Her rap on the door lifts Frank’s head.
“Done deal,” she says, walking in and then slapping the contract down on the desk in front of him.
“What’s this?”
“The contract to sublease Jerry Koch’s downtown lot,” she says, working hard to keep the glee from her voice. “Took a bit of persuasion—actually, a lot of persuasion—but here it is, signed, sealed, delivered.” She almost singsongs the last line to the tune of the Stevie Wonder hit and just stops herself from adding, It’s yours.
Three months. That’s how long she’s been negotiating, cajoling, and back-and-forth flirting with Jerry Koch, owner of the business mall in downtown Laguna Beach. The sublease of his parking lot in the evenings and on the weekends will bring in two to three grand a week for Aztec Parking, and 10 percent of that will be hers—at least a grand a month, twelve grand a year, and the answer to her prayers.
Frank’s eyes pulse once in surprise. “Well, I’ll be. The old bastard finally came around.”
“He did. The entire lot. Evenings, weekends, and holidays.”
Grace feels like her heart is going to explode. When she proposed the idea of subleasing Jerry’s lot, Frank told her she was wasting her time. He had already tried, and the guy wasn’t interested. She said he was probably right but asked if she could pursue it just the same. He told her to knock herself out and agreed to a 10 percent cut if she managed it.
And now, here she is, three months later, contract in hand. Her mind spins with what the money will mean to her and Jimmy, a million ideas tumbling through her head: First, pay off Jimmy’s gambling debt so they can stop looking over their shoulders; second, get new tires for her car; next, move Miles out of the crappy day care he’s in. Then, perhaps, in a few months, once all that has been taken care of, they can consider a nicer apartment, one with a tub so Miles can take baths, since he is now four months old and starting to sit up.
Frank stops on the last page of the contract, and as she watches his eyes scanning back and forth, her excitement turns slightly nervous. Frank is what her grandmother would have called a righteous slitherer—a fork-tongued charmer who preaches the gospel but whose own word can go either way. Her grandmother wouldn’t have much liked Frank Torelli, and she would have liked less the idea of Grace working for him. But then, she wouldn’t have much liked most of how Grace’s life turned out after she died.
Frank sets down the contract and lifts his face to Grace’s. Frank’s eyes were the first thing Grace noticed about her boss—deep brown, piercing, and slightly misaligned, as if he’s looking at you, but not. He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers in front of him. “Grace, this is good work,” he says. “Mary said you were smart.”
Grace tenses at the mention of her previous boss. When Jimmy’s debts caught up with them, and they needed to leave LA in a hurry, Mary called Frank and asked if he would hire Grace after Miles was born. It was extremely generous, especially considering Grace was leaving her in the lurch.
“I’d say things have worked out pretty well,” Frank goes on. “Baby’s healthy. Husband’s doing better.”
Grace says nothing, the nervous feeling growing.
“The past is behind you, and the sharks don’t know where you are.”
She tries not to react but knows she has by the smirk on Frank’s face, the threat in the not-so-veiled statement plain. The people Jimmy owes money to are dangerous, and getting mixed up with them was the biggest mistake of his life.
Frank picks up the last page of the contract, the commission agreement that promises her 10 percent. After folding it neatly in half, he slides it toward her. “I’m glad things are going so well for you and your family,” he says.
Grace doesn’t move, her unblinking stare the only challenge she offers, but even that small defiance is enough to cause Frank’s features to darken. Holding her gaze, he pulls the sheet back, crumples it in a ball, then banks it into the wastebasket beside his desk. When he turns back, Grace lowers her eyes. She’s been screwed over enough times in her life to know when she’s been beaten.
3
HADLEY
The truck beeps, making Hadley realize the door is ajar, with the keys still in the ignition. She pulls them out, and the beeping stops.
She stares at the low-slung brick buildings in front of her. It’s hard to believe that today is the last day she will ever drive here, the last day she will ever park in this parking lot, the last day she will ever pick up one of her kids here after their day at school.
“Coming?”
She turns to see Melissa Jenkins smiling from the sidewalk, a platter of sugar cookies decorated with smiley faces in her hands.
Hadley blinks, then blinks several more times. “Yes, of course,” she says, painting on a smile as she climbs from the truck.
Melissa and Hadley have known each other since Melissa’s daughter, Katie, and Skipper were babies, and she is Hadley’s closest friend.
Years ago, when they first met, all Hadley saw was Melissa’s rose-tattooed arms, long nails, and goth black hair. Now, all Hadley sees when she looks at her friend is the biggest-hearted, hardest-working woman she knows.
A wealthy widow, Melissa inherited her husband’s three Harley Davidson dealerships, and she runs them with an iron fist and a soft spot for ex-felons. She also raises three foster kids, along with her own daughter and son.
She wraps her arm around Hadley’s shoulder and gives an encouraging squeeze. “Hang in there, kiddo,” she says. “Today is not forever. It’s just today.”
Hadley almost manages a smile. Despite having a month to get used to the idea of Skipper leaving, she is no more ready to accept it than she was the day her sister called with the news she was getting married and therefore ready to take on the responsibility of being Skipper’s mom.
They’re greeted in the school’s courtyard by a hand-painted banner that reads, Good Luck Skipper!!! We’re Going To Miss You! A hundred handprints of varying colors surround the words, along with the signatures of the kids who belong to those handprints.
She and Melissa set the sweets on the table that’s been set up for the celebration, and a moment later, the bell rings. Kids spill from the second- and third-grade classrooms, and Hadley scans over the heads for Skipper.
He is the last to leave Mrs. Baxter’s room, ambling behind the others in the slow, distracted way he has. Her heart swells at the sight of him, the way it always does when she sees one of her kids after not seeing them for some time.
“Hey, Blue,” he says as he walks into her outstretched arms and wraps his skinny ones around her hips.
“Hey, Champ.” She kisses the top of his honey hair. He smells as he always does, of brown sugar and sweat, the result of eating maple Cream of Wheat for breakfast and of being an eight-year-old boy.
For an extra-long moment, he holds her, perhaps realizing the moment is precious or perhaps not. With Skipper it’s hard to know how much he understands and how much he doesn’t. His IQ only measures seventy-five, but despite that, Hadley often thinks he’s the wisest person she knows, blessed with insight and intuition far beyond his intelligence.
Releasing her, he walks to the table, picks up a chocolate-marshmallow cupcake, his favorite, and carries it to the bench beside the playground. Today he wears his Dodgers uniform—always number forty-four, regardless of the team, a tribute to the great Hank Aaron, who is his hero.