Blessing in Disguise by Eileen Goudge Read Free Book Online Page A

All of a sudden he looked every day his age, older, and more weary than she had ever seen him.
    Grace saw herself then, as if through Jack’s eyes: a small woman in blue jeans damp at the knees, wearing big yellow rubber gloves and standing in front of a toilet with tears pouring down her face.
    A woman madly in love with this big, wonderful man who held out no promises, only his arms spread wide to engulf her. A woman who wondered where this treacherous uncharted road was taking them, if one day she’d be stuck cleaning up a different sort of mess.

Chapter 2
    Hannah felt sick. Not like she had to throw up again. No, this was different ... in a way, worse. By the time Ben was parking his Beamer in front of her building on Gramercy Park, Hannah was thoroughly disgusted with herself. Why had she carried on like such a jerk at Grace’s? Horrid and nasty, like snotty Corinne Cavanaugh, always making digs at poor, fat Francie Boyle.
    Except, she reminded herself, there was nothing fat or pathetic about Grace. Maybe, if Grace were homely, or had bad skin, or even bad breath, it wouldn’t be so awful. Then she could at least feel sorry for Grace, maybe even just a little superior. The trouble was, Grace was so damn ... perfect. Not a bad cook, either. Next to her, Hannah felt so awkward—horsy, clumsy, oily. Just looking at Grace’s Dove-commercial complexion, she could almost feel the blackheads popping out over her nose and chin.
    “You don’t have to come up with me,” she told her brother, who, after walking her to the elevator, now stood waiting for it to arrive. “I’m sixteen, you know, not six.” She was immediately sorry she’d snapped at him.
    But Ben only gave her his usual water-off-a-duck’s-back shrug. “It’s no big deal. I’ll keep you company till Mom gets home.”
    Nothing new about Mom being out, Hannah thought. But this time she kept it to herself.
    On the fourth floor, as she and Ben made their way down the cavernous hallway, Hannah found herself walking softly so as not to disturb any of the neighbors. Ever since she was little, for some reason, this place, with its dimly lit art-glass fixtures, ceiling coves, and heavy paneled doors, had reminded her of a corridor in some huge mausoleum. The kind of place where you felt you had to whisper. She remembered, a year or two ago, when some of the co-op members had wanted to cover the hallway’s old Victorian tile floor with carpeting. There was a big skirmish, spearheaded by her mother, as chairperson of the preservation committee. And since Mom usually got what she wanted, Hannah now, despite her best efforts, didn’t succeed in keeping her movements from sending old Mrs. Vandervoort’s Rottweiler, in 4C, into a frenzy of barking.
    She unlocked her front door quickly, before Mrs. Vandervoort could poke her head out and give them one of her scowls. Ben followed her inside, where instantly their footsteps were muffled by a Chinese runner so well padded it felt like walking on a foam mattress.
    “Sounds like Mom is back,” Ben whispered.
    Music trickled in from the living room, soft and forgettable ... one of those New Age CDs Mom liked. Music for when you were in a bad mood and needed cheering up, or when you were in a good mood and needed affirmation of it; music to put you to sleep, or wake you up, or, for all she knew, to take a crap by.
    It was like everything else in this apartment—the watered-silk walls and Aubusson carpets, the English hunting prints and needlepoint pillows, the fringed shawl draped over the back of the antique sofa—artful and coordinated. Yet somehow not quite real, like a Ralph Lauren showroom. Shrugging her coat off, Hannah felt its hem catch against the bundle of dried grass sticking up out of the antique umbrella-stand next to the front hall closet. Watching bits of fuzz and broken stem drift onto the carpet, she felt a dart of panic. God, Mom was going to kill her. She usually tried to be so careful ... only,