THE FIRE STILL BURNS Page 8

  She clung to that thought for the rest of the trip. Just beyond the Newport Hospital, he parked the car on a side street, in front of a stately, elegant red-brick house.

  So the local girl had money, or she still lived with her parents. The home stood elevated on a hill, surrounded by a few lush acres of lawn and dotted with at least ten graceful weeping willow trees.

  "This is Willow House," he said as he opened her door and held out his hand to her.

  She climbed out and took in the expansive structure. "And this is where … your friend lives?"

  "For the moment," he said with a wistful smile. "I'm afraid she won't be here too much longer."

  She frowned a little and looked over his shoulder at the house. "Why not?"

  "Because it's God's waiting room and my grandmother's about to be called in."

  "Your…" She shook her head, trying to fit this fact into place. "You've mentioned your grandmother. Didn't you say she raised you and your brothers?"

  He took her hand and started toward the house. "That's Gram McGrath. She's my father's mother. Marguerite Deveraux is my mother's mother." His voice was tight, uncharacteristically strained.

  A strange, foreboding sensation settled over Grace with each footfall of her sneakers on the long asphalt driveway. She put her hand on his arm. "Where's your mother, Colin?"

  She saw his Adam's apple move when he swallowed. "I have no idea. I haven't seen her since she left our house when I was three years old."

  The revelation actually stopped her cold, but he opened the door and, with a firm hand on her lower back, urged her into a large front hallway. On the inside, the home looked nothing like the traditional colonial it was on the outside.

  A long, hospital-like receiving desk took up most of the entry, with several chairs off to one side and a worn sofa on the other. Gracie was vaguely aware of a child on the sofa, but the woman at the desk laid down a novel and greeted them with a smile so bright, it blocked out everything else.

  "Colin!" She reached out both hands over the desk. "Marguerite will be so happy you're back. When I combed her hair this morning, she just couldn't stop talking about how much she enjoyed last evening."

  He took both of the hands offered to him, reached over the desk and kissed the woman's cheek. "If she's beaming it's because you're so good to her, Vera." He introduced Grace and then asked, "Do you think we could spend a few minutes with my grandmother this morning? Is she up?"

  Vera held up one finger. "Just let me check on her, Colin. Last time I looked, she was resting."

  "I'll tell her!"

  Grace turned at the young voice, so loud and exuberant and out of place in the quiet home. A little boy not more than eight years old leaped off the sofa, letting a yellow plastic truck clatter to the ground as he did. "I know which one she is! I can check on her!"

  "Wait just a second, bud." Colin reached out and snagged the boy with one hand, playfully holding him by the shirt. "Who are you here visiting today?"

  "My great-granny Jane." He looked up with a serious face. "But she fell asleep right in the middle of a sentence. They do that you know. Anyway, my mom told me to sit out here."

  Colin ruffled his dark curls. "Then you better do what your mom wants and we'll let Mrs. Sheppard do the honors."

  The boy rolled his eyes a little. "If she's anything like mine, she's asleep anyway," he mumbled as he retrieved the truck.

  Vera was back in less than a minute. "You're in luck, Colin. She's awake. I told her you were bringing your girlfriend in." She smiled at Grace. "That brightened her up quite a bit."

  Grace opened her mouth to correct the woman, but Colin grabbed her hand and didn't give her a chance. "Come on, Gracie. This way."

  As soon as they rounded the corner, the house felt like a home again, with carpeted floors, soft lighting and soothing artwork on the walls. Only a long metal handrail lining the walls gave away the special needs of the residents.

  At the very end, they came to a closed door with a brass number seven on it. Colin glanced at Grace, a warm look in his eyes. "Her vision is shot, but she can hear just about everything." With that warning, he tapped on the door and opened it slowly. "Marguerite? It's me."

  The drapes were almost drawn, and a single lamp burned on the nightstand. A petite woman, so small that she looked lost in the double bed, rested in a half-propped-up position. The pillows under her head were laden with embroidered lace that matched layers of eyelet that covered the rest of the bed and the window.

  The woman turned her head toward the door, moving a few wisps of thin, white hair. Even in the shadow, Grace could see her deeply lined face transform into a smile.

  "Colin." Her voice was as tiny as she was. "What a wonderful surprise."

  In one spare movement, he was around to the other side of the bed, taking a seat on the edge. "Hey, lady," he said softly as he leaned forward and kissed the top of her cobwebby hair. "I want you to meet someone."

  She bent her elbows and tried to push herself higher on the pillow. "Where is she, honey?"

  "Oh, please don't trouble yourself," Grace said as she approached a chair next to the bed. "I'll sit right here."

  "This is Grace Harrington," Colin said. "Grace is an architect, Marguerite. She's working with me on Pineapple House."

  With a start, Grace looked over the bed at him. She was?

  The old woman's smile widened even more, and she reached for Grace's hands with her own bony, spotted ones. Her fingers were warm and dry and so, so smooth.

  "I'm sure Colin told you you're making a dying woman's dream come true. Thank you, dear. Thank you."

  "You're not dying," Colin interjected, sounding like a father chiding an overly dramatic child.

  "Yes, I am," Marguerite said as she squinted at Grace. "Come closer, dear. Let me look at you."

  Grace leaned forward and the withered hand came up to her face. The woman laid her cool palm on Grace's cheek, the delicate fragrance of baby powder accompanying the touch. She caressed Grace's whole face slowly, her eyes closed as she examined. "Oh, my, what good bones. You're a pretty one."

  Smiling, Grace put her hand on top of Marguerite's. "Thank you. So are you."

  The woman grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "And do you like my Colin?"

  "Most of the time," Grace answered with a soft laugh, looking over the slender body to the other side of the bed. His dark eyes were warm with humor and hope. He didn't have to worry. She'd never say anything to upset his little old grandmother.

  "That's good," Marguerite said. "What do you think of Pineapple House, dear?"

  Grace bit her lip and kept her focus on the crinkled face and dull brown eyes that stared at her. Those were Colin's eyes, she realized. Older, weaker and dimmed with age. But the resemblance was powerful. "It's—it's an interesting idea."

  "Oh, dear child, it's more than interesting." Marguerite took a deep, labored breath. "Have you seen those wonderful sketches? They are—" She coughed, closing her eyes.

  "Would you like a glass of water?" Grace asked.

  Marguerite shook her head. "I'm fine." Then she patted her powder-soft hand over Grace's. "I only wish I'd last long enough to see it rebuilt. I'm the only living member of the Restoration Rebels. I'd like to greet the whole bunch up in heaven with good news about our pet property."

  The Restoration Rebels? Grace was at a complete loss, and shot Colin a beseeching look. "I haven't heard about the, uh, Restoration Rebels."

  Marguerite sighed and gave into another shaky smile. "Just a bunch of pushy, poor broads who liked to make waves." Her grip tightened slightly on Grace's hand. "The old Preservation Society bags hated every one of us, but we never cared. We made more noise with less money."

  The woman turned toward Colin, who'd been very quiet during this exchange. "I'm so proud of what you're doing for me, dear. I know I've bored you with the story for years, ever since you found me."

  Ever since he found her?

  Marguerite reached out to p
at Colin's hand. "You are one determined young man, I'll tell you that."

  Colin held the woman's hand to his lips and kissed it. For some reason, the gesture seized Grace's heart in a vicelike squeeze.

  "I'm just determined to keep my promises and pay my debts," he said.

  "You don't owe me a debt, dear." She took another painful breath, and smiled weakly. "But I've no doubt you'll do this for me. And then you can bury me there."

  "Stop it," he said softly. "You can bury me there."

  She harrumphed, but it degenerated into a choking spell.

  "I'll get her water," Grace offered, dashing into the adjacent bathroom. When she came back with a half glass of water, Marguerite's eyes were closed and a surprising little wave of panic washed over her. "Is she okay?"

  Colin stood and pulled the blanket higher under his grandmother's chin, his hands looking gigantic against the diminutive woman. "She just fell asleep in the middle of a sentence." He grinned at Grace. "They do that you know."

  She set the glass on the table next to the bed and gazed at the sleeping woman. "She's very sweet."

  "She's very old. Almost ninety-three. I doubt if she'll make it to see Pineapple House built."

  At the mention, Grace narrowed her eyes at him. "The project we're working on together."

  He winked at her. "Thanks for not contradicting her."

  "But it's not true."

  He didn't respond, but leaned over the woman and kissed her gently on the forehead. Grace's poor battered heart nearly stopped at the tender gesture. He touched Marguerite's face and retucked the blanket under her chin.

  She watched him reach down and turn off the lamp. Who would ever think that motorcycle-riding, earring-wearing, rebel-loving Colin McGrath would be so nurturing to a little old grandmother? A Restoration Rebel. Well. Some genes just carry on, don't they?

  And then, the very heart that she'd been darn near ready to hand over to him stopped twisting and plummeted straight into her stomach with a sickening thud. If she won the Edgewater business, this dear old lady's dying wish would never come true.

  Was that why Colin had arranged this tender little meeting with "the woman he loved"?

  Grace suddenly realized she might have preferred a sexy young girlfriend to the sweet, sick old lady.

  * * *

  "It's blackmail, Colin. That's against the law."

  Of course she'd think that. Colin gunned the Porsche into a sharp turn on Ocean Drive

  , the open ocean views blocked by the occasional contemporary showplace home.

  "There's no law against visiting an old woman," he volleyed with a smile. "Anyway, she thinks you're my girlfriend."

  "Another lie." Grace turned away from him as much as she could, and Colin blessed the tiny space of the Boxster. She couldn't get far. "Where are we going? This isn't the way back to Rosecliff."

  "I love Ocean Drive

  ." And that was true. But it wasn't why they were cruising the picturesque highway. If he'd taken her back to her car at Rosecliff, she would have disappeared for the rest of the day. He wanted a chance to talk, to plant the seeds of his master plan.

  He pulled off the road to a spot that featured a breathtaking and unobstructed view, and killed the engine.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  He took a deep breath and gazed over the vast panorama of rocks and ocean and sky. "Just sightseeing. I think of Ocean Drive

  as New England's version of the California coast."

  She didn't seem to notice nature's extraordinary artwork, but settled her accusing stare on him. "Why don't you start with a little background on the Restoration Rebels?"

  Safe enough. And a good way to ease her into his plan. "The Restoration Rebels were a pretty colorful group of women in Newport. They were middle class, at best, and formed in the midforties and stayed together until most of them passed on."

  He paused for a moment, remembering the funeral of his grandmother's last best friend. Marguerite, he knew, would join her soon. "They had this cause to stop the systematic destruction of the old colonial elements of this town, which were never quite as revered as the world-famous mansions. The mansions attract tourists and fill the town coffers. Even though they weren't wealthy, several of the Rebels had lineage back to the early 1700s."

  "Did Marguerite?"

  "No, but she loved a cause." He smiled, thinking of some of the talks they'd had. "And an underdog."

  "Were they successful?"

  "Somewhat, but not as influential as the all-powerful Preservation Society ladies."

  "Where do Edgewater and Pineapple House fit into this?"

  "When lightning struck Edgewater and burned down that mansion, Marguerite was thrilled. She was certain it was an act of some very rebellious angels. I would never have gone after a job like Edgewater; I turned down repeated invitations from Adrian Gilmore to bid on the job.

  "But, about a week before the presentations, I came up here to visit her and she had these amazing sketches and managed to get me really excited about it. When I called Adrian to join the bidding, he just laughed as if he'd expected it all along. And, funnily enough, it's become the most important thing I'm doing."

  Gracie turned to him, her green eyes bright, one slender finger aimed at his face in warning. "Okay. I understand. But you have to understand this: I will not be manipulated, Colin McGrath. Even by pity for your very sweet grandmother. I hate manipulation. I live with it every day with my father and if I can just prove myself—with this assignment—I stand a chance to get out from underneath that control."

  "I'm not trying to manipulate you. I thought you should know that I have a pretty strong motivation for winning this assignment, too." But if the plan he'd hatched last night actually worked, couldn't he be accused of manipulation, too?

  With a long, slow sigh, Gracie closed her eyes and leaned into the headrest, the sun shining directly on her face. After a moment, she opened her eyes and looked sideways at him. "What did she mean, 'you found her'?"

  Colin thought about the day, nearly five years ago, when he'd walked up to the tiny house way out on Old Beach Road

  and knocked on the door of an elderly woman named Marguerite Deveraux. And about how she'd cried when he'd introduced himself.

  "My mother was never particularly close to her mother," he said. "Evidently they had a very contentious relationship. My mother ran away from home when she was pretty young, lived all over the east coast for several years, and finally appeared to settle down when she met my dad at a bar in Virginia Beach. He moved her to Pittsburgh, and they had three kids. He did everything he knew how to put an end to what must have been—what must be—a pretty strong tendency toward wanderlust and itchy feet."

  Already he could feel Gracie's piercing, confused, curious gaze. He hated telling this story as much as people hated hearing it. "But she took off on us and we never saw her again." He rushed through the sentence and waved a hand of dismissal. "Anyway, that's ancient history. About five years ago, I wanted to see if any other relatives on my mother's side were still around and a quick search on the Internet got me to Marguerite. I looked her up and we hit it off. End of story."

  "What made your mother leave her family?"

  Colin squinted into the sun. Hadn't she heard him? End of story. "I don't know."

  "You don't know? No one's ever told you? Your father? Your older brothers?"

  "We don't talk about her." He tried to take the edge out of his voice, get back to indifference. "All I know is that she read some women's lib book and bam! Out the door she went, never to be heard from again."

  "No." The reaction of sheer incredulity wasn't unusual. People just didn't believe a woman could do that. "There must be an explanation. Was your father … abusive?"

  He'd heard that accusation before, too. But he knew James McGrath was a man incapable of physical, emotional or any other kind of violence. "My father is a really good guy. I don't know what kind of husband he was, because I was a ba
by. But I know that he's got a good heart and he did everything humanly possible to raise decent kids, gave us great educations and made sure we wore white collars to work. That's how he measured his success as a father, and, based on our degrees and jobs, he nailed it."

  "Do your brothers know you've found Marguerite?"

  He nodded. "I told them, and they've both visited her." He didn't dare speak for his brother's hang-ups; he'd spent enough time trying to deal with his own. "We each handle our situation differently. We each have our own issues with what happened."

  "What are yours?"

  He toyed with the gold hoop in his ear, staring beyond Gracie to the horizon. "I figure I must have been the proverbial straw on the poor camel's back."

  "How so?"

  "One time I overheard two moms talking in a mall. This lady with a bunch of kids said to her friend, 'I was fine till I had him. The third one puts you over the edge.'" Turning from her piercing gaze, he placed both hands on the steering wheel and looked through the windshield. "As you can imagine, it hit home."

  She put a gentle hand on his forearm, her touch warmer than the sun that poured into the car. "You can't possibly blame yourself for her leaving."

  He couldn't? He turned back to her. "Let's put it this way. Now that I've gotten to know Marguerite, and she's told me more about my mother, I have a lot less guilt." He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "She doesn't realize it, but Marguerite really helped me to understand some pretty serious stuff. I owe her. Period. And I'm going to pay her back."

  Gracie crossed her arms and leaned into the passenger door, giving him a long, thoughtful look. "Which leaves us right back where we started this conversation. You're blackmailing me to back off."

  "No, I'm not," he insisted. "Really, I'm not."

  "Then why did you take me to meet her if not to get me to back out of the bidding and let you build Pineapple House?"

  He reached his hand across the space and touched her chin with his thumb. "I'm not going to build Pineapple House."

  She narrowed her eyes. "You're not?"

  "Nope. You are."