Grayson's Vow
Mia Sheridan
This book is dedicated to my grammy, who always had a word of wise advice, a listening ear, and a heart filled with love. I miss you every day.
LIBRA
“Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word happy would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.”
—Carl Jung
CHAPTER ONE
Kira
“Never fret, my love, the universe always balances the scales. Her ways may be mysterious, but they are always just.”
—Isabelle Dallaire, “Gram”
In a long history of bad days, this one was at the top of the list. And it was only nine a.m. I stepped from my car and took a deep breath of the balmy, late-summer air before walking toward Napa Valley Savings Bank. The sultry morning shimmered around me, the sweet scent of jasmine teasing my nose. The peaceful beauty seemed wrong somehow, the bleakness of my mood in direct contrast to the warm, sunshiny day. An arrogant idea, I supposed. As if the weather should express itself according to my mood. I sighed as I pulled open the glass front door of the bank.
“May I help you?” a cheery brunette asked as I approached her teller window.
“Yes,” I said, withdrawing my ID and an old savings book from my purse. “I want to close this account.” I slid both toward the teller. A corner of the savings book was folded back, revealing numbers my gram had entered when showing me how to keep track of our deposits. The memory tore at my heart, but I forced what I hoped was a cheerful-looking smile as the girl took the book, opened it, and began entering the account number.
I thought back to the day we’d opened the account. I’d been ten, and my gram had walked me here and I’d proudly deposited the fifty dollars she’d given me for helping with yard work throughout the summer. We’d made trips to this bank over the years when I’d stayed at her house in Napa. She’d taught me the true value of money—it was meant to be shared, used to help others, but it also represented a type of freedom. The fact that I currently had little money, few options, and every material possession I owned was stuffed in the trunk of my car was proof of how right she’d been. I was anything but free.
“Two thousand forty-seven dollars and sixteen cents,” the teller stated, glancing up at me.
I nodded. It was even a little more than I had hoped. Good. That was good. I needed every cent. I joined my hands together on the counter and exhaled slowly as I waited for her to count out the cash.
Once the money was safely tucked into my purse and the account closed, I wished the teller a good day and then headed toward the door. When I spotted a drinking fountain, I turned to make a brief stop. I’d only been using the air conditioning in my car sparingly so as to save on gas and had been consistently hot and thirsty.
As the cold water hit my lips, I heard faintly from the office around the corner, “Grayson Hawthorn, nice to meet you.”
I froze, then stood slowly, using my thumb to distractedly wipe the water off my bottom lip. Grayson Hawthorn…Grayson Hawthorn? I knew that name, remembered the strong sound of it, the way I had repeated it to myself on a whisper to hear it on my lips that day in my father’s office. I thought back to the quick glance at the file my dad had slid closed as I’d placed a tray of coffee on his desk. Could it be the same Grayson Hawthorn?
I took a few steps and peeked around the corner, but saw nothing more than a closed office door, the shade on the window pulled down. My curiosity still piqued, I walked to the restroom on the other side of the corridor from the office Grayson Hawthorn occupied. Snoopy much, Kira?
Once inside the restroom, I locked the door and leaned against the wall. I hadn’t even known Grayson Hawthorn lived in Napa. His trial had taken place in San Francisco, so that must have been where the crime was committed—not that I knew what that crime might have been, only that my father had taken a brief interest in it. I bit my lip, moving to the sink and staring at myself in the mirror above it as I washed and dried my hands.
As I was leaving the restroom, a man in a suit, most likely a bank executive, entered the office across the hall. He closed the door behind him, but it didn’t click into place and stood very, very slightly ajar, allowing me to hear a few words of introductions. I paused, pulling the restroom door most of the way closed and then standing there trying to listen.
Really, Kira? This is shamefully nosy. An invasion of privacy. And worse, somewhat pointless. Seriously, what is wrong with you? Ignoring my own reprimand, I leaned closer to the crack in the door.
I’d leave this less-than-stellar moment out of my memoirs. No one needed to know about it but me.
A few words drifted my way. “Sorry…felon…can’t give…this bank…unfortunately…” Felon? Yes then, it had to be the Grayson Hawthorn I thought it was. What a strange, random coincidence. I barely knew anything about him. All I really knew was his name, the fact that he’d been convicted of a crime, and that my father had participated in using him as a pawn. Grayson Hawthorn and I had that in common. Not that it was likely my father remembered the name of one man when he ruined lives so regularly and with so little afterthought. In any case, why was I eavesdropping from inside a bathroom, trying to listen in on his private conversation? I wasn’t sure. However, an abundance of curiosity was one of my confirmed faults. Okay, enough lurking. I took a deep breath and started to exit when I heard the scraping of chair legs and paused yet again. The words from across the hall were clearer now that they had probably moved closer to the door. “I’m sorry I can’t approve a loan for you, Mr. Hawthorn.” The male voice that spoke sounded regretful. “If you were worth more—”
“I understand. Thank you for your time, Mr. Gellar” came another male voice, Grayson’s I assumed.
I caught a brief glimpse of a tall, male figure with dark hair in a heather-gray suit leaving the office and leaned back inside the restroom, clicking the door closed again. I washed my hands once more to stall, and then left the small room. I glanced at the office Grayson Hawthorn had been in as I passed and saw a man sitting behind the desk in a suit and tie, his attention focused on something he was writing.
Outside, the day had grown brighter and warmer, and I let myself into my car, which I had parked up the street. I sat there for a minute, staring out the front window at the quaint downtown area: crisp, clean awnings adorned the fronts of the businesses, and large containers of brightly colored flowers decorated the sidewalk. I loved Napa, from downtown to the riverfront, to the outlying vineyards, fruit ripe in the summer and colorful with the vivid-yellow, wild mustard flowers in the winter. It had been where my gram retired to after my grandfather passed, where I’d spent summers at her cottage-style house with the covered front porch. Everywhere I looked I saw her, heard her voice, felt her warm, vibrant spirit. My gram had been fond of saying Today may be a very bad day, but tomorrow may be the best day of your life. You just have to hang on until you get there.
I drew in a deep inhale, doing my best to shake off the loneliness. Oh, Gram, if only you were here. You would take me into your arms and tell me everything was going to be okay. And because it was you saying it, I would believe it to be true.