Tuesday's Child: Full of Grace

By Polly Becks

Grace Fuller, the youth pastor in her father’s church, is guarding several painful secrets that threaten her future. Will she find a happily-ever-after with Steve, the confident, handsome assistant pastor with whom she’s vying for her dream job, or will the mysterious bad-boy biker who has just come to town, darkly guarding his own painful past, steal her from her chosen path?

TUESDAY'S CHILD: Full of Grace is the third book in the 8-book series The Extraordinary Days by breakthrough novelist Polly Becks. The first book, set in 1991, No Ordinary Day, tells the tale of an epic tragedy that changes life forever in a small town in the wild, mystic Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York, especially for eight special women, and the mystery surrounding that tragedy.

Each book in the Extraordinary Days series makes a direct cash donation to a different charity or non-profit organization. Your purchase of Tuesday’s Child: Full of Grace benefits Tuesday’s Children, a non-profit organization founded to promote long-term healing in all those directly impacted by the events of September 11, 2001.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Polly Becks
• Release date: Apr 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310657092

Polly Becks

Polly Becks is the bestselling author of the new Extraordinary Days series of books, and has been making her living with the written word for 20 years as a writer and also working as an editor, curriculum developer, and teaching secondary-school Spanish. She has more than 350 books to her credit, mostly educational materials, as well as professionally published fiction in both the adult and YA market in a variety of genres, plus more than 30 Children’s books. She is excited about exploring the digital literature frontier and is honored to be the launch series for GMLTJoseph, LLC. She has two (or three!) children, and may or may not like cats.

Book preview

Monday’s child is fair of face,

Tuesday’s child is full of grace,

Wednesday’s child is full of woe,

Thursday’s child has far to go,

Friday’s child is loving and giving,

Saturday’s child works hard for a living,

But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day

Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

This rhyme was first recorded in A. E. Bray’s Traditions of Devonshire

(Volume II, pp. 287–288) in 1838

To

Jojo, Wissa, Jamesby, Meema, Lulu, and Tommy

with love

‡ ‡

In the late spring of 1991, a flood and fire of historic proportions tore through the pretty resort town of Obergrande, New York, in the central region of the Adirondack mountains.

The twin disasters destroyed a large part of the east side of the town that bordered the Hudson River and Lake Obergrande.

In the aftermath, a new dam was built, and that damaged part of the town drowned, covered by the new, larger lake.

During that terrible flood, five kindergarten girls were trapped in their drowning school, huddled together as the water rose higher, rescued just in the nick of time. The nightmare bonded them to each other for life.

These are their stories.

Part One

A Season of Returns

and

Old Business

Prelude

‡ ‡

Tuesday, 7:13 AM, JUNE, PRESENT DAY

Erie, Pennsylvania

In the blue light and wisp-thin clouds of this late June morning, Donovan Farrell, a wide-shouldered man in a leather motorcycle jacket and jeans tucked into heavy boots, came out of his motel room, his helmet in one gloved hand, directions in the other, a string-banded rollpack across his back.

He stopped, absently admiring the color of the sunlight on the clouds at the horizon, and took a deep drink of the morning air.

His hair, hanging long in dark brown waves that matched his heavy, somewhat unkempt beard, caught the wind and danced around his head for a moment.

Donovan, known as Van to the few people who knew him, set his helmet down on the bike that was parked outside his room, a Yamaha FZ6 in the same gleaming black as the full-face helmet, and stuck the paper on which he had jotted down the directions inside it for the moment to keep it from flying away in the breeze.

He drew his hair back in a hair tie so that it was out of his face, retrieved the paper, then pulled the helmet on.

Scanning the directions again, Van made a mental note of the route he planned to take, as he did each time he got on the bike.

He was avoiding the New York State Thruway, partly because of the expense, partly because the eastward drive by way of Route 20 was more scenic and offered more opportunities to stop, stretch, and eat over the course of the day.

And partly because, unlike the Thruway, Route 20 was quiet and mostly empty.

It added a couple of hours to his trip, but Van was not in a hurry.

He had nothing but time now.

He looked at the destination, which he had underlined several times upon writing it down.

Obergrande, New York.

And exhaled.

Then he got on the motorcycle, started it up, and headed east.

Danville, southern Virginia

At more or less the same moment, about seven-hundred-fifty miles south of the same destination, another man who, by coincidence, used to ride a motorcycle was, also by coincidence, eyeing directions to the same place.

His hands shaking.

Behind him, a woman was loading up the car, an old Mustang.

She put the last of their bags in, making sure the snacks were in reach of both of the front seats, then shut the car door.

She came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and put her chin on his shoulder.

You ready?

The man swallowed dryly. I’ll never be ready.

Well, are you ready enough?

He sighed. Yeah.

The woman released him and turned him around. She put her forefinger and thumb under his chin and lifted it until he was looking at her, his eyes bloodshot and nervous.

We don’t have to do this, ya know.

He sighed again. I know.

The woman eyed him for a long moment. Then she gently brought her hand around behind his neck, pulled his head down and kissed him.

"You can do this. We can do this."

A third sigh. Yeah.

Well, then, let’s go, the woman said decisively. It’s eleven hours total, but we’re gonna stop at that place in Scranton—the one you liked—

Let’s go, he said decisively. You wanna drive first or second?

I’ll start out, she said, catching the keys as he lobbed them gently to her and heading for the driver’s side. You sleep—you don’t look like you did last night. You were tossin’ and turnin’ the whole time.

Can’t imagine why.

Well, fortunately I’m used to your nightmares, so I slept real well. I’ll wake you when we stop for lunch in Frederick, then you can drive to Scranton. Tomorrow the ride’s only, like, four hours—

"Let’s go," he said irritably, climbing into the car and pulling the door shut.

Far away, a package that had been hand-delivered to a desk a week before was opened again.

The pages within the package were carefully slid out.

And even more carefully read again.

Then a phone call was made.

I’ve been through it twice. I need to see you.

On the other end of the phone, a sigh.

I know.

Chapter 1

‡ ‡

Wednesday morning, the next day, 11:04 AM

Obergrande Community Church, Obergrande, New York, in the Adirondack Park

For the fourth time already that morning, a polite but urgent knock sounded on the inner door of Grace Fuller’s small office, deep in the central hallway of the Obergrande Community Church.

Grace, a petite young woman with ivory skin and cinnamon-brown hair styled in a neat, chin-length bob, rolled her eyes and sighed deeply.

Yes, Dad?

The door opened partway, and Reverend Benjamin Fuller, the pastor of the church, popped his head in, a sheepish expression on his face.

Er, Gracie, I’m sorry to bother you yet again, but I was hoping you might take this next client. And thanks for all the others you’ve been gracious enough to help me with this morning.

Grace sighed again. Dad, I have my own appointment schedule today, and it’s full. A nervous expression came over her face. Are you not feeling well?

The pastor cleared his throat.

I’m fine, honey. I, well, I just thought this lady’s counseling needs might be better served by your talents.

Grace sat back in her chair and crossed her hands over her stomach.

Oh, really? I believe that you and I have done the same coursework and had the same training in the pastoral counseling areas in the course of being ordained, Dad. And you’ve been doing it a heck of a lot longer. What makes you think my ‘talents’ would be more useful for her than your own?

Behind his glasses, Pastor Fuller’s face went red to the roots of his gray hair.

"Er, well, she says she has issues in the bedroom—and questions about them."

Grace snickered in spite of herself. And? So what?

Come on, Grace, don’t make me beg.

Grace threw her hands up in exasperation.

Dad, you’ve been married for thirty-one years. I would like to go on record as assuring you that I have never had ‘bedroom issues’ because no man has ever actually broached the sanctity of my bedroom—pretty pathetic, given that I live with my parents and I’m turning twenty-eight next week.

Grace—

All right, Grace conceded, noting that her father looked much more upset than she would have ever imagined, and not wanting him to stay in that state. His recent heart attack had been a minor one, but worrisome enough for her to have given up her youth pastor position in Pennsylvania to come and help him out in Obergrande, where he had been pastor of the Community Church for thirty years.

She watched as her father smiled in relief and left the room via the interior door.

Grace stood up, stretched her arms over her head, and went to the outer door, which she opened wide.

In the hallway was a woman who seemed to be around her mother’s age, looking nervously up and down the corridor, as if she were afraid of being seen.

Hi, come right in, Grace said pleasantly. She widened the door opening even more.

The woman scooted quickly inside. Grace closed the door behind her.

Please have a seat, she said, indicating the chairs in front of her desk. Would you like some coffee, or some water?

No, thanks, the woman said quickly. I—I need to be getting back to work shortly.

OK, Grace said, sitting down at her desk. I’m Grace. What may I call you?

Terry.

Hi, Terry—how can I help you?

Nervously the woman cleared her throat and looked around the office.

Grace smiled disarmingly.

Please don’t worry, she said, her voice gentle. This is a safe place, I promise. You can say anything you want and no one else will ever hear of it, or judge you. I’m here to help, or to refer you to someone who can.

The woman nodded, then inhaled.

Do—do you believe God, uhm, prefers us to use the—uh—missionary position?

Grace’s brow furrowed. She interlaced her fingers and brought them to her lips.

No, Terry, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen that in any of my studies of scripture. I think any position is fine as long as you’re both happy and comfortable.

Terry exhaled, looking somewhat relieved.

Grace smiled again. Is there anything else?

The woman stared at her.

I just don’t want to make him mad, or disappointed with me.

Who? Grace asked.

God, Terry said.

Grace blinked. Oh. Well—

My husband really wanted to do something different after all these years, the woman explained. But, well, in the, er, middle of it, I looked at the picture of Jesus on the wall and he—he wasn’t smiling the way he usually does.

Usually does—?

I’ve had the picture on the wall of my bedroom all my life, Terry explained. Even when I was a little girl. He has such a sweet expression on his face. But when we, well, changed positions, I thought I saw him frowning.

Grace nodded thoughtfully.

Maybe the picture just looks different from—er—different angles, she said comfortingly. And pictures are just pictures. If you and your husband were behaving in a loving way, I’m sure the Lord wasn’t angry at you.

Terry sighed again. That’s a relief. Thank you, Grace.

My pleasure. Is there anything else I can help you with?

The woman rose shakily to a stand, clutching her purse.

No, thank you. I’m glad I came to see you.

Me too. I hope you have a wonderful day. Grace followed the woman to the door and opened it for her, then glanced around the hallway for her next appointment.

The young couple whom she had been preparing for marriage were late, so Grace ran a hand through her hair and returned to her desk, leaving the door open. She paused on the way back and looked at the sign on the wall near that door.

In front of the image of a cross, the words THERE IS NO MEMORY OF WHAT IS SAID IN THIS PLACE—LAY YOUR BURDENS DOWN IN CONFIDENCE AND PEACE were emblazoned.

She pulled a wilted daisy from the vase full of them, most of them past their prime, that always sat on her desk, brightening her office.

Then she reconsidered, grabbed the whole dying bouquet, and chucked it summarily into the trash.

Within a few moments, a rumble of arguing voices could be heard through the doorway, coming closer.

Grace closed her eyes and prayed for patience and clarity.

So much for peace, she thought.

The couple came into her office in a state of fury and disarray.

Oh, dear, Grace said. Please close the door, Matthew. Have a seat, Melissa.

The prospective bride and groom, a year or two older than Grace herself, sat down in the chairs in front of her desk. The bride pointedly moved hers away from the groom.

What’s going on? Grace asked.

I want to cancel the wedding, the bride-to-be said, glaring at the groom-to-be.

Why?

I have proof that he cheated on me—

I absolutely did not, interjected the groom, Matthew. "I’ve never cheated on you."

Yeah? Tell that to my doctor, you son of a—

Grace held up her hands. All right, let’s all take a breath, she said, trying to sound as sensible as she could. She turned to the young woman, whose face was red as a STOP sign. Literally, Melissa—take a long, slow breath in, then let it out before you speak.

Melissa cast an angry glance at Matthew again, then complied.

OK, Grace said quietly. Now, please keep your voice as low as I am keeping mine, and tell me what’s wrong.

"He gave me crabs," the young woman said coldly.

I got them from an outhouse on the job site, Matthew said hurriedly to Grace. A lot of the other painters got ’em, too.

Sure they did, Melissa said nastily. "Crabs are a sexually transmitted disease. If a lot of the other painters got ’em too, you guys are sick and should all be fired for what you’re really doin’ on the job. And I sure don’t want to marry you anymore, pervert."

Grace struggled to keep a straight face. She cleared her throat and slid the Bible that she kept on her desk in front of Matthew.

Put your hand on this, please, Matthew, she said.

The young man stared at her, wide-eyed, and obeyed.

You understand the concept of making a statement with your hand on the Bible, yes?

He nodded.

Grace exhaled. Now, please turn, look Melissa in the eye, and repeat what you just said, remembering where your hand is.

The young man turned to the furious young woman.

I have never cheated on you, baby, he said earnestly. "Not once, ever."

OK, Grace said, pulling the Bible out from under his hand and turning to Melissa. Now, Melissa, I’m going to tell you something I know from personal experience. I would appreciate it if you would not repeat it, either of you. Everything that is said in this room remains here, as you can see by the sign on the wall by the door. Like Vegas.

The couple nodded, their heads remarkably in sync.

Years ago, when my older brother Keith was eleven, he went to Sabattis, the Boy Scout camp between Tupper and Long Lakes.

Matthew broke into a wide grin. Yeah! I went there, too—Keith and I were in the same troop. Awesome place.

Yes, said Grace. Well, apparently there was a latrine that kept getting missed during cleaning duty, one that was tucked away in kind of a dark, creepy area that a lot of the boys were afraid to go in—

"I remember that! Matthew said excitedly. It was like a test of manhood to use it—"

And he came home with crabs, Grace interrupted. "He was kind enough to dump his filthy, dirty camp laundry into a basket of clean towels in the laundry room, then came downstairs for dinner. My mother sent him back up after instructing him to put his camp clothes in the washer, so she didn’t realize he had already contaminated the towels. So everyone in my family was lucky enough to share in the crab experience—my mother, my father, and nine-year-old me—on my eyebrows. I wanted to kill him."

Grace, an expert networker, turned to her computer and began tapping on her keyboard.

While it’s often an STD, you can get a crab infestation from contact with any number of disgusting, dirty holes.

The couple’s brows shot up to their hairlines, their eyes wide in shock.

Grace put her fist to her mouth, turned back from the computer, and cleared her throat again.

Please allow me to rephrase that, she said.

That’s all right, I get it, said Melissa hurriedly.

Grace struggled to keep her cool as her cheeks flared red.

While I certainly can feel your pain, Melissa, I think we’re going to have to do some work on trust, forgiveness, and shared adversity in future sessions, she said lightly as the printer began to hum and buzz. You’ve seen the doctor?

Melissa nodded, the anger draining from her expression.

And you have all the things you need to treat the crab lice infestation?

"Well, I do," Melissa said.

I’m going to the drugstore after this, said Matthew.

Good. You guys live together?

The couple nodded.

Here are some directions about what you need to do to scour your apartment enough to break the cycle of the infestation, Grace said, snatching a paper out of her printer and handing it to Matthew. "It’s not an easy thing to get rid of, but be vigilant.

Now, unless you need something else from me, I suggest you take a walk on the church grounds and apologize to each other. And, once you’ve been treated and you’re both feeling better, go somewhere nice to eat and apologize to each other again. Practice treating each other well.

Melissa’s contorted features relaxed. OK, she said.

She looked at Matthew for the first time and smiled.

Matthew exhaled loudly.

Anything else? Grace asked.

Nope, Matthew said, standing rapidly. Thanks, Grace.

You’re welcome, guys. Keep working at it. Grace rose and opened the door, the couple right behind her. She followed them out into the hall and continued into the cleaning supply closet as they left the building.

Then she returned to her office with a container of disinfectant wipes.

And quickly scrubbed off the chairs.

Just as she was finishing, she heard a quiet cough behind her.

She turned around to see Mimi Penwald, a spry older lady from the Historical Society, hovering in her doorway.

Grace smiled broadly.

Well, good morning, Mrs. Penwald, she said, coming to the door. What brings you here today?

Is it my turn? Mimi said, glancing around.

Grace opened the door a little wider, looking surprised, given that Mimi had long been a parishioner of Our Mother of Sorrows, the Catholic church on the other side of town.

It certainly could be, at least for a few minutes, she said, closing the door behind Mrs. Penwald. What can I do for you?

Are you allowed to talk to me? Or do I have to talk to your father?

It depends on what you need, Grace said, still confused. Why don’t you start with me, and I can get you in with Dad if need be. What’s going on?

Mimi settled into one of the chairs in front of the desk as Grace sat down again. The older woman looked around furtively, then leaned forward over the top of the desk.

My priest, she whispered.

What about your priest?

The old lady’s light green eyes glittered.

He’s not Catholic, she said.

Grace exhaled. She sat forward, folded her hands, and put them on the desk.

Who is your priest, Mrs. Penwald?

Mimi blinked. Why, Father Minor, of course.

Grace blinked as well. Father Charlie? He’s my dad’s best friend. What do you mean, he’s not Catholic?

He isn’t saying the Nicene Creed anymore, Mimi said, her expression somewhere between appalled and excited, like a self-important child with a secret.

Grace sat back in her chair, perplexed.

Well, I’m no expert on the Catholic Mass, but I think the Nicene Creed is optional if a priest wants to use the Apostles’ Creed instead, she said.

Mimi shook her head emphatically.

"I’m eighty years old, I have gone to Mass almost every day of my life, and I’ve always said the Nicene Creed, she said, a curt tone in her voice. I only know one way to do Mass—and now I can’t."

She sighed dramatically.

Because my priest isn’t Catholic anymore.

Is there a reason you can’t pray the Nicene Creed silently yourself—maybe before Mass starts, or when it would normally be in the Mass?

It wouldn’t count.

I’m sorry, said Grace. What would you like me to do?

Do?

Well, you’ve said you can’t ‘do Mass’—are you looking to join our church?

Good heavens, no—I don’t want to go to Hell, after all the time I’ve put in being Catholic. I just needed to tell someone in the clergy, a little like confession. Otherwise it would just be gossip.

I see. Grace hid her smile. Do you feel better now?

Mimi sighed. Yes, I do. Thank you, Grace.

The young minister escorted the elderly lady out of her office and walked her to the main door of the church.

Do you need a ride, Mrs. Penwald?

The woman’s eyes sparkled.

Oh, no, she said. Walter is coming for me.

Grace suppressed a giggle. Mimi and Walter, her ninety-one-year-old boyfriend, both long widowed, had been keeping company for some time, their teenager-like infatuation contributing to the amusement of the community. Walter had continued to pass his driver’s eye exams and maintain his license, which made everyone in Obergrande nervous, but since he never exceeded thirty miles an hour, the community just crossed its fingers and hoped for the best.

And tried to avoid his enormous Oldsmobile on the road.

All right, then, Grace said. Stay well, and have a nice day.

She turned back and went to the main office, where Shirley Simmons, the office manager, was making notations on the church calendar.

Need a bathroom break? Grace inquired. I can cover the phones for you.

Shirley leapt up gratefully and hurried out the door, murmuring her thanks.

Grace took Shirley’s seat, enjoying the warmth of the cushion.

She was looking through the weekly list of Joys and Concerns when a soft tap sounded on the open door of the office.

Grace looked up.

A middle-aged woman, still beautiful, but with the signs of having lived a difficult life, was standing in the doorway, dark of hair and eye and wearing a leather jacket. Grace was fairly certain she had never seen her before, but tourist season in the Adirondack mountains was beginning, so that was nothing unusual.

Hello—I’m Grace. What may I call you?

The woman’s face went slack. Excuse me?

Grace rose from her seat.

It’s our traditional greeting here at OCC—we value friendliness, though I think it can be a little intrusive. Sorry—can I help you?

I’m looking for an AA meeting in town, and I thought this might be a good place to start, said the woman. I’m sorry—you can call me Sam.

You guessed correctly, Sam, said Grace. AA meets here Wednesdays and Saturdays, so there’s a meeting tonight in the Community Room, at six-thirty.

The woman exhaled. Thanks.

Do you need a list of other local meetings? Grace asked, turning to Shirley’s computer. There’s one every day.

That’d be great if you have it handy.

Grace nodded as she clicked PRINT.

Is Al-Anon in town as well?

Yes. Here on Fridays, also at six-thirty. A really nice group. Tonight it’s at the fire hall—Number 1, on Pleasant Ave—we have two fire stations in town. Here are directions and a map. Grace made another few clicks, then turned to the printer, took out the two documents, and offered them to Sam with a smile.

The dark-eyed woman returned her smile, but Grace couldn’t help but notice a deeper expression, one of sadness, maybe. Or worry. Or perhaps exhaustion.

But she erased the thought from her mind immediately, allowing the woman the respect of not assessing her feelings without the permission given when someone actually asked for counseling.

Is there anything else I can help you with?

No, thanks, Sam said, pulling her purse strap up on her shoulder.

OK, well, I hope your day is nice, said Grace.

The woman looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled slightly.

Thank you, she said. Yours too.

She turned and walked out the front door to the semi-circular driveway in front of the church, clearly set up as a drop-off for elderly or handicapped members, where an old Ford Mustang was waiting.

Passing a tall young woman who was just coming into the church as she did.

Grace, who had returned to the office, looked up as the tall woman stopped in the doorway, a canvas bag hanging from her shoulder.

The automatic smile on her face faded as a look of shock took over.

She stared for a moment, then shook her head like she was trying to shake the sight before her out of her eyes.

Omigod, she whispered.

Sam opened the passenger door and got in. She turned to the man driving, a man about her own age with a few more miles on him.

Doin’ OK, Germ? she asked.

The man nodded, but Sam could see he was trembling.

Do you want me to drive?

The man shook his head.

OK, Sam said. Let’s check in at the motel.

The man nodded, put the car in gear, and pulled a little too quickly out of the church driveway.

Chapter 2

‡ ‡

"Sarah—what in the world have you done with your hair?"

The words tumbled out of Grace’s mouth, coarse and harsh, before she could stop them.

The smile on the tall young woman in the main office doorway spread all the way across her famously beautiful face as she laughed.

That’s one of the things I’ve come to talk to you about, Grace, she said, glancing to the left down the hallway outside the main office where the church secretary was rapidly approaching. Can we go into your office? Shirley’s on her way back.

Absolutely, said Grace, rising from the desk chair. Come in through here.

Sarah Windsor, one of Grace’s closest and oldest friends, hurried to follow her through the interior door of her office.

Grace closed that door decisively and turned around to look at her friend, whom she had barely recognized a moment before. She craned her neck and looked up at her.

Being as short as she was—five-foot-one and a hundred pounds on a good day—Grace was used to looking up at people, particularly her lifelong friends in the group known as the Fearless Fivesome. They had been given the nickname during the flood two decades before that had drowned half of Obergrande, when they had been trapped together in the flooding elementary school and rescued at the last minute, an event that had bonded all of them for life.

That group consisted of one other somewhat short person, Elisa Santiago, who stood about five-foot-three-inches, two inches taller than Grace; a medium-sized person, Sloane Wallace, most likely in the range of five-foot-six-inches; a tall person, Corinne Byrnes, who was at least five-foot-nine-inches.

And Sarah, who stood five-foot-eleven-inches tall, one of the things that had allowed her make her living as an internationally-famous supermodel for half her life, known to the world only by her middle name.

Briony.

Who was now, at least as far as Grace knew, out of the business and hiding from the media and the world in the six million acres of wild forest and mountains known as the Adirondack Park of Upstate New York.

In the town of Obergrande.

The place all five of the women at one time had called home.

But, for the first time Grace had seen her since she had come home to Obergrande, Sarah was sporting what looked like a buzz cut, an inch or so of soft, dirty-blond hair covering an otherwise sleek and classically-shaped bald head.

"I’ve seen photos of you in some pretty weird and avant garde hair styles and colors on magazine covers in the past, Sarah, but this is scary," Grace grumbled as her friend took a seat on the office couch, a piece of furniture she and her father utilized for longer, more in-depth counseling sessions.

She sat down in the comfy chair next to it.

Briony, as Sarah now thought of herself to the outside world, if not to her hometown, crossed her mile-long legs and chuckled.

I couldn’t agree more, she said, a warm smile on her lips that reflected in her eyes. Very scary. What have I done with my hair? Hmmm. The direct answer is I lost it during chemo last year. My assistant, Claire, insisted on saving a lot of it to auction for charity someday, though the more I think about it, the grosser that seems.

Grace blinked.

A sickening hum began to vibrate in her skin.

Chemo?

Briony’s smile faded from her lips, but the warmth in her eyes remained.

I was diagnosed with breast cancer a year and a half ago, Grace—just like my mom. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you until now; it took everything I had just to make it through the chemo, surgery, and radiation without breaking down. In my family, it’s genetic, and I was scared for my sisters.

Grace nodded numbly, her friend’s words echoing in her head.

Deep in the pit of her stomach, a familiar tightness began to clutch at her, but she fought it down, nauseated.

Briony reached out and took her hand.

"The great news is that all my scans and tests are good, my prognosis is very positive, and I found out the day before yesterday that Bonnie and Blythe didn’t inherit the gene, so I could not feel more blessed than I do at this moment," she said gently.

Grace nodded slightly again.

It was all she was capable of doing at the moment.

I had to keep it quiet, because I didn’t want to be drowning in a media frenzy while I was fighting cancer, Briony went on. But two days ago, I was caught by a swarm of paparazzi and forced into making some choices that have turned out to be a change for the better, I hope.

Choices? Grace whispered.

Briony ran her thumb comfortingly over Grace’s knuckles.

I went to New York yesterday to officially come out about my illness, she said. We shot a bunch of Public Service Announcements to raise awareness of breast cancer in young people, mostly without the wig that you and the others thought was a bad dye job. In about two weeks I should have enough hair to not have to wear that wig, which coincides with the release of the campaign. I’m getting back into life again. I can walk in public like I did when I came into the church a few minutes ago—I’m so excited to almost be rid of the wig.

Her haunting gray eyes took on a brighter gleam.

So I’ve come here to tell you first about where I’ve been, and where I’m going, she continued. And where I am going today is Lake Placid.

Lake Placid. Grace repeated the words, her brain still fuzzy. Why?

Briony leaned closer as her famously crooked smile spread across her face.

Well, it’s sort of a rest-and-relaxation trip, she said, barely able to control her excitement. "I’ve held off showing Erik around Lake Placid because I think it’s the most romantic and beautiful town in the Adirondacks—except for Obergrande, of course, but it wasn’t possible to hold off showing that one to him, since we met here. We’re finally going to get some alone time, like grownups."

She took a big breath, then grinned even wider.

We’re getting married, Grace.

Grace, who was still shaking from the earlier news, blinked wildly.

M—married?

Yes.

You’re eloping?

Briony coughed. Er—no. I mean we’re engaged. We are going to Lake Placid to actually be alone together for the first time—overnight. We’re staying through the weekend and coming home Tuesday.

Grace’s head had grown so light she felt as if she might pass out.

"That’s—that’s wonderful, Sarah," she said, trying to shift from despair into joy, but stripping her mental gears in the process.

She liked Erik Bryson, the man that Briony had called her Temporary Boyfriend, very much, but was struggling to make sense of the vastly differing announcements of news.

Briony’s smile faded. She patted the couch next to her.

Come over here, Grace.

Still numb, Grace rose and came over, sat down, and was pulled into her friend’s arms. Briony held her tightly.

I know this is a lot to take in, especially without any warning, in a few minutes between counseling appointments, she said, stroking Grace’s back comfortingly. I’m so sorry to be dumping all of this stuff on you at once. But I’ve been keeping this secret about my health from you guys, and the world, for a really long time now, and it feels good to finally be able to be honest about it. I want the other members of the Fivesome to know before they see or hear it on the news—and I wanted to tell you first.

Grace slid out of Briony’s arms and sat back, smiling. She took her friend’s hands.

Thank you, Sarah, she said. Congratulations on your engagement—Erik’s a great guy.

Briony beamed. "He really is—and I’m so glad I don’t have to keep hiding my other identity and my illness from him anymore. We met up in New York yesterday, and traveled home together last night.

He’s been cooling his heels for six weeks all by himself at the Obergrande Hotel every night, just like he did last night, and I can’t wait to be alone with him, finally, like a big girl. I’m so glad to be out of the limelight, its oppressive security and forced virginity. She saw Grace blush, and coughed. I’m sorry—I hope that didn’t offend you.

Grace smiled. Not at all.

So, I have two requests of you, and then I’ll be out of your hair, since you can’t very well be in mine, Briony said jokingly. First, would it be possible for you to get a day off next week to come with me, and hopefully Corinne and Elisa, to Montreal to see Sloane? I want to come clean to the other members of the Fivesome before the PSAs and interviews for the awareness campaign go live in two weeks. And I miss everyone so much—I can’t wait for us all to be together again.

I can probably get the time off after church on Sunday, said Grace, "and you know I would do anything for you, Sarah. That might work best for Sloane, too, since most of her events end on Sundays.

I’m not sure what Corinne’s schedule is at the veterinary clinic, but she’s very supportive of you as well. As far as I know, Elisa is in Chicago—I’ll try to get in touch with her and see if she can maybe meet us in Montreal, but, as I told you a few weeks ago at Charlie’s, she’s hard to pin down.

Briony nodded.

What’s the second request?

Erik and I are hoping you will be in our wedding, Briony said, her eyes sparkling again. I’m asking you first, because if I was a member of OCC, we would ask you to marry us. But we’ve decided to get married in Mother of Sorrows, even though the name doesn’t exactly shout ‘happily ever after.’ 

Grace laughed. Of course. It’s always been your family’s church.

We would also like you to do a reading at the wedding, if that’s OK.

Grace swallowed, then nodded.

It won’t be for a while—since all this has happened in a whirlwind, we want to take our time sorting out our new jobs and lives together. I’m going to be very selective about modeling and media opportunities, and Erik is thinking of doing the same, limiting his investigative journalism assignments and focusing on writing books for a while. We may travel a lot, hopefully together, but we want to live in the Adirondacks, quietly undisturbed. We’ll have a lot of time to plan the wedding, and the future. And to just learn to be happy first, before anything else.

Very wise. Glad to hear it.

Briony picked up the canvas bag that had hung on her shoulder when she had come in. She reached inside it and pulled out a horrifying toy, a disturbingly large, stuffed pink pumpkin with a maniacal expression on its face, its tongue lolling to one side, above long, dangling legs with hairy pink fringe and ugly yellow fabric shoes.

She held it up in front of Grace and shook it.

It let loose a tinny electronic recording of insane laughter.

Dear lord, Grace murmured. "What is that?"

This is Erik’s idea of a promise ring, Briony said, laughing. He was so excited to see that stupid carnival claw machine in the lobby of Hardware Heaven—he’s a big kid. He spent some obscene number of quarters reliving his youth and attempting to win me an ugly stuffed animal, since he had just decided I was going to be ‘his girl.’ This is apparently the Gift of Love for that occasion—or at least my Pulitzer-Prize-winning fiancé’s version of it.

Well, it’s not necessarily an indicator of his taste, said Grace humorously. Don’t you get whatever toy the claw wants you to have?

He’s a nut.

Yes, but a sweet one, Grace said. I enjoy watching his face when he’s looking at you. He’s a keeper.

Well, I’m glad you approve. Briony put the hideous stuffed animal down and reached into the canvas bag again. She pulled out the brown wig that Grace had assumed until a few minutes ago was her own hair, dyed to preserve her anonymity, and pulled it on.

That lady who was leaving as I came in didn’t even notice my head, she said, tucking the wig onto her scalp and smoothing its strands. I think going natural will be no big deal, though I’ll always wear my wig in Obergrande ’til my hair grows back. I still want to be anonymous here. Hopefully the weather will stay cool, ’cause the wig gets really hot.

Understood.

The supermodel reached out and touched Grace’s hair, angled to hang longer near the front of her jaw.

"This is such a nice style on you, Grace—very grown up and classic. I still think of you as having