Chapter 9 - One Year After She Left MeA year after Grace disappeared, I was no longer CEO of Hayes Global.
I remained chairman of a smaller advisory committee, but I worked three days a week.
People assumed I had been forced out.
I let them.
The truth was simpler.
I had finally discovered I owned enough.
The federal case against Colin Ward moved forward.
He eventually pleaded guilty to multiple financial crimes.
Laura Bennett reached a cooperation agreement, though charges related to Grace's medical harm remained complicated.
There was enough evidence to establish interference and unauthorized access.
Not enough to give us the simple certainty people expect from television.
Vanessa avoided charges connected to Emma's death.
But the financial case destroyed her career.
She testified against Colin.
I watched twelve minutes of her testimony from a courthouse hallway.
Then I left.
I had spent enough of my life watching Vanessa.
Grace moved back to New York six months after our divorce.
Not to the penthouse.
She bought a brownstone in Brooklyn.
With her own money.
She eventually accepted the founder shares I'd placed in trust.
Then she did something that made me laugh when I heard about it.
She used part of the dividends to create a fund for women building small businesses.
The Grace Bennett Founders Fund.
Not Hayes.
Bennett.
Her name.
I donated anonymously.
She found out.
Of course she did.
She returned the check.
Attached was a note.
Stop trying to sneak into things.
For the first time in months, I laughed until I cried.
We spoke occasionally.
Birthdays.
Legal updates.
Once because she saw an article claiming I was dating an actress and called to make fun of me.
“You hate theater.”
“I attended one premiere.”
“They say you're madly in love.”
“I was madly bored.”
Grace laughed.
Actually laughed.
I sat in my kitchen afterward staring at the phone for ten minutes.
I missed that sound more than I missed the penthouse having another person in it.
But I didn't chase her.
I dated no one.
Not as penance.
Not because I expected Grace to return.
I simply had no interest.
Therapy helped me understand something humiliating.
Vanessa hadn't stolen me from my marriage.
She had offered me a version of myself I wanted to believe.
Important.
Desired.
Unburdened.
Grace remembered who I was before the money.
That had become uncomfortable.
She knew my failures.
My insecurity.
The years when I woke at three in the morning terrified payroll would bounce.
Vanessa only knew Richard Hayes after magazines started putting him on covers.
With her, I never had to be ordinary.
And apparently I'd been foolish enough to confuse admiration with intimacy.
On the anniversary of Emma's death, Grace texted me.
Are you in New York?
My hands shook.
Yes.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
I'm going to the memorial garden tomorrow. You can come if you want.
I read the message six times.
The memorial garden had been Grace's idea.
She'd donated to the hospital to create a small courtyard for families who had lost pregnancies and infants.
There was no giant Hayes plaque.
No publicity.
One stone bore a tiny inscription:
Emma Grace Hayes
I arrived at ten.
Grace was already there.
She wore a cream coat.
Her hair had grown to her shoulders.
She looked peaceful.
Not untouched.
There is a difference.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
We stood beside Emma's stone.
I placed white roses beneath it.
Grace looked at them.
“My mother liked white roses.”
“I remember.”
She glanced at me.
For sixteen years, remembering details about her had once been effortless.
Then I had somehow stopped proving it.
We sat on a bench.
After a while, Grace said, “Do you ever think about what she'd look like?”
“Every day.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I smiled faintly.
“I think she'd have your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because I always wanted our children to have your eyes.”
Grace looked down.
“You never told me that.”
“There are a lot of things I should have told you.”
She nodded.
We stayed there until noon.
No dramatic confession.
No kiss.
Just two people grieving the daughter they'd lost in completely different ways.
When we reached the gate, Grace stopped.
“Do you want lunch?”
I thought I'd misheard.
“With you?”
She rolled her eyes.
“No, Richard. With the gardener.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
Lunch lasted three hours.
We talked about Emma first.
Then business.
Then Grace's foundation.
Then my therapy.
She nearly choked on water when I admitted I had learned to cook.
“You?”
“Seven meals.”
“Name them.”
“Pasta.”
“That's one.”
“Different kinds of pasta.”
“That is still one meal.”
“Salmon.”
“You used to call the chef when you wanted salmon.”
“I've evolved.”
She smiled.
It was dangerous how much I wanted to build hope around that smile.
I didn't.
At the end of lunch, I paid.
Grace gave me a look.
“What?”
“I can buy my own lunch.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you pay?”
“Because you invited me and I panicked.”
She laughed again.
Outside the restaurant, we stood on the sidewalk.
People passed around us.
No bodyguards.
No photographers that I could see.
Just New York.
Grace pushed her hair behind her ear.
“I had a nice time.”
“Me too.”
A yellow cab approached.
She raised her hand.
Before getting in, she turned.
“Richard?”
“Yes?”
“You've stopped asking me to come back.”
The words caught me off guard.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I thought carefully.
“Because I finally realized you can't come back.”
Her expression changed.
“The marriage we had is gone.”
Pain flickered in her eyes.
I continued.
“And maybe that's good.”
She frowned.
“Good?”
“The man you were married to thought being loved meant you would always be there.”
I looked at her.
“I don't want to be him again.”
The cab stopped.
Grace opened the door but didn't get inside.
“What do you want?”
I smiled sadly.
“To become someone you'd choose if you met him today.”
Her eyes filled.
“And if I don't?”
“Then I still needed to become him.”
For several seconds, she just looked at me.
Then she stepped forward.
She kissed my cheek.
Softly.
Briefly.
Nothing more.
“Goodbye, Richard.”
I stood frozen.
The cab disappeared into traffic.
For the first time in more than a year, goodbye didn't sound like an ending.
Three weeks later, Grace sent me a message.
Dinner Friday?
I stared at it.
Then another arrived.
Don't make me wait until ten.
My eyes burned.
I replied:
May you like
I'll be there at seven.
I arrived at 6:42.
