Read Online Forged in Grace by Jordan E. Rosenfeld - Free Book Online
Authors: Jordan E. Rosenfeld
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sweat it okay? I’ve got a deadbolt on the inside.”
After we ’ve done a thorough inspection of the apartment and are sure it’s empty, Marly cracks open the freezer and withdraws a tall bottle of vodka and pours it into two clean, white mugs sitting in the dish drainer. Then she bends down and sets the kitchen table chairs back on their feet.
I sit primly staring at the cup of vodka, the scent conjuring the film developing chemicals my father once kept in the garage. “Well,” I say, as much to myself as to her, “Life is already more interesting here than in Drake’s Bay.”
“ Oh yeah.” Marly smiles and knocks back her drink.
“ You think you should be drinking?” I ask. Not the actions of someone with the intent to keep a baby.
She looks at her glass with raised eyebrows, as though surprised to find alcohol in it. “No, I should not be drinking. Or smoking. What I should be doing is figuring out what I’m going to do about the unexpected spawn, but…”
She stops her explanation and stands up, stretching out her lower back. “I have an addictive personality, or something. Perils of life—and work—in a town bent on hedonism. You’re going to love Beneath the Waves,” she says quickly. “My mother thinks I’m a stripper, or a hooker, which is so like her, never giving me any credit. But wait until you see it, the illusion is pretty spectacular. I could have had a million waitress jobs, working in casinos or hotels, but this is something special.”
“ It has to beat working at a doctor’s office,” I say, though I feel a rush of regret for leaving Adam to his blood drive without me. He’d tried so hard to hide his disappointment by looking busy, but he couldn’t hide the frown, the heaviness that weighted down his voice. Whether he meant to or not, we forged a bond from that first day thirteen years ago when he came to my hospital bed with gentle derisions of the nasty nurses, making me feel as though I was still the same old Grace, no matter who I see in the mirror now.
Chapter Seven
That night we head out to the casino at the Bellagio, which, like many of the hotels and casinos on The Strip, stands tall and looming with a Roman sort of imposition—the setting for a spectacle or an alternate version of reality. Inside it’s like I’ve stepped into a child’s carnival brought to life—art and whimsy merging into objects that are either larger or smaller than they should be in real life: a gigantic poppy flower that towers over us, hot air balloons fit to carry Thumbelina off. It’s mesmerizing and dreamlike in the best of ways, and the air smells of the perfect marriage of food and perfume.
Marly was right about one thing: nobody looks twice at me in the neon-light of the casino, which is bustling with high-dressed women bearing spray-tans and heels one can only teeter in. I ’m wearing the only dress I have that is not an effort at full-body concealment—eggplant colored rayon that drops to my ankles in a full skirt, cinched at the waist with a patent leather black belt. Knee-high, black going-out boots that I rarely go out in. It’s a far cry from the form-fitting numbers on most of the women we see around us, and even from the short, pale pink flapper style dress Marly’s wearing that makes her look Amazonian, but it accentuates the parts of me that Ma is always telling me to play up—my small waist and long torso.
“ The first time I played slots at a casino,” Marly says, standing as close to me as she can get without taking my arm, “I blew three hundred dollars in an hour, half of what I brought with me.”
The rows of slots look like tiny glittering robots, but nothing that would cause me to lose time or money. “Is it really that addictive?”
She nods. “Be careful.” She taps my arm and smiles. Beneath that tiny tap blooms another Marly—eyes too bright with liquor stolen from her parents’ cabinet. Just a taste, Grace. “But not too careful.”
Marly
After we ’ve done a thorough inspection of the apartment and are sure it’s empty, Marly cracks open the freezer and withdraws a tall bottle of vodka and pours it into two clean, white mugs sitting in the dish drainer. Then she bends down and sets the kitchen table chairs back on their feet.
I sit primly staring at the cup of vodka, the scent conjuring the film developing chemicals my father once kept in the garage. “Well,” I say, as much to myself as to her, “Life is already more interesting here than in Drake’s Bay.”
“ Oh yeah.” Marly smiles and knocks back her drink.
“ You think you should be drinking?” I ask. Not the actions of someone with the intent to keep a baby.
She looks at her glass with raised eyebrows, as though surprised to find alcohol in it. “No, I should not be drinking. Or smoking. What I should be doing is figuring out what I’m going to do about the unexpected spawn, but…”
She stops her explanation and stands up, stretching out her lower back. “I have an addictive personality, or something. Perils of life—and work—in a town bent on hedonism. You’re going to love Beneath the Waves,” she says quickly. “My mother thinks I’m a stripper, or a hooker, which is so like her, never giving me any credit. But wait until you see it, the illusion is pretty spectacular. I could have had a million waitress jobs, working in casinos or hotels, but this is something special.”
“ It has to beat working at a doctor’s office,” I say, though I feel a rush of regret for leaving Adam to his blood drive without me. He’d tried so hard to hide his disappointment by looking busy, but he couldn’t hide the frown, the heaviness that weighted down his voice. Whether he meant to or not, we forged a bond from that first day thirteen years ago when he came to my hospital bed with gentle derisions of the nasty nurses, making me feel as though I was still the same old Grace, no matter who I see in the mirror now.
Chapter Seven
That night we head out to the casino at the Bellagio, which, like many of the hotels and casinos on The Strip, stands tall and looming with a Roman sort of imposition—the setting for a spectacle or an alternate version of reality. Inside it’s like I’ve stepped into a child’s carnival brought to life—art and whimsy merging into objects that are either larger or smaller than they should be in real life: a gigantic poppy flower that towers over us, hot air balloons fit to carry Thumbelina off. It’s mesmerizing and dreamlike in the best of ways, and the air smells of the perfect marriage of food and perfume.
Marly was right about one thing: nobody looks twice at me in the neon-light of the casino, which is bustling with high-dressed women bearing spray-tans and heels one can only teeter in. I ’m wearing the only dress I have that is not an effort at full-body concealment—eggplant colored rayon that drops to my ankles in a full skirt, cinched at the waist with a patent leather black belt. Knee-high, black going-out boots that I rarely go out in. It’s a far cry from the form-fitting numbers on most of the women we see around us, and even from the short, pale pink flapper style dress Marly’s wearing that makes her look Amazonian, but it accentuates the parts of me that Ma is always telling me to play up—my small waist and long torso.
“ The first time I played slots at a casino,” Marly says, standing as close to me as she can get without taking my arm, “I blew three hundred dollars in an hour, half of what I brought with me.”
The rows of slots look like tiny glittering robots, but nothing that would cause me to lose time or money. “Is it really that addictive?”
She nods. “Be careful.” She taps my arm and smiles. Beneath that tiny tap blooms another Marly—eyes too bright with liquor stolen from her parents’ cabinet. Just a taste, Grace. “But not too careful.”
Marly
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