Barbara Delinsky - A Shades of Grace

Shadesof Grace

BARBARADELINSKY

B OOKS BY B ARBARA D ELINSKY

Rekindled

A Womans Place

Moment to Moment

Sweet Ember

Shades of Grace

A Time to Love

SensuousBurgundy

Together Alone

Search for aNew Dawn

Fast Courting

An IrresistibleImpulse

For My Daughters

Passion andIllusion

Variation on aTheme

Suddenly

Gemstone

The CarpentersLady

More ThanFriends

Within Reach

Finger Prints

The Passions ofChelsea Kane

A Woman Betrayed

Grace Dorian stared in bewilderment at the papers on herdesk. She had no idea how they had gotten there, had no idea what theywere for.

She riffled the stack, searching for hints. Not papers.Letters. Some were handwritten, some typed, some on white letterhead,colored stationery, torn notebook paper.

Dear Grace

Dear Grace

Dear Grace

Think , she cried, fighting panic.People were writing her letters, lots of people, judging from thecourier pack that stood open on the chair. It brimmed with more of whatshe had on her desk. They were there for a reason.

She put a hand to her chest and willed herself to staycalm. The heel of her hand pressed her thudding heart. Her fingertipstouched beads.

Rosary beads? No. Not rosary beads. Pearls ,Grace. Pearls .

Frightened eyes cast about for the familiar, lighting onthe mahogany credenza, the velvet drapes, the brocade settee, theburnished brass lamps. The lamps were off now. It was morning. Sunspilled across the Aubusson.

Shakily she fitted her reading glasses to her nose,praying that if she studied the letters long enough, hard enough,something would click. She noted return addressesMorgan Hill,California, Burley, Alabama, Little River, South Carolina, Parma, Ohio.People were writing her from across the country. And she was inherewasshe lived inConnecticut. There, over the rim of her glasses,scripted elegantly on an antique map on the wall. Setting the glassesaside, she crossed to the map, touched the gilded frame, took comfortin its solidness and, yes, its familiarity.

She lived in western Connecticut, on the sprawling estateleft her by John. The original house had been in his family for nearlyas many generations as the old sawmill had. The sawmill was silent now,craggy with vines and as bent as John in his final years, but what timehad taken from the mill, it had given to the house. Initially a singlestone homestead facing west, it had grown a north wing, then a southwing. A garage had sprouted and multiplied. The back of the house hadswollen to include a suite of offices, the largest of which she stoodin now, and the solarium. Beyond the solarium was the patio she adored,flagstoned and April-bare, but promising. It opened to a rolling lawnbeyond which, framed by firs, lay the Housatonic. In late summer itmeandered along the eastern edge of her property. This time of year itrushed. She could hear it even now, through the mullioned panes.

These things were familiar. And the other? She glancedanxiously at the door before reaching again for her glasses.

Dear Grace, Ive been reading your column for almosttwenty years, but this is the first time Ive written. My daughter isgetting married next fall, but my ex-husband says that if she wants himto give her away, the children from his second marriage have to be inthe wedding party. There are five of them. They are all under ten andunruly, and theyve been awful to my daughter

Dear Grace, You have to settle an argument between myboyfriend and me. He says that the first guy a girl sleeps with shapesher insides to him, so its never as good with another guy

Dear Grace, Some of the letters you print are toofar-fetched to be real

Dear Grace, Thanks for the advice you gave that poorwoman whose gifts to her grandchildren are never acknowledged. She hasa right to a thank-you, family or no. I clipped your column and postedit where my children could see

Grace held the last letter in her hand for anotherminute, trembling with relief now, before gently setting it down.

Grace Dorian. The Confidante . Ofcourse.

If she needed proof, there were plaques on the far wallmarking addresses she had given to professional organizations and,beneath those, scrapbooks filled with articles praising her nationallysyndicated column. The courier pack on the chair was the latestshipment of readers mail from New York. By the weeks end she wouldhave read most, selected a cross section, and written five columns.

She hoped.

But she would. She had to.

What did Davis Marcoux know? By his own admission, he hadsimply ruled out a few alternatives. But he was wrong. Her spells weremomentary lapses, tiny strokes perhaps, causing no permanent damage.She knew what the letters were now. She knew what her job was. She wasin control.

The phone buzzed. She jumped, then stared at theinstrument for a confused minute before snatching up the receiver.Yes? she said to a dial tone. Her finger hovered unsurely over apanel of buttons. She punched one and nothing happened, then anotherand got a busy signal. She was debating which to push next when thebuzzing stopped. She was standing with the receiver in her hand and anirate look on her face when the door swung open.