A/N: Warning—this chapter ends with a cliffie. Sorry, but I needed it for the next chapter. Anyway, thanks for your kind reviews. I hope you like this chapter. Grace is a bit OOC. I'm having trouble "hearing" her. So tell me if you think I should take out the corndog bit. I don't know where it came from. It just did. Anyway, enjoy.
Disclaimer: I think it's been well established that I don't own anything in association with the show. Therefore, this is my last disclaimer. Thank goodness.
"Bye, Mom," Joan called as she dashed down the stairs to the front door. "I'm going over to . . . Adam!" She had opened the door to find him standing on her porch. He looked shell-shocked. He didn't even respond to her calling his name.
"Mom," she called as she pulled Adam into the house. "Something's wrong with Adam."
Helen rushed into the living room and looked Adam over. "Adam, honey? Has something happened?" The sound of her mother's soothing voice calmed Joan's mounting panic.
Smoothing back the fringe of bangs hanging in Adam's eyes, Helen peered into his face. "Are you all right, honey?"
Adam looked at her but didn't seem to see her. Helen and Joan exchanged worried glances.
"I got in."
Again, Helen and Joan exchanged glances. "You got in?" Helen asked.
He just nodded.
"Got in where?" Joan asked.
"NYU's graduate art program."
Joan gave a startled, little chuckle. "You got in?"
Adam looked at Joan as if seeing her for the first time. A stunned little smile tugged at his lips. "I got in."
With a whoop of excitement and relief, Joan threw her arms around Adam. "Congratulations!" Then she pulled back and punched his shoulder. "You scared me. I thought something horrible happened."
Adam apologized as Helen pulled him into her arms and kissed his forehead. "Congratulations, Adam. I knew they'd accept you."
"Thanks, Mrs. Girardi." He shook his head like he still couldn't believe what had happened.
"What did your dad say when you told him?" Joan asked, eager to hear all the details.
"Actually, he read the letter to me." Suddenly, dismay replaced the shock in Adam's expression. "Oh, no. Dad. He's probably worried about me. When he finished reading the letter, I just left. I have to go home."
With that, Adam sprinted out of the house.
Joan and Helen stood for a moment, staring after him. Finally, Joan turned to Helen, a huge grin lighting up her face. "He got in," she whispered.
Helen wrapped an arm around her proud, elated daughter. "There was never any doubt."
* * * * * * * * * *
"What would induce a person to shove a stick into a hot dog, dip it in cornbread batter, and fry it?"
Joan stared at Grace, mystified by her question. It was Saturday afternoon and they were strolling through the arts festival Helen had organized. While Joan continued to gape, Grace turned the object in question as if the answer would reveal itself if she studied it from another angle. "Was the corndog guy looking to make the already questionable hot dog even more confounding to people? Was he bored? Did he accidentally drop a hot dog in the batter, and being frugal, decided to fry it? Maybe . . ."
"If you don't want it," Joan interrupted, "why did you buy it?"
"Who said I didn't want it?" Grace took a hearty bite and pointed the corndog at Joan. "You're missing the point, Girardi."
"There's a point?"
"The question isn't why am I eating it. The question is how someone came up with the idea to put these two things together in the first place." She took another bite. "I mean, this isn't exactly a commonsense combination. How did the corndog guy know that these two totally unlikely things would make a viable recipe? It's not like it's as versatile as the original hot dog."
"You've put a lot of thought into this," Joan said, amused by Grace's seriousness.
But Grace shook her head. "Not really. Never thought about it until now, honestly. Back to my point . . ."
"Right. I keep forgetting there's a point to all of this."
Grace continued as if she hadn't been interrupted. "A regular hot dog can accommodate any number of extras: chili, ketchup, mustard, onions, relish. The list is endless. Many of the possibilities are downright disgusting. But a corndog can't take much more than ketchup and mustard, and even that is messy. And separating the batter from the hot dog isn't a good idea, either. Without the other, something is missing. And without the stick, the corndog would lose its advantage over the regular hot dog. Altogether, the corndog is a perfect system."
Joan waited for Grace to continue, fascinated despite herself. Instead, her roommate finished eating. "That's it?"
"What?"
"After all that, you're not going to explain the corndog's advantage over the hot dog?"
Grace grinned at Joan. "Sorry, I was hungry. Where was I?"
Joan pointed at her stick. "'Altogether, the corndog is a perfect system.'"
"Right. Well . . ." Grace paused and thought for a minute. "The hot dog needs some sort of embellishment which makes it messy. A corndog, on the other hand, doesn't really need anything else. The corn batter provides plenty flavor. But, without the stick, it would still be messy because the grease would get all over your hands. The stick, while seemingly extraneous, makes it easy to handle and a simpler experience. Unlike popsicles, which is an entirely different situation. The corndog actually is a perfect system which may be what the corndog guy was going for. I guess the same is true of shish kebobs, too."
"Two things. One, you need to get away from Ray. The man has you totally overanalyzing. And, two," Joan said, giving Grace a suspicious glance, "are you only talking about corndogs or are you trying to tell me something else?"
"One," Grace said, "Ray is a pompous pain on my ass, but he isn't the reason I'm overanalyzing. You're the one who convinced me to join the debate team in college. And two, nice try, but I have nothing to say about you and Rove."
"Why not?" Joan demanded. After all, Grace had something to say about everything.
"Because I tried the advice thing in high school and it didn't work." Grace fixed Joan with a pointed stare. "In fact, the last time I gave you advice, you completely ignored it."
Joan gave her a conciliatory smile. "But for a minute, I realized you were right."
"Oh, look. Rove's booth." Grace left Joan standing in the thoroughfare.
Joan followed slowly, taking the opportunity to watch the two old friends. Grace, though softer now than she had been in high school, still wasn't one for public displays of affection. She just smiled up at Adam, obviously pleased to see him. And he smiled back. Joan found herself smiling at the sight of Adam's pleasure. He'd seemed so unhappy the last time she saw him.
"Hey," she said when she reached them.
"Hey."
For a moment, no one said anything. Yet the silence was more nostalgic than uncomfortable, like the three were remembering simpler times. Joan broke the silence first. She indicated the large number of people milling around his booth. "Business is good, I see."
"People love a native son who made in the big city," Grace said, making Adam blush.
Joan smothered a laugh. "I'm going to go browse. Let you two catch up." Adam opened his mouth to stop her but she just smiled and shook her head. "It's been four years. I'm curious to see what you've been up to in New York."
Leaving Grace and Adam to talk, Joan stepped into the booth. It was filled mostly with small figurines and sketches, some of which she recognized from their undergraduate days at the University of Maryland. She bypassed the sketches and examined the sculptures instead. While she wasn't the art expert her mother was, Joan could see the maturity in the new pieces. For the first time, she didn't just find Adam's work beautiful. The pieces spoke to her, called to her emotions.
One in particular drew her attention. It was small and silver, circular. It made her think of a controlled whirlwind. Organized chaos like family. Or love. She reached out her hand to finger it.
"I don't think you're supposed to touch the art."
Joan's head jerked up to find a teenage girl in jeans and a t-shirt with a Degas ballerina on it staring at her. "Right."
"Of course," the girl continued, "art is supposed to touch you. Adam's art finally has, hasn't it, Joan?"
"God," Joan sighed.
"Hi." The Art Girl God waggled her fingers in a perky greeting.
"What can I do for You?" Joan asked, simultaneously annoyed and amused by this God's effervescence.
Art Girl God sidled up to Joan's side. "Actually, it's a repeat of an old assignment."
When God didn't elaborate, Joan prodded, "Whenever you're ready."
"Adam's return to Arcadia has sparked a lot of repressed emotions. . ."
"Tell me about it," Joan muttered.
"I want you to be open and listen to the people around you."
"That's it? Be open and listen."
"Well," Art Girl God said, "that and be honest."
Joan took a minute to process God's request. Considering that she'd expected a bizarre, seemingly ill-timed assignment, she felt like she was getting off easy. "That shouldn't be a problem."
Art Girl God grinned. "You'd be surprised."
"What do you mean by that?" Joan called. But Art Girl God had already made her way out of the booth. Pouting at her thwarted attempt at an explanation, she returned her attention to the figure she'd admired. She loved the piece; it made her feel peaceful.
"You don't like it."
Joan jumped at Adam's voice at her side. She glanced at him, a tiny smile on her lips. "Why do you think that?"
"You were frowning."
"I was . . ." Joan broke off with a giggle. "No, it's not what you think. I love it."
Adam raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Then why the frown?"
He held himself as if he expected her to strike him. My opinion still matters to him, she realized. The realization made her breath catch in her throat. It also humbled her. After all, she didn't really understand art at all. "I was wondering if I could afford it."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
They smiled at each other. "It's yours."
"What? No. I couldn't."
Adam picked up the sculpture and held it out to Joan. "I want you to have it."
She was tempted, but she shook her head. "Thank you. But I can't."
"Why not?" He seemed disappointed.
"Because I want to buy it," she announced. "Besides, it doesn't seem right to take it when everyone else here has to pay."
Adam laughed but didn't continue to push.
Joan turned toward him, regarding him with speculative eyes. "Will you have dinner with me tonight?"
"What?"
Joan smiled at his obvious surprise. She was surprised herself; she hadn't intended to ask him that. "Dinner. With me. Tonight, say, around eight o'clock. I'll cook."
"I'd like that," he answered.
"Good," she said with a nod. "I'll see you tonight. Remember eight o'clock. Don't be late."
Adam watched Jane leave, a goofy smile on his face. Dinner tonight—he was having dinner tonight with Jane. He picked up the figurine and put it away with the rest of his personal stuff. It pleased him that she liked the piece so much. He called it Jane.
He glanced out at the thoroughfare and spotted her. She and Grace were looking at some handmade jewelry when a man came up to them. The man slid his hand down Jane's arm and presented her with a rose. Then he leaned in and brushed a kiss on her lips.
Adam tore his gaze away, the smile withering on his lips. His stomach roiled at the thought of Jane with another man. She's not yours anymore, he reminded himself. But the reminder didn't help. He still wanted to throw up.