Chapter 8: But not Grace
Manhattan, late December, 2014
Please note: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...
The diner where Harold Finch always ate his breakfast was crowded this morning – crowded with holiday shoppers, some heading home from shopping all night, and some fresh and ready for the full-court press in these last few days before Christmas.
Christmas.
It used to mean something to Harold. But in the years since Grace had been away, it had sunk to the status of an obligatory ritual in his mind.
Almost an annoyance. The traffic, the congestion, the throngs of manic shoppers on every street, with that look in their eyes: get out of my way!
Something was lost in the event.
He thought of Grace. How she had enjoyed Christmas so, when she was here.
How she'd planned for months ahead to surprise him with little gifts, many handmade with her own hands. She liked to give to charities in his name, too. She even named a star after him one year.
And he, in his turn, loved to take her to the pageants, the Christmas shows, the museums. They liked to walk past the Christmas storefront displays, stunning with their intricate designs – at off-times, of course, when the rest of the world was sleeping.
They would steal away late at night and walk the streets – certainly not alone. Plenty of people had the same idea. But everyone out there at that time of night was in a good mood, friendly, chatting about the wonder of each display. The two of them were like children, ogling the displays, ooh'ing and ahh'ing like everybody else.
Those were happy times.
Grace liked to nest during the holidays – stay home with him. She cooked hot, homey dinners that they enjoyed together in front of a crackling fire in her apartment. He grew to love that apartment. Where Grace had come as a frightened young girl to live, years before. Tragedy had taken her parents – dead in a terrible car accident.
Grace herself had walked away with barely a scratch. Harold remembered the look in her eyes as she recounted the story to him; how the police and EMTs at the scene couldn't believe that anyone had come through the crash. It was a miracle, they'd said. Well, not for her.
She'd gone to live with an older, childless couple, an Aunt and Uncle, far from her home in Ohio. At first, she'd refused to speak. Her life was unspeakable after all. She would sit by the window, looking out at the Boulevard in front of their apartment. Life never seemed to cease out there. Their street in Manhattan was a never-ending parade of humanity – filing past her window each day. It drew her in.
Eventually, she'd noticed another young girl, just about her age, who was there on the Boulevard nearly every day. Grace began to feel disappointed on those days when the girl wasn't there. And one day Grace noticed that the girl had seen her sitting at the window. At first she'd just looked at Grace. Then, she'd smiled a shy smile. And then she'd waved. Grace stood up from her seat and looked down the hill in front of her apartment – so she could get a better look. Without thinking, she'd smiled and waved back.
"I wonder what her name is," she'd said out loud, and when she heard a sound behind her, she'd turned and found her Aunt and Uncle staring at her, their eyes suddenly wet with tears. It was over. The long weeks of silence and despair. She'd come through it, to the other side, and now she was ready to begin the healing.
Grace had grown up in that apartment, returned to it when she graduated from college. And when her Aunt and Uncle had finally passed, they'd passed the apartment to her, and their fortune, too. They had adored her, brought her up as their own. They had made a life for her that she could never have even dreamed for herself.
She'd spent her days painting. Her passion. Painting the covers for magazines, the old-fashioned way, with brushes and oils, not computer screens. In fact, that's how Harold had met her. One day, when he was walking near the water, he'd been captivated by a sunset off in the West. He'd stopped to take in the beauty, and he'd noticed someone at a canvas, pausing to enjoy the same sunset. He'd moved closer to see the work, and when he'd said out loud, "the sunsets are beautiful here," she'd turned to him – smiling, and he had felt something at that moment that he'd never felt in his life.
Now, he knew for himself – how rare and precious was such a thing as love at first sight.
Harold sipped his tea; Sencha tea, his favorite. His waitress stopped by to ask if he wanted anything else. And his thoughts turned to Grace. For a moment, he was going to say it out loud. But, then his better judgment intervened, and he just shook his head and said no.
Her eyes were soft, as though she had sensed his feelings, and she nodded his way.
"OK, then, Mr. Wren, have a nice day. See you tomorrow." She collected his money and beamed a "thank you" when Harold told her to keep the change.
As he rose to leave, something on the other side of the glass window caught his attention. A woman was walking by, and he'd just had a fleeting glance at her features. The curve of her cheekbone, the shape of her nose, the auburn hair, styled just like Grace used to wear. And her clothes. Her figure. Just like Grace's. His heart started pounding. Could it be? Could she have somehow come here, to New York? At Christmas; it was Christmas – her favorite time of year in New York.
Impossible – probably.
Improbable – there was just no thinking-it-through, logically. He just had to know!
Harold rushed forward to the front door, past the cashier, who was calling after him, and then looked surprised when he didn't acknowledge. He was limping as fast as he could, to catch up. The diner was filled, and it had held him back, threading his way through the crowded aisles.
He rushed out onto the street, swallowed in a sea of shoppers. Harold could just barely see the wool beret, her auburn hair shaking with her footsteps as she walked. She had to thread her way, too, through the same holiday revelers. Harold was afraid he'd lose her in the throng.
He pushed on. He couldn't let her get too far ahead. His gimpy leg was already aching, and the cold air was burning with each breath in his chest. He'd never reach her – she was already so far ahead. Harold pushed himself. He just had to know if it was really her.
Then up ahead, he saw the wool beret change direction, turn to the right, turn into a doorway. Harold nearly tripped over someone in the crowd, trying to crane to see where she had gone. He mumbled an apology and pushed on, distracted by the effort to keep his eyes on the door up ahead where she'd turned.
Too long. It was taking too long to make it there. She'd be gone. And he'd never know.
Harold pushed himself toward the door – where he thought she'd gone inside. He pulled open the door, and threw himself in, away from the crowds and the cold air. Into the darkness, the deeply-carpeted, hushed darkness, where electric candles flickered at each table, and day was transformed into night.
It took a minute for his eyes to adjust. And there, as he scanned around the room, there just sliding her coat onto the back of her seat, he caught sight of her. Just seating herself, the light from the flickering candlelight dancing on her face, the curve of her jaw, the line of her lips, and her auburn hair.
He stepped a little closer.
She was sitting, looking up at the figure across the table from her, smiling. She knew him, had feelings for him. Harold stopped in his tracks. Perhaps he didn't really want to know, after all. Perhaps it was better if he just backed away, left her alone, left her behind.
He dropped his eyes to the floor and breathed a deep breath, letting it out in a soft sigh. He could only blame himself.
It was time to go. His face was hard, drawn into a grimace. This wasn't going to be easy. If he could only have some time. Talk with her. Time was all they needed.
He could explain – what had happened back then, when things went off the track.
When he'd made those decisions that had separated the two of them.
He'd realized it now. He'd made the decision for both of them. He'd never consulted her. He'd just wanted to keep her safe.
So he'd let her think that he had died – there on the dock that day, with the blast that had taken Nathan – Harold had let Grace believe that it had taken him, too. To keep her safe.
So wrong.
About everything.
It hadn't protected her. She was still a target, even though he'd done his best to hide her. They'd still found her, taken her from his hiding place in Italy; hurt her.
So wrong. He should have asked her. They should have done it together. She would have wanted to know. They could have faced it together.
When he looked up again, their eyes met, and she looked right through him, as though she didn't know him.
It almost didn't matter that she wasn't Grace at all. Close. Like she could have been her sister.
But not Grace.
Harold made the decision then.
He had to see her.
It was Christmas.