The Murderer's Daughter (31 page)

T
he cop car was an aggressive little supercharged Mustang, the cop it discharged, a highway patrolman no older than Grace and probably younger. Medium height, solidly built, approaching with the usual swagger.

The suspicious cop-squint that verged on paranoia.

As he reached her driver's window, she compiled more visual data: Hispanic, dark hair gelled, nice golden complexion but for a diagonal scar across the bridge of his nose. A badge that read
M. Lopez.

By the time he arrived, Grace had fine-tuned the optimal smile: minimal, slightly intimidated but not antsy.

M. Lopez's eyes were blocked by mirrored shades. His mouth was small, almost prissy. “License, registration, insurance.”

Grace obliged. “This is a rental, would you like my personal insurance?”

Instead of answering, he inspected the license. “Malibu. You're a ways from home.”

“Road trip,” she said.

“All by yourself, ma'am?”

“Meeting friends in Carmel.”

“Nice place.”

“I'm looking forward to it.”

“Hmm…you know why I stopped you.”

“Sorry, I don't.”

“I spotted you talking on a cellphone. Followed you and watched you continue the conversation for a prolonged period of time.”

Not prolonged enough to spot me hauling at eighty per. And swerving.
He'd watched her for only a few moments—the tail end of her conversation—but that was enough.

Grace said, “Oh. Yes, I was, Officer.
Darn.
I asked the rental agency for hands-off, they didn't have it.”

“That doesn't excuse you, ma'am. What you did was extremely dangerous,” said M. Lopez. He leaned in closer. “Driver distraction is one of the most frequent causes of fatal accidents.”

“I know, I feel like a total idiot. My only excuse was that it was a patient emergency.”

“You're a doctor?”

“Psychologist.”

He studied her. “You can prove that.”

Grace showed him her state license.

M. Lopez said, “Well…it's still dangerous, Doctor. Don't imagine your patient would appreciate having her therapist smashed to bits.”

Her.
Assuming women talked to women.

Grace allowed her smile to widen. “No, that wouldn't be helpful for her.”

Her attempt at wit fell flat; M. Lopez just stared at her. Grace pretended his eyes were warming up behind the shades and that helped her maintain her cool.

She said, “Collision therapy, that would be a first.”

His lips twitched. Fighting not to smile back. He lost the battle, permitted himself a partial grin.

They always lost.

As he began to feel more friendly, the rest of his body agreed, posture relaxing. Removing his shades, he revealed big, soft brown eyes. “Patient emergency, huh? Like what?”

“I can't tell you that, Officer. Strict confidentiality.”

That seemed to please him. With cops, you were always passing tests. With anyone.

M. Lopez said, “You won't say even if it means you get a citation?”

“Even so,” said Grace. “Guilty as charged, I'll take my medicine.”

M. Lopez's little mouth screwed up like a pig's tail. The radio on his belt squawked. He picked up and listened and barked, “Ten-four.” To Grace: “Gotta run, Doctor. Big crash back a few miles. Ambulances and all. Maybe due to driver distraction. Someone else's disaster is your lucky day.”

“Thank you, Officer.”

M. Lopez waved her papers before returning them. “But let's not count on any more luck, okay? No more cellphone, even with a patient emergency. You exit in a safe place and commence, okay, ma'am?”

“I promise.”

“Good.” Needing the last word; Grace let him have it.

Returning to his hot rod, he revved and swooped onto the highway at an outrageously excessive speed, lights rotating, siren on full-alarm.

Completing the fifteen-second drag race to the nearest exit before vanishing in a Doppler cloud of noise.

Grace let out breath slowly, said, “You've still got it working, girl,” and drove off.

Or maybe her charm had nothing to do with it and M. Lopez had it right: Someone else's misfortune was her lucky break.

If she didn't think it amoral and futile she'd have prayed for more of the same.

M
erganfield School allowed students to learn at their own pace. In most cases, the pressured darlings who'd lived their entire lives being told they were geniuses pushed themselves at warp speed. No one pressured Grace but she discovered that her rate of learning was as quick as her most neurotic classmates.

Midway through the year, she'd completed much of the Merganfield “great books” curriculum with straight A's but tried to keep her progress from Malcolm and Sophie.

Because once they knew college was the optimal choice there'd be another sit-down.

But by the time she was nearing the end of her first year at the school, her perspective had changed. Approaching sixteen, she found herself craving even more solitude. Tolerating Sophie and Malcolm's conversation, appreciating them, they were clearly wondrous and wonderful people. But secretly, she found herself wishing they'd leave her alone for long stretches.

This, she supposed, is adolescence. Though it felt like more of being herself.

The psychology books she borrowed from Malcolm's shelves said “emerging adulthood” was all about establishing “autonomy” and a “sense of self.” One out of two wasn't bad; she'd never totally depended on anyone but sense of self remained a mystery. Mostly she lived hour by hour, trying to do things she enjoyed. Including those stolen moments with the always-grateful and somewhat clearer-skinned Sean Miller. (Did Grace deserve credit for reducing his zits? She'd heard that was an old wives' tale, but you never knew.)

Whatever the reason, he was looking better, and she was pleased with her growing sexual skills; Sean was like modeling clay.

She was also viewing leaving for college as a not-tragic possibility. Though another option was staying at home and attending USC, where Malcolm and Sophie taught.

Commuting with them to campus…no, that didn't feel right.

In any event, there was no sense pushing the issue and when summer came around and she had the possibility of attending summer school at Merganfield, she said sure.

Every one of her classmates was also there. Even the Nigerian twins, who'd heard from Princeton after their Columbia acceptance and were New Jersey–bound, felt impelled to study all summer.

The session went smoothly, go-with-the-flow working for Grace until a morning in mid-June, when Sophie puttered with uncharacteristic nervousness at the Wolf range and Malcolm cleared his throat.

This time they faced her across a table groaning with bagels and Sophie's aquavit-cured gravlax.

This time she was ready.

Malcolm began with a little speech about Grace's amazing scholastic accomplishments, singling out her thirty-page paper on the pre-czarist rulers of Russia, her over-the-moon grades, SAT scores that put her in the top tenth of a percentile, nationally.

Grace didn't argue but she was far less impressed by her own achievements. Everyone at Merganfield got A's because why should the “highly gifted” perform other than at an “exemplary level”? And among the psychometrics Malcolm had been administering to her for years were various versions of the SAT. Grace had caught on, long ago, to what the test's designers were after, the predictable vocabulary words, the math problems that allegedly tested abstract thinking.

By now, she could pencil the dots in her sleep. So when Malcolm paused to chew on a poppy seed bagel, she said, “I know. We need to talk about next year. Don't worry, I'm fine with the change.”

Malcolm, mouth full, chewed faster.

Sophie placed a hand on her left bosom and smiled. “We're that transparent, dear?”

“You care about me. I appreciate it. I've matured and I'm okay with change.”

Sophie blinked. “Yes, well—that's a relief. But you know, it could be a huge change—much more so than Merganfield.”

“I'm ready,” said Grace. “Have been for a while. The only problem is the money. I can't keep mooching off you, there has to be a plan for tuition repayment.”

Malcolm swallowed. “Don't be silly, you're not mooching.”

“Absolutely not,” said Sophie.

Grace fingered the hem of her cashmere top and smiled. “How would you describe it?”

The kitchen clock ticked. Generally Sophie was the first to break long silences. This time Malcolm said, “I consider your education—we consider it—an investment. Someone of your caliber has the potential to accomplish Lord knows what.”

Sophie said, “It's also an investment in
our
well-being. We care about you, Grace. We want to be secure in the knowledge that you're self-actualizing—oh, scratch that—we're so pleased you're growing up…” Her new smile was fragile.

Malcolm said, “All right, then, we're all on board, no more chatter about repayment. However, a core issue remains—”

Sophie broke in: “Please don't take this wrong, dear, but our relationship—not the emotional aspect, the legal aspect—is ambiguous.”

Grace's gut lurched and filled with acid. She was almost certain what they were getting at. She hoped she was. But with people—even good people—you never knew.

Plus, she'd read enough of
Bulfinch's Mythology
to know happy endings were for babies.

So if she was misreading, no sense embarrassing herself, making it awkward for everyone. She put on her best calm smile.

Malcolm said, “What would you say to formalization?”

Sophie said, “He means adoption, dear. If you so choose, we'd like you to become a legal member of our family, Grace.”

The same gut that had constricted now blossomed and filled with honeyed warmth. As if a gentle light—a soft, soothing night-light—had been implanted inside Grace.

She had been right!
This was the stuff of which dreams were made, she felt like whooping and cheering but her jaw had locked and all she could produce was a weak, “If that's what you want.”

Oh, how stupid!

“It is,” said Sophie. “But the key is what you want, Grace.”

Grace forced out the words. “Yes. Of course. It's what I want. Yes. Thank you. Yes.”

“Thank
you,
Grace. It's been a wonderful experience having you here.” Sophie got up and hugged her and kissed the top of her head. In an instant, Malcolm was also standing behind her and Grace felt his massive hand rest lightly upon her shoulder before withdrawing.

Grace knew her body was stiff, knew she should be reacting differently—appropriately—but something stopped her. As if a barrier, a neurological levee—what did the physiology book call it?—a
septum
had been inserted between her brain and her mouth.

She said, “It's been great for me, too.” Then, finally: “You're wonderful people.”

Sophie said, “That's so sweet,” and kissed Grace's hair, again.

Malcolm said, “Here, here. I want some of that cake left over from last night.”

Despite the way
that morning had begun, the topic of college and its financing slipped away and Grace wondered if Malcolm and Sophie felt she wasn't mature enough.

A few days later, at dinner, Sophie announced that Ransom Gardener, the lawyer, would be stopping by at nine.

Grace said, “The hippie, too?”

Sophie and Malcolm laughed and Sophie said, “Good old Mike? No, not tonight.”

Good; Leiber never noticed Grace, anyway. Recently, he'd been arriving with a BlackBerry and rarely taking his eyes off the screen.

Mr. Gardener, on the other hand, always took the time to greet Grace and smile at her. Grace wondered if Mike Leiber was his ward, someone with a disability that the attorney took care of. Someone whose biological parents were unfit. Or uncaring, they just felt like ditching a weirdo.

Did lawyers do that? Grace supposed they did anything that paid well.

Gardener arrived right
on time, wearing a black three-piece suit and a thick gold silk tie and carrying two large briefcases. More like suitcases, really.

“Evening, Grace.”

“Hi, Mr. Gardener.”

He hefted the cases. “This is what we lawyers do, make simple things complicated.”

Sophie led everyone to the big table in the dining room, where she'd set out store-bought cookies and bottled water. Malcolm appeared, as if on cue, and everyone sat.

Ransom Gardener was the first to speak, pulling a sheaf of papers from one of the cases. “Congratulations, Grace. I've got the paperwork for your adoption. You're a minor but someone of your age and brains needs to know what they're involved in. So, please.”

He slid the papers to Grace. She said, “I'm sure it's fine.”

“I'd read it if I were you,” said Malcolm. “For all you know, you're signing away your books and your clothing to Hare Krishna.”

Ransom Gardener chuckled. Sophie smiled and Grace did as well. Everyone on edge, eager to fake levity.

Grace took the papers. Small print, big words; this was going to be a drag.

Sophie said, “Yes, dear, it's a chore, but learning to be meticulous with documents is a useful skill.”

“Punishment for success,” said Malcolm. “Unless you're an attorney.”

“Now, now,” said Ransom Gardener. “Unfortunately, you're right, Mal.”

“Now and always, Ran.” Malcolm ate a cookie, then another, brushed crumbs from his sweater vest.

Grace read. The documents were even worse than she'd expected, repetitive, verbose, dull, devoid of humanity. All of it boiling down, by the final page, to the fact that Malcolm Albert Bluestone and Sophia Rebecca Muller (heretofore to be referred to as “the Applicants”) wanted to adopt Grace Blades (heretofore to be referred to as “Said Minor”).

Stating the obvious while murdering the English language. Grace knew she'd never be a lawyer.

She finished and said, “Clear as a bell. Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Gardener.”

Gardener gave a start. “Well, that's a first. Someone appreciating me.”

Malcolm said, “Feeling emotionally needy, are we, Ran?”

Gardener chuckled again and lightly cuffed Malcolm's shoulder. Their interplay suggested a personal relationship. Gardener had white hair and sunken cheeks, as if his teeth had receded, and Grace had always thought of him as an old man. But seeing him next to Malcolm made her realize they were around the same age, could be longtime friends.

Or perhaps not, and she'd just witnessed banter between two gregarious men. She'd never seen them socialize, only the meetings that she assumed were about business, the privileges and obligations of wealthy people.

Then again, Malcolm and Sophie never socialized with anyone. Ever.

Something else that made living with them ideal.

Gardener said, “Well, you're very welcome, young lady. And as I said, you're a minor, which unfortunately gives you little by way of rights. But I have drafted a brief document that I'd like you to sign, if you agree. It's not binding but I felt you deserved it because of your high intelligence.”

A single page slid across the table.

The same obtuse legalese. This one said Grace knew what was going on and consented to being Malcolm and Sophie's adopted daughter.

She signed it, using her best penmanship. Thinking:
This is the most important document of my life, make it elegant. Memorable, the way John Hancock had.

My declaration of wonderful dependence.

Nothing really changed,
no pressure to start calling them Mom and Dad, no further mention of the new legal status. On the one hand, Grace liked that. On the other, it was a bit of a letdown.

What had she expected? Glass slippers and a pumpkin coach?

On weekdays, breakfast was generally a do-your-own-thing affair. Everyone rising at different times, Malcolm not much of a breakfast eater, period. Sophie tried to sit down with Grace as she nibbled cereal and bolted down orange juice squeezed from trees out in the garden, before Grace walked to Merganfield, but often her schedule on campus made that impossible.