duty. You've been coming in and out of consciousness for several days now. Don't you remember Dr. Drummond explaining to you what happened?"

Grace started to blink twice for no, but stopped herself. Dr. Drummond? The image of a stocky, bald man wearing a white shirt, blue tie and cream-yellow suspenders flashed through her mind. And she could hear his baritone voice speaking to her slowly and softly. As she recalled what he'd said, she tried to block the words, not wanting to hear the truth. With every ounce of her fragile strength she fought against remembering.

"Oh, you poor thing," Nurse Andrea said, then tenderly wiped away the tears cascading down Grace's cheeks. "Your body will heal in time and someday you'll be able to rebuild your life. For now, you must rest and let me take good care of you."

Grace lay there on the cold, sterile bed in her private room at St. Camille Hospital and prayed to die. She had absolutely nothing to live for now. Dean was dead. Daddy was dead. With a strength born of determination, she lifted her hand and laid it on her flat stomach. And the child she and Dean had longed for-the little girl Grace had envisioned many times since the moment she found out she was pregnant-would never be born. She had even chosen her unborn baby's name, Emma Lynn, in honor of her two grandmothers.

She could hear Dr. Drummond saying, "I'm sorry, Grace, but you miscarried the baby."

Grace pleaded with the Almighty. Please, God, please, take me, too. I want to be with Dean and Daddy and with my little Emma Lynn, who never had the chance to live.

Elsa Leone placed the morning mail on the ornate Jacobean desk, then hurried into the adjoining kitchenette to prepare her employer's morning beverage, a rich cinnamon-flavored cappuccino. She loved her job as the personal assistant to the owner and CEO of Sheffield Media, Inc. The pay was above average for such a position, the personal benefits were excellent and her working relationship with Grace Beaumont couldn't be better. Elsa had worked for the company the past ten years, as a receptionist for seven of those years; but during that time she had been attending night classes at St. Camille Junior College, hoping to improve her chances for a promotion. Then miraculously three years ago when Grace had taken charge of her father's media empire, she had looked within the company for a replacement for her father's middle-aged assistant who had retired shortly after Byram Sheffield's death four years ago.

Elsa worked busily, wanting everything to be perfect when Grace arrived. Although professionally and socially they were worlds apart, Grace insisted Elsa call her by her given name. Being allowed that privilege, along with receiving fair and courteous treatment, Elsa had grown to not only admire her boss, but to care for her. She would even go so far as to say they were good friends.

"She's not here?" Hudson Prentice, the senior vice-president of Sheffield Media, Inc. stood in the open doorway.

"No, sir." Elsa glanced at the carved mahogany antique wall clock. "It's five till."

"So it is. And our Grace is seldom early and never late."

"Yes, sir."

"Buzz me when she arrives. I've made reservations for Dumon's for lunch and I don't want her making other plans." Hudson stared quizzically at Elsa. "She doesn't have a prior lunch date, does she?"

Elsa liked Hudson Prentice well enough, but thought him a bit of a stuffed shirt. Somewhere in his late thirties, with brown eyes, brown hair and of medium build, he was a rather nondescript-looking man, despite his expensive suits, weekly manicures and salon-styled hair.

"Not that I know of, Mr. Prentice, but she doesn't always inform me when she has a personal lunch date."