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.
Several mornings after signing the adoption documents, Grace came down and found a formal breakfast set up. Starched linen draped over the table, soft-boiled in porcelain egg cups, neatly arrayed chunks of French cheeses on the good china, triangles of whole wheat toast lined precisely in a silver rack.
Coffee and tea, no room for error.
Malcolm and Sophie were already seated. Another production? Oh, boy. Grace knew the thought was brutally ungrateful but sometimes all she wanted was to be left with her thoughts and fantasies.
This morning, it was more a matter of fatigue; she hadn’t slept much, alternating between flights of glee and pangs of anxiety. Wondering obsessively: What did her new status really mean? Would they at some point want to be called Mom and Dad, were they just waiting for the right psychological moment?
Mom and Dad.
Mother and Father.
Mater and Pater.
Your Lordships... was she now officially a Bullocks Wilshire and Saks Fifth Avenue princess? Had she ever been anything else since arriving on June Street?
Would some prince appear now that she qualified socially?
Would he remain a prince or turn into a frog when she kissed him... worse, a toad.
A lizard.
A serpent.
What did all this mean?
The most terrifying question of alclass="underline" Is this a dream?
No, it couldn’t be. Because she was wide awake, lying on her back in a big, luxuriant bed in a big, luxuriant room, a place they said was hers but was it really?
Was she anything more than an honored guest?
Did it matter?
Now, at the breakfast table, Grace rubbed her eyes and sat down, watching soft-boiled egg shimmy as her hand bumped the cup.
Sophie said, “Tough night?”
As if she understood.
Maybe she did. Maybe Malcolm did, too. He was a psychologist, trained to read emotions, though, to tell the truth, sometimes he seemed oblivious to the world around him; Sophie was the perceptive one. The one who shopped with her. Started off selecting her clothing, then gradually eased out of the process, allowing Grace to make her own decisions.
Sophie made her medical and dental and hairdresser appointments. Sophie had found her the dentist, the pediatrician. Now a gynecologist, a pretty young woman named Beth Levine, who examined Grace gently and offered her the option of birth-control pills.
It was Sophie she smiled at now. “I’m okay. This looks yummy.”
She ate a bit of egg, a nibble of toast, drank most of a cup of coffee, then stopped and smiled at both of them. Letting them know she was patient with whatever they had in mind.
But hopefully, not another bunch of emotion, please no more of that. Yes, her fortune had turned golden, but at some point it was like overeating: You paid with heartburn and sleepless nights.
Malcolm said, “We’re feeling great about everything.”
“I am, too. Thank you.”
“Your being happy is all the thanks we need, Grace. We should be thanking you—” He laughed. “Oh, hell, talk about maudlin — hey, let’s everyone go round the table and hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’ and thank everyone else, we’ll have a group encounter Thank-a-Thon.”
Grace laughed with him.
Sophie said, “If you don’t mind, we do need to talk about college. The way I see it, there are two options: Stay another full year at Merganfield, which would be a holding pattern, but that’s okay should you choose it, you’re way ahead of the game. Or you could apply for spring acceptance at a college and if you got in, spend only half a year at Merganfield. You’d still be barely sixteen when you started so if that sounds daunting, I — we understand. We just don’t want you getting bored.”
“I could get a job.”
“A job?” said Malcolm. “Let me tell you something, work’s highly overestimated.”
Chuckling and turning to Sophie for appreciation. She was dead serious, fixed on Grace. “What kind of job?”
“I haven’t really thought about it, I’m just offering it as a possibility.”
“Would you prefer to have some time to consider that, dear? Though, frankly, I’m not sure what you could do other than work at a fast-food joint. Not because you’re unqualified. It’s simply the way things are set up in this society.”
“Flipping burgers, hmm,” said Grace. Flashes of restaurant leftovers in a double-wide caused her to sway. “Maybe not. What’s that spring acceptance like?”
“It’s tough to pull off, dear. And it can be difficult socially, because you’d be stepping into an environment where everyone else has had months to get acquainted.”
As if I’m going to socialize any more than you do. Than I do.
Grace said, “Why’s it tough to pull off?”
“Colleges and universities are the most procedure-bound institutions around and they revolve around fall acceptances. Exceptions are made but they’re few and far between.”
Grace said, “There must be empty slots due to people who drop out.”
“There are,” said Malcolm, “but they’re mostly filled with transfers from other universities.”
Sophie said, “Still, as I said, exceptions are made. For people such as yourself.” She licked her lips. “I’m going to level with you, dear: We’ve taken the liberty of inquiring and though it’s not a certainty, it is a possibility. There’s a problem, though.”