Briskly, she slathered lotion on the rest of her body. Once upon a time, she’d actually enjoyed this part of her daily routine. She would’ve lingered, taken time covering every inch of skin and luxuriated in the feel of rich, scented cream. Since her accident, though, she hated the feeling of being naked and exposed. The sooner she got clothing on, the better. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d seen herself nude.
Spur of the moment, she spun around and stared at herself in the large mirror over the sink, took in every angle, every inch of skin. My God, what happened to you? That skinny, damaged body could not be hers.
Grabbing the bath towel, she strategically placed it over her left side. There you are. Almost. With the right clothes on, covering the right spots, no one would be the wiser.
But she knew. She always knew.
The memory of the look on Jeremy’s face when he’d seen her scars flashed through her mind. No wonder he’d filed for a divorce the day after her long-term prognosis. Scarred for life is what the doctors had said. No amount of plastic surgery would ever completely erase the injuries caused by the fire. Her usefulness to him had gone up in flames, along with the leather seats in her Bugatti. She was now damaged goods.
Quickly, she pulled on a clean custom-fitted compression shirt, zipping it up the front. For a moment, she imagined going about her day without the tight elastic fabric, but the thought had been immediately followed by a sense of panic. She’d gotten used to ever-present pressure around her upper body. There was an odd sense of security, she supposed, in the feeling.
In order to ensure her scars wouldn’t spread, she needed to wear the compression garment over most of her torso at least twenty-three hours of every day. That meant she slept and exercised in one and would be wearing one until the day her doctor said her scars had matured.
Matured. How ridiculous was that term? As if a burn scar could ever be anything except ugly.
She was stepping into a pair of white thong underwear, when the front doorbell chimed. Inching out into the hall, she glanced downstairs through the sheers on either side of the front door. A young man, more than likely a college student, stood at the door holding two bags of groceries.
“Newman’s delivery,” he called out, setting the bags down and knocking. “Hello? Mrs. Kahill?”
She hadn’t ordered any groceries.
The boy squinted through the windows on either side of the front door, trying unsuccessfully to see into the house. “Well, okay then. Call the store if you need anything else.” Shrugging, he set the bags down on the porch, turned and left.
Her stomach grumbled and she wondered what was in those bags and who had ordered her food. As if in answer, her cell phone rang. That had to be either Suzy or Amanda, but she didn’t want to talk to either one of them.
The phone stopped ringing and indicated a voice mail had been left for her. Then, surprisingly, the house landline rang. She hadn’t given that number to anyone.
The answering machine speaker sounded through the house. “Dammit, Grace, pick up.” Suzy Lang’s unique accent, not quite British, but not entirely Indian, echoed strongly through the house. “Okay, fine. Be that way. I ordered you some groceries because I have this sneaking suspicion that you have nothing but celery to eat in that house. Believe it or not, that Newman’s store had some decent organic stuff. So eat, okay? Don’t make me come there and force-feed you.”
At that, Grace smiled as she pulled on a pair of white capris, topped with a T-shirt over her compression garment and finished off with a dark heather-gray hoodie and a lightweight scarf around her neck, effectively hiding the rest of her scars.
“You know I don’t have the time. The photo shoot for that new magazine spread has me running around like a runway wannabe.” Her long, soft sigh came over the line. “I miss you already.”
Grace missed her best friend, too. Apparently, there was one thing left in L.A. that Grace still cared about and that still cared about her. She answered the phone. “Hey, Suze.”
“I knew you were there. What the hell?”
“Sorry. Having an awkward time settling in here, I guess.”
“Amanda called me,” Suzy said softly. “What are you doing back on Mirabelle?”
“I needed some R & R.”
“R & R, my ass. You’re going to be bored out of your mind in a week.”
“I’ve been working full-time since I left this place. I think I’m due for some time off. Besides, my dad needs the company.”
“Okay, okay.” Suzy sighed. “Amanda’s worried about you.”
“Oh, really?” Grace was a paycheck to her assistant. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Grace, don’t be that way. You do have people in your life who love you.”
Bullshit. Suzy had been the only one who truly cared. The rest had all been using her. Designers wanted her to wear their latest lines. Friends wanted appointments with her agent for their daughters, nieces, nephews, you name it. Editors wanted exclusive photo ops. Photographers wanted in with up-and-coming models. The truth had been revealed when her usefulness to them had ended with her accident.
“I’m serious,” Suzy said. “You’re not just a boss to Amanda. She really cares.”
“If you say so.”
“She said you were supposed to have a doctor’s appointment the day you left for Mirabelle. I know you’re sick of doctors, but you may still need some attention.”
“I know.” She wasn’t entirely out of the woods yet, and she didn’t want to be ninety and still wearing this compression garment.
“So what are you doing about it?”
“Well, believe or not, this tiny island has a wonderful clinic. I promise I’ll make an appointment for some time in the next couple of weeks with Doc Welinski.” He’d give her a new prescription for any medicated cream she asked for and pain meds, if needed.
“Is he any good?”
“The best.”
Grace had never met a sweeter, more compassionate man than old Doc Welinski, except, quite possibly, for her father. Doc had tenderly and with unexpected humor put on her cast when she’d fallen out of the McGregors’ apple tree and broken her arm. When she’d gotten violently sick to her stomach after French inhaling an entire pack of cigarettes, he’d given her antacids and kept the secret from her mother. And when other mothers, mothers like Mrs. Miller, had complained about Grace and the trouble she always seemed to be getting into, Grace could still remember Doc Welinski standing up for her in the school lobby. She’d be in good hands here on Mirabelle.
“All right,” Suzy said. “I’ll tell Amanda she can stop worrying.”
“I gotta run. Talk to you again soon.”
“Don’t wait to answer the phone next time.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Smiling, Grace disconnected their call. Then she went downstairs and brought in the groceries the Newman’s delivery boy had left on her porch. She set the bags on the kitchen counter and put everything away.
The selection of groceries indicated Suzy was well aware that Grace snacked rather than cooked full-fledged meals. Tomato juice, low-fat yogurt and breakfast bars. Pita bread, hummus, sprouts and shaved roasted turkey. Romaine, feta cheese and an olive oil vinaigrette. Shrimp and fish. Blueberries, raspberries, avocadoes and an artichoke, all of them fresh. There were a variety of organic soups. And, lastly, a special treat. Two pints of chocolate fudge brownie ice cream.
Grace grabbed a spoon and dug out a chunk of ice cream before putting the containers in the freezer. As the chocolate melted on her tongue, she groaned. There were benefits to no longer