For a second, we’re eye to eye, both holding on to the envelope, before I take it and face Zoe. “Anything you need, you know where to find me. Anything at all.”
Zoe hugs me and dashes outside.
Heart pounding like a tom-tom, I rip open the envelope.
Inside is the start of my new life—in cash.
Watching the limo recede into the ghetto twilight, I find myself making a plea to whatever higher power might be willing to intercede, a plea for second chances and happier times—for Zoe, for Joe’s and Serena’s families, and for all the untold others touched by the greed of evil men. And women. And for me.
Epilogue
“Gracie! Get down here!” Vinnie yells from downstairs.
“What is it? I’m busy,” I yell back, stroking fuchsia nail polish onto my five toes. One thing that almost getting killed taught me is not to be ashamed or embarrassed by my leg, but to value it as a sign of my resilience. I’ve taken to wearing skirts instead of pants, sandals instead of closed-toed shoes, and I’ve entered myself into a 5K race, my first with Oscar 2.0.
“Get down here! You’ve got a delivery.”
“Coming!”
At the bottom of the stairs, Vinnie grabs me by the shoulders and spins me around.
“I looked out the office window, and there she was,” he says, jumping up and down like a kid on Christmas morning.
I blink twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating. But no, it’s real. My car. My father’s Jaguar, sitting in my parking space, coiled like the feline after which it was named, its green paint resplendent under the noonday sun, its scooped headlights watching me.
“Where? How?”
“I was out for a bit. When I came back to the office, I found her. These were on the desk.” Vinnie holds up a set of keys hanging from a Tiffany key chain monogrammed with GL, Esq.
I approach the car, tentative, as if it might disappear any minute, and brush my fingers over the elongated hood. The chrome spokes on the rims have been polished to a brilliant shine. The convertible top is down, the perforated tan leather of the two bucket seats is creased from use, but still soft to the touch. I envision my father in the driver’s seat, sporting a tweed flat cap, hands on the polished teak steering wheel, as we glide along narrow country lanes, gold and red leaves swirling in our wake.
“And this was under the keys,” Vinnie says, holding out an envelope addressed to me in Manny’s handwriting.
I slit the envelope open with one of the keys. Inside, the title to the car in my name and a single sheet of paper embossed with AAM:
Dear Grace:
Congratulations on your one year anniversary! I knew you could do it. You just needed to believe in yourself, and now you do.
I’m sorry things didn’t work out as we had dreamed, but the brightest of futures is ahead for you, and that is what you deserve.
Your Friend (I hope),
Manny
P.S. As promised, the keys and title for your car. Maybe you’ll take me for a ride sometime.
Lightheaded, I grab the driver’s side door.
“You okay? What does it say?”
“In all the ruckus, I forgot. It’s today.”
“What? What’s today?”
“The one year anniversary of my sobriety. I forgot. But he remembered.”
Vinnie gives me a high five. “You did it, kid!”
I stare at the note. “And he kept his end of our bargain.”
“You know what? Maybe he’s not such a bad guy after all.”
“Maybe not,” I say and poke Vinnie in the ribs. “And neither are you.”
“Maybe you should try comedy as your next career,” he says, poking me back. “And these are some wheels, sweetheart!” He circles the car but stops when he gets to the rear. “Now, look at that.”
I rush to his side to see what he’s pointing at.
My new license plate.
It reads: IM BACK.
Acknowledgment
As a long distance runner, I can say with certainty that writing a book is the literary equivalent of running an ultramarathon. Nonetheless, unlike a race, crossing the finish line is not a solitary achievement, but one accomplished only with the support of others.
To the long-suffering members of the Steamboat Springs Writers Group—I am forever in your debt for your patience and expertise in reviewing and commenting on oh so many drafts of States of Grace.
To my editor, Susan Brooks, for seeing potential in Grace and for helping me round out a few of her rough edges without dampening her warrior heart.
To Stacy, your courage and tenacity in the face of adversity inspire me in these pages and every day.
And, while you may be last on this list, you are first in my heart—thank you to my husband and Reader Numero Uno, Andy, both for your attention to the minutiae that always seem to escape me, and for never counting the costs of my chasing rainbows. This book would not have been possible without your love and relentless encouragement.
About the Author
Mandy Miller is an attorney currently living in Steamboat Springs, Colorado, with her husband and Talisker, a rescue mutt. Before moving to Steamboat, she practiced law in Chicago, New York, Latin America, and South Florida.
Mandy is originally from Scotland, but lived in more than a dozen countries with her family before moving to the United States for college. With an undergraduate degree in Spanish and French Literature, she needed to do something to pay the bills, so she did what any good liberal arts student who can write would do, she went to law school. After eighteen years as a corporate lawyer, she planned her escape to another professional life teaching psychology. More school ensued and a Ph.D. in Psychology was granted, but the great escape was not to be. She was dragged back to the law to use her legal and
