Finding Grace: A Novel Read Online Free Page A

too sated to care what she
did.

Chapter 3
    “ Broken ”
     
    After the meal was cleared away and the
dishes were washed, she slipped quietly out the front door, moving
towards the barn. Her mother was a good way off across the yard,
tending her rose garden. From the back of the house, there was a
hum of male voices and laughter, the sound of metal clanging
against metal, and the occasional thud of something heavy hitting
the ground. They were all wrapped up in a game of horseshoes, so
even if the house had caught fire, chances were they wouldn't have
noticed. Safe from fear of discovery, she got on her roan mare and
rode off toward the house in the hills.
    She had only been to the house once, and
that had been by accident, when she and her brothers had been out
hunting and came across it. They had thought it was haunted, and
until recently, she had agreed with them. Who blamed them for
thinking it, when the place sat so far back in the woods, and was
kept in such a neglected state? She knew differently now, but the
place still had a spookiness about it.
    As she dismounted and tied her horse to a
tree, she stood rooted to one spot, looking at the little house and
wondering if she should just turn around and go home. The place
reminded her of Ferndean Manor...the hidden home of Mr. Rochester
in his reclusive state. Standing there, she half expected to see a
man emerge from within, dark and brooding, to stand broken and
silent in the yard. But there was no one. How could she be sure
Charlie was even here? There was only one way to know. Taking a
deep breath, she walked up to the front door, and after a moment of
hesitation, she lifted her hand and knocked.
    No one answered. She waited, and tried
again, but still nothing. If this had been the door of another
house, she might have given up and left. But there was something
about this place that held her in its grip. She had been nervous
before, but now that she was here, curiosity worked its way through
her. She looked around for a moment. Slowly she took to walking
along the little front porch, looking in one window and then
another. As she looked through one of the glass panes, she suddenly
noticed a movement from within. Wiping the window and cupping her
hands around her eyes to block the sunlight, she looked again.
    There was Charlie, sitting in a chair at a
little table. Quickly she went to the door to knock again, calling
out.
    "Charlie, it's Grace.”
    She waited. When still he did not answer or
open the door, she took hold of the handle and, slowly, opened it
herself. The table sat just inside the room, and sitting silently
at it was Charlie. He didn't even turn to look at her when she came
in, nor even as she slowly approached him. When she came close to
the table, she noticed the jug of whiskey sitting in front of him.
Seeing it, she felt a quake of fear run over her nerves. Still, she
spoke to him with what courage she could find.
    "Charlie?" she said, hoping he would at
least look at her. Then again, maybe it was better if he didn't.
But maybe he would at least talk to her. Her eyes moved from him to
the jug, and then to the half-empty mason jar he held in his hand.
She did not have to ask what the clear liquid in that jar was. It
suddenly bothered her that he would be drinking, even under these
circumstances, and she sighed heavily.
    "What are you doing, Charlie?"
    His speech was loud, bold…a little slurred
from the drink. "What does it look like I’m doing? I'm working up
the courage for the funeral tomorrow. I saw one parent buried when
I was nine. Now that I'm ten years older, I get to see the other
one buried. That's logic, ain't it?"
    His brash tone and cold words stung. But the
sting was brief, for she was sure it was the drink that was talking
more than he was. Someone had to do something for him, and she felt
compelled to be the one. She reached out to take the glass from his
hand. But he jerked it away from her reach.
    "Don't touch that!" He held the