In the Home of Grace

By Dianne Greco

In this third and final book in the "Grace" series, Susan Appleton lost her husband, her home and herself, and it took getting fired to find the blessings in those losses. Her life has changed drastically and she's finally living the life she's always dreamed of. Or is she?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781619277199

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Chapter One

Weathermen sure get paid a lot of money to be vague.

The paint job on my house had been put off for weeks due to uncooperative conditions not forecasted by any of the perky meteorologists on my TV, with storm after tumultuous storm ripping through the area. To their credit, the predictions had included torrential rainfall, but somehow the accompanying gale force winds had escaped their radar.

The newly planted gardens that had transformed my sad and barren yard into a breathtaking landscape had survived the brutal winds and rain with little or no damage to the tender young plantings, mostly due to my crazed compulsion to protect them at all costs. I’d watched and fussed like a worried mother hen; erecting makeshift wind- screens from garbage bags and burlap or whatever I could get my hands on, and short of throwing my body on top of a rosebush, I did the best I could to save them from ruin.

The anticipation of having the exterior of my house transformed from its sorry weathered state to a clean and brilliant white was exciting to say the least. The trim was getting a face lift as well, and new deep green raised panel shutters would replace the dingy old blue ones with their missing slats and chipped corners.

The little house that we now called home was one of the good things that came out of the life changing events of the past two years; the death of my husband, the sale of our home that became impossible to afford, and a measly life insurance policy.

I was grateful to have our summer home to move into, even if it was fifty miles away and added an hour and a half to my commute to New York City.

But that abruptly ended when I was fired.

Since my termination, my life had changed for the better, and between the extreme makeover on my home and my new life out here on the east end of Long Island, I still had to pinch myself from time to time just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

When the painting crew arrived a little after eight o’clock on the June morning that finally promised clear skies, ominous, contrary gray clouds hung like a shroud, threatening more troublesome conditions on the horizon. It looked as though the weathermen were going to be proven wrong once again, and those clouds were about to rain on my parade.

I ran out to meet the large panel truck when it roared into my driveway, its gears grinding like a coffee mill and spewing thick, black smoke. Concerned about how many neighbors or folks within a five mile distance for that matter would be startled awake by their earsplitting arrival, I rushed outside and guided the driver of the beastly truck into my short, narrow driveway, hopeful to end the ugly racket as quickly as possible. Once they were parked and the deafening engine noise ceased, a handsome young Hispanic man who could have been a double for Antonio Banderas jumped down from the cab and introduced himself.

Good Morning. I am Ramon. He said, his deep brown eyes smiling. His skin was the color of caramel and his jet black hair shone like polished onyx. He was easy on the eyes and easy on the ears; the way he rolled his r’s was pure delight.

You are Miss Susan, yes? He said, extending his hand.

Composing myself, I accepted his firm handshake and said, Yes, I’m Susan. It’s so nice to meet you Ramon.

He gently released my hand and said, "It is very nice to meet you. You are such a kind woman. Thank you again for the ticket."

He was speaking of the unused train ticket I had passed on to him when I was fired from my job in Manhattan back in April. I’d heard from my new boyfriend, Tom, who had worked with him on a few jobs here and there, that Ramon’s wife was expecting their first child and that he’d been working on a big job in New York City. Since I was all too familiar with the expense of just getting there, I’d given him the ticket instead of getting a refund. I certainly wasn’t going to use it. My days with Markham & Company, Manhattan and commuting were over. And if I knew how sweet and handsome he was, I would have not only given him the ticket, but cab fare, too.

How is your wife, Ramon? I asked, reminding myself that he was married, expecting a child, and that I’d better behave.

He smiled. Ah, very good, thanks, but a little tired some days. She is due in July, so we are both very anxious now. Nine months is too long to wait! He laughed. Thank you for asking.

With a smile, I said You’re right. Nine months can feel like nine years. But please give her my best wishes for an easy delivery, okay?

She’s probably got a cute little baby bump the size of my pouch on a good day, I thought.

Si, I will. We both have our fingers crossed for no trouble. Then, looking up at the menacing clouds, he said, Maybe rain today.

Following his gaze to the stormy skies I said, Yeah, maybe is putting it mildly. The forecast didn’t say anything about rain today, but it sure looks threatening. I’m kinda surprised you came.

He stared at me looking a bit perplexed. After a moment, understanding registered on his face and he said, Ah, si, threatening, but is okay. We can work anyway. We power wash today and come back when is dry. We can do this in the rain.

Okay, you’re the expert. I said, watching him stroll to the rear of the truck, and, curious as to just what was inside, I followed.

When he opened the back door of the truck it looked as if we’d stumbled into a Jackson Pollack canvas. There were paint splashes and splatters covering every wall, shelf and piece of equipment, not to mention the men that tumbled out one by one. Two were short, stocky Hispanic men who looked to be in their thirties, a wiry Asian looking man who could have been anywhere from twenty to fifty, and a tall and lanky white kid who looked to be in his mid twenties.

They all wore the customary white painting pants, tee shirts and caps that were the uniform of the trade, and were decorated, Pollack style, in every color of the rainbow.

Ramon introduced the crew. The two Hispanic men, Miguel and Juan, nodded a quick hello in my direction. The Asian man, Jimmy, gave a slight bow, and the other young man, Howland, smirked and spit.

Charming, I thought.

Ramon was on his case in a second.

Pointing his index finger up in his face, he said, You say hello, Howie. This lady is a customer and she pay you. You don’t be so rude. He waited until Howland acknowledged me with a smug nod, and shaking his head and muttering words like ‘stupid’ and ‘no manners’, Ramon stomped off toward the cab of the truck. I was tempted to correct him and say that I was not the paying customer, and that my neighbor Grace and my boyfriend Tom were the people who were footing the bill, but it didn’t seem important at that point given the rough start with Howie. So I decided it would be best to explain some other time, if at all.

When Ramon returned and hopped up into the body of the truck to start unloading, I saw Howland slink off quietly to the other side of the truck and disappear out of sight.

Oh, boy, I thought. I think I’ve just met the problem child.

I watched as the workers unloaded the truck. Ramon worked from the inside handing out assorted tools, machines and other pieces of equipment to them. They had a good system going and all the men seemed to know exactly what to do. I realized after a short time that Howland was still no where to be seen, but when I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke, it was easy to figure out where he was.

Walking to the other side of the truck, I found Howie leaning up against the driver door, puffing away.

Um, Howland? I said as I approached him, resisting the urge to give him a swift kick. Shouldn’t you be helping?

Nah. I’m on break. There was that smug little smirk again.

Break? They hadn’t even started yet and this guy was on a break?

Just as I was about to take it a step further and explain the meaning of work, Ramon came around the truck, walked up to Howland, grabbed the cigarette from his mouth and stomped it out.

No smoking at the customer’s house, Howie. He said. I not gonna tell you again. And with that said he stormed away, leaving Howie scowling and looking mighty peeved.

Without another word, Howland rolled his eyes, turned away and slowly rounded the truck to join the other workers. Mumbling to himself, he got in line and started carrying equipment, albeit half heartedly, to the rear of my house.

As I watched them set up the power washing equipment at various points in the front and back of my house, my son Chris came out the front door to join me with our dog Ricky in tow.

G’morning, hon. I said, giving him a peck on the cheek. You’re up early. Did you forget you’re off today? He was a sophomore in high school and it was final exam time but he had nothing scheduled for that day.

Stretching his arms out and yawning he said, No, I didn’t forget, but who could sleep with all that racket from the truck? Sounds like the tranny needs some work. Those gears are grinding pretty bad. A true teenager, my son’s interests these days were cars, engines and the occasional girl.

He looked around, and taking note of all the equipment scattered throughout the yard and said, So I’m guessing they’re gonna clean the house even if it rains? Then, gazing skyward, he said, It sure looks like something’s brewing again.

Yeah, it does. I agreed. But I guess it doesn’t matter since everything will get wet anyway. They’ll have to wait until it all dries out before they can paint, so depending on how long and hard this storm is it could be a while. I sighed. I’d been looking forward to this part of the makeover of my house for weeks. It would be the cherry on top now that the landscaping was done and the gardens looked so beautiful. Oh well, I thought. Better they owe it to me than do me out of it, as my dear former boss Morey would have said.

Suddenly there was a loud raucous coming from behind the house. My dog Ricky was barking hysterically and someone was screaming bloody murder. The words weren’t discernable but their intent sure was. It was pure, unadulterated terror. With a quick exchange of frightened looks, Chris and I took off running.

When we reached the back yard, we saw the Asian man, Jimmy, standing on top of the picnic table, his face filled with alarm. He was screaming something incomprehensible at Ricky who sat at the edge of the table panting, barking and wagging his tail.

Chris ran to the dog and grabbing his collar, pulled him away from the terrorized man and toward the back door of the house. He opened it quickly and scrambled to get the hysterical dog inside.

I went to Jimmy, and reaching up to grab his hand, I tried to talk him down from the ledge, or table, as it were.

Its okay, Jimmy, it’s really okay, he won’t hurt you. I said in the softest, most soothing voice I could manage. The dog is inside the house now. Come on down.

The terrorized man looked to the back door and, apparently feeling it was safe now that Ricky was inside, jumped down from the table. Miguel and Juan came running over with Ramon right behind them, red faced and breathless.

What happened? asked Ramon, gasping.

I quickly told Ramon about the dog, and he came and put a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder.

Still holding his trembling hand, I asked, Are you okay?

That’s a big dog. And so black! He scared me so bad. He was barking and jumping at me, and I think he was gonna bite me! It felt awful that anyone would think Ricky would be so fearsome but I understood. He didn’t know Ricky from a hole in the wall, and my dog’s fondness for over exuberant greetings could be mighty intimidating to someone who didn’t know him.

I’m so sorry he scared you. I said, stroking his hand. He’s a good dog and he’s just happy to see you. I should have kept an eye on him. He looked at me quizzically. I mean, I didn’t realize he ran back here. I promise I won’t let it happen again.

He took a deep breath. I’m okay now, really okay. And heaving a great sigh, he sat down on one of the picnic benches. Thinking I should do something to try to calm this poor man, I offered him something to drink.

"How about a stiff scotch?’ he hooted, and we all laughed, easing the tension of just moments before.

Well, it’s a little early for that, doncha think? I smiled. I was thinking of coffee or tea. Does that sound good? I asked, throwing the question out to everyone.

When they all agreed to coffee, I headed toward the kitchen door.

Coming right up. I said, and then thought, H-m-m, everyone agreed to coffee. Everyone but Howland, that is.

Where was that bugger?

I