ONE WISH
March 2015/MIRA
Chapter One
On the morning
after Christmas Grace Dillon’s flower shop was very quiet. She had no orders to
fill, no deliveries to make and she’d be very surprised if her shop phone even
rang at all. Most people were trying to recover from Christmas, many families
were away for the holidays or had company to entertain.
Grace drove to
North Bend to grab an early skate before the rink got busy. Figure skating
classes were suspended over Christmas break and people, mostly kids who wanted
to try out their new skates, would dominate the rink later in the day. No one
knew Grace stole these secret early morning skates. She had a deal with Jake
Galbraith, the rink owner. She could call him and if it was convenient, he’d
let her skate for an hour or two while they were getting ready to open. He
didn’t want to charge her, but she paid him fifty dollars an hour anyway. It
was a point of pride.
He smiled at
her when she came in and told her to have a good skate.
She stretched
out and then warmed up on the deserted ice, closely following the Zamboni ice
resurfacer that had just finished. She did forward and backward crossovers,
backward half-swizzle pumps, figure 8’s, scratch spins and axels. She noticed
Jake was standing right up front, leaning his forearms on the boards. She threw
him a forward spiral and a leaning tower spiral. She executed a perfect sit
spin next. She circled the ice a few times, a jump here and there. She had been
known for her straddle split jump, touching her toes with her fingers. When she
looked for Jake again, he had disappeared.
Then the music
started, filling the rink with the strains of Rhapsody in Blue. She glided into
an arabesque, arms stretched out, fingers pointed, wrists flexible. She looked
to see that Jake had returned, watching her every move. She went for a double
axel and fell on her ass. She got up, laughing to herself. She went around the
rink a few times, tried it again and nailed it, but it wasn’t pretty. She moved
through Rhapsody and the music changed to another Gershwin tune. She’d
practiced to these as a little girl; they were familiar and comfortable.
Memories of skating during her young years always filled her with nostalgia and
comfort. That was before the competition get really fierce.
When she was
fifteen, stronger but lighter and more flexible, she could really catch the
air. She’d been on the ice for an hour when the music segued into Alicia Keys’ Girl
On Fire and it lit her up. That was her signature music. She was on fire!
She skated like she was competing. She noticed other people watching — a guy
leaned on his broom and gazed at her, a couple of teenage girls who worked in
the skate rental had stopped working to watch, the Zamboni driver leaned a
shoulder against the rink boards, hands in his pockets. Two hours slid by
effortlessly when she heard the sounds of people arriving to skate. She slowed
and got off the ice.
“Beautiful,”
Jake said. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”
“Holidays are
busy at the shop,” she said. She tried to get to the rink on Sunday mornings,
but the last month had been frantic — wreaths, centerpieces, two weddings and
just day to day traffic in the shop.
“You should
spend more time on the ice. I have a long list of names of people looking for a
good coach.”
She shook her
head. “I don’t think I’d be a good coach. I don’t have time for one thing. And
I’d never go back on the circuit, even with students. I left that world.”
“I thought the
day would come that you might be interested in going back, maybe not in
competition for yourself, but coaching. I think on name alone you’d make a
fortune.”
“I left the
name behind, too,” she reminded him with a smile. “We have an agreement.”
“I haven’t said
a word. People ask me, who is that girl, but I just say you’re training and
asked not to be identified. Some of them guess and would show up to watch you
if they had any idea when you would be skating. The ice misses you. Watching
you skate is like seeing music.”
“Phooey. I
don’t train anymore. I spent as much time on my ass as on my blades. I look
like crap.”
“Your worst is
better than a lot of bests I see. I’ve missed you. Maybe you’ll have more time
in the new year.”
“We’ll see.”
She took off
her skates and pulled on her Uggs. Sometimes she doubted her decision to leave
it all behind because being on the ice made her happy. Then she’d remind
herself that while a couple of hours felt great, the difficult routine of a
competitive figure skater was grueling, exhausting. As a coach she’d never be
able to push young girls the way she’d been pushed.
She pulled out
a hundred dollars in cash for her two hours alone on the rink. Jake had told
her he put the money in a special scholarship fund for young wannabe Olympians
who couldn’t otherwise afford lessons. She told him however he wanted to spend
it was fine with her. As long as he didn’t sell her out.
As she left the
rink she reflected that her life in Thunder Point was so much more peaceful
than it had been in competition and her freedom was hard won. She had friends
now, even if they didn’t know who she had been before. At least no one thought
of her as tragic or complicated or as one of the saddest yet most triumphant
stories told on the competitive skating circuit. No one was threatened by her,
hated her, feared or resented her. No one called her a rich bitch or a dirty
liar.
Of course, the
weight of her secrets sometimes wore on her. Jake Galbraith had recognized her
at once. All she had to do was ask the cost of a private rink for a couple of
hours and that was it. She hadn’t confided in anyone else.
When she got
into the van she saw that she had a voice mail on her cell phone. She listened
to it before leaving the parking lot. It was Mikhail, her old coach. They kept
in touch. Sometimes they left each other a series of brief messages because he
could be anywhere in the world. He kept tabs on her. “I am wishing you happy
Christmas,” said the Russian. “I think I am day late. If so, you will
understand.”
Grace waited
until she was back in her tiny apartment above the flower shop before returning
the call. “I thought you had forgotten all about me,” she said to his voice
mail. “It was a happy Christmas. I was a maid of honor for my friend Iris
yesterday — that’s how I spent the day. I’ve never been in a wedding before. It
was small and intimate, a beautiful experience. And this morning I went
skating. I fell three times.” Then she mimicked his accent. “What can I say? I
am clumsy oaf with no training.” Then she laughed, wished him the best New Year
ever and said good bye, signing off.
Grace’s beloved
father and coach died rather suddenly when she was only fourteen and he was
sixty. Her mother, once a competitive and professional figure skater, responded
by hiring an even better coach, a very short Russian of huge reputation who
could take Grace all the way. There was no time for grieving, they had work to
do. Mikhail was a tough, brilliant coach and they were together for eleven
years. He had been very unhappy with her decision to leave competition and for
a couple of years he pestered her return to the sport, “Before you forget
everything I taught you!”
Her mother,
Winnie Dillon Banks, who had herself been a teenage skating wonder, was worse
than devastated. She was furious. “If you quit now, after all I’ve invested in
you, you are dead to me.” After the 2010 winter games in Vancouver, Grace
walked away from everything and everyone. All she’d ever wished for was to be
like everyone else. To not be constantly judged every time she took a breath.
She wanted to be normal.
*******
In the
afternoon, when Grace was just about to ruin her dinner with a big bowl of
popcorn while looking through various online floral arrangements on her laptop,
there was a light tapping at her back door. She pulled the curtain to peek out
through the window in the door and was shocked to see it was Iris. She opened
the door.
“Don’t
newlyweds lay around in bed for several days after the wedding? Doing it until
their parts give out?” Grace asked, only half teasing.
“Maybe when one
of the newlyweds isn’t the town deputy,” Iris said. “We did eat breakfast in
bed and Seth didn’t go to the office until about one. I cleaned the house,
thawed something for dinner and….” She paused. “I called Troy to tell him.”
“You didn’t
tell him before, huh?” Grace asked.
Iris just shook
her head.
Troy Headly,
high school history teacher and the fantasy of all the high school girls, had
had a very big crush on Iris. They had dated for only a few months last spring
when Iris told him theirs would have to be a friendship only relationship. She
was the high school guidance counselor and before getting involved with a
teacher in the same school, she had to be powerfully sure. And she hadn’t been.
But Troy had pursued Iris right up until Seth was in the picture. Even then, it
was pretty obvious he still had a serious thing for Iris and wouldn’t mind if
Seth fell off the face of the earth.
“How’d he take
it?” Grace asked.
“Like a man,”
Iris said. “Is it too early for wine?”
“Certainly
not!” She pulled a bottle of Napa Cellars from her little refrigerator and
opened it. “Was it awful?”
“Nah, it was
fine. Good, really. He said he was surprised we got married so soon, but then
so was everyone. So were we, when you get down to it. He congratulated me and
said he hoped I’d be very happy — all the right things. Then I asked him if he
was going to be all right and he laughed, but he didn’t sound amused. He said
he was real surprised to find himself disappointed to hear an old girlfriend
got married. First of all, it’s hard for me to think of myself as his
girlfriend — it was never that serious. Second, even Troy admits he’s not
looking for a wife! Not now. He said maybe when he’s thirty-five or forty, but
he’s in no hurry. He likes the single life.”
Grace poured
the wine and put the bowl of popcorn between them. “A gourmet treat,” she said.
“Or maybe dinner. So, is it different? Being married?”
“Not yet,” Iris
said. “Ask me again when we merge checkbooks; we’ve been solitary, single
adults for a long time. Right now we’re each taking care of our own obligations
until Seth either rents or sells his townhouse. There’s plenty of closet space
at my house but we could have issues when his manly furniture looks for space
among my decidedly female things.”
“You’re staying
in your house,” Grace said in relief.
“It’s perfect
for us. I like to ride my bike to work in good weather.”
“I love your
house,” Grace said. “Aren’t you ever going to have a honeymoon?”
“Eventually.
We’re looking for deals online right now. We’re going to sneak away in a couple
of months, hopefully somewhere warm and sunny. But what about you, Grace? Why
aren’t you seeing anyone?”
Grace burst out
laughing. It wasn’t the first time Iris had asked. “First of all, who? Second,
when?”
“Don’t you ever
meet a groomsman at any of the weddings you do?”
“Never. They
all come long after I’m gone and I’m not invited to the receptions. Besides,
isn’t that the kiss of death? Hooking up with someone in the wedding party at
the reception? No thanks.”
“We have to get
you out more,” Iris said.
“Right,” Grace
said doubtfully. “Maybe I could help you chaperone the prom and meet some very
promising eighteen year old? Nah, I don’t think so.”
“We’ll go
clubbing or something.”
“Clubbing?”
Grace sputtered. “In Thunder Point?”
“Okay, we’ll go
up to North Bend or something. And graze.”
“I’m sure Seth
would appreciate that!”
“Well, I won’t
take any phone numbers or bring anyone home….”
“Iris,” Grace
said, lifting her wine glass. “Let it go. I’ll handle my own love life. In my
own time, in my own way.”
“There’s always
Troy,” Iris said, sipping.
“Nah, we’re
pals. There’s no chemistry.” On his side. “We had a beer together once,
followed by grilled cheese and tomato soup. It was swell. Besides, I’m not
interested in your sloppy seconds. I read, you know. Rebound boyfriends are not
a good idea.”
“You can’t just
work all the time, you know,” Iris said.
“No?” Grace
asked. “I thought you could.”
*******
Growing up,
everyone thought Grace was a spoiled rich kid but she had been raised on hard,
committed, constant work. If she took a day off she felt ashamed. Her program
would suffer. But her work hadn’t been the kind average people understood.
Her name was
Isabella Grace Dillon Banks. She’d given up most of her name and went by Grace
Dillon because Izzy Banks was very well known in some circles. Probably not
among her Thunder Point acquaintances, but for those who watched champion
figure skating competitions around the world, Izzy was known, both for her
skating and for her involvement in dramas and scandals that rocked the skating
world.
Grace’s mother,
Winnie Dillon Banks, a wealthy heiress whose grandfather had made most of the
family money in tobacco, had been well known before her, though she hadn’t made
it as far in competitions. Winnie’s best show as a competitive skater had been
second place in Nationals. But she saw her chance in Izzy/Grace. Talk about a
stage mother!
Grace had a
privileged, isolated childhood in which skating was everything.
Grace was born
to an ice skating icon and her coach. Winnie Dillon had a love affair with her
coach, Leon Banks, when she was twenty-six. Some cynical rivals and
professional observers suggested she succumbed to marriage and motherhood
because all signals pointed to her competing days being just about over. But
Winnie and Leon had Grace on skates before she was four years old. They pushed
and trained her hard.
In those early
days, when Grace was a little girl and skating was only fun, when she yearned
to be the best, she was happy. She begged to skate and hated her time off.
She’d have been on the ice eight hours a day if her father had let her. She was
coddled and loved and indulged. She only had a few friends, other little girls
who were training and taking lessons and part of a skating club, some of them
Leon’s other students.
Grace loved her
parents very much and didn’t quite understand until after her father’s death
that theirs had been a difficult marriage. Her father was much older than
Winnie and more focused on his students than his wife. Her mother was a
demanding diva and socialite; she dragged a reluctant Leon to charity events
and parties. Her mother and father constantly disagreed on almost everything,
especially Grace’s training and education. Grace never went to traditional
school, public or private — she had tutors. Leon thought this might be a
mistake, feared she wouldn’t be a well-adjusted girl.
It was at about
the age of twelve that things took a shift and the competition turned serious.
But Grace was winning everything in her age category and was quickly feared as
the unbeatable. She trained on the ice several hours a day, took gymnastics,
ballet and practiced yoga. They moved from Atlanta to Chicago and finally
settled in San Francisco, following the best opportunities for her training and
education as well as for her father’s coaching prospects. Her father contracted
pancreatic cancer when Grace was fourteen. Winnie sought a tougher, stronger,
more famous coach the moment Leon fell ill. It was almost as if she’d chosen
Mikhail before he was needed. Then Leon passed away rather swiftly, within
months of his diagnosis.
Winnie and
Grace took a few days off, then it was back on the ice. “Your success meant
everything to your father,” she kept saying. It was true that Leon wanted the
best for Izzy, but it was Winnie to whom winning was everything. No matter the
personal cost. And skating became less for fun and more for life. Winnie blew a
gasket when Grace didn’t take first place.
Grace didn’t
leave the world of competitive skating until she was twenty-three, right after
the Vancouver games. She went to Portland to stay with a sweet older couple who
had once worked for her mother. Grace had known Ross and Mamie Jenkins since
birth. They’d been part of Winnie’s staff, Ross a driver and Mamie in
housekeeping. They had retired a few years before Grace quit the circuit to
open a flower shop and they took her in.
She collapsed.
She was exhausted and depressed and afraid of the future. Mamie pampered her
and gave her time; it seemed as if she’d slept for a month. Then one evening
Mamie said, “If you lay around one more day, you won’t be able to walk. You
have to do something — it’s your choice. Get a job, go to school, something.”
But Grace didn’t want to be around people and she didn’t believe she had any
marketable skills. So she started helping in the flower shop, in the back,
learning to make beautiful bouquets and arrangements. Portland was a funky,
interesting, welcoming city — not too big, not too small, not uppity or flashy.
Little by little Grace came out of the back room to deal with customers,
sometimes delivering flowers, even helping Mamie and Ross with weddings. No one
made a fuss over her or asked her a lot of questions.
Every time a
major skating competition was covered by the major mainstream or sports
networks, Grace was glued to the TV, watching every move. And invariably
there’s be some short vignette about Izzy Banks, the girl who had it all and
threw it away. One sports caster noted her, “Izzy Banks, the brat on the ice,
the fiercest competitor in figure skating, obviously couldn’t take the pressure.”
Brat. Boy, that stung.
Her mother
would usually get in touch, proving that Winnie couldn’t ignore the
competitions any more than Grace could. She’d pressure Grace to return home,
return to skating and the few conversations they had would end in a fight and
they wouldn’t speak again for months.
A year before
the 2014 winter games in Russia, when the dramatic story of her life might be
publicly examined yet again, she went in search of a new place to settle and
tackle life on her own. A little money had been set aside for her by her father
and she found Pretty Petals, the shop Iris’s mother had owned. She’d been in
Thunder Point almost a year when the winter competition took place. When Grace
couldn’t watch it, she’d tape it. There had been the usual newsy dish about the
more stunning events of the life of Izzy Banks, but no one seemed to notice.
There were, thankfully, more interesting sport scandals that year. And Thunder
Point was more of a football town than figure skating.
All she’d ever
wanted was a life she understood. A life that didn’t include backbreaking
labor, cruel rivals, endless travel across too many time zones, the occasional
crazed fan, or terrible loneliness. She wanted to know what it felt like to
have real friends, not a staff of coaches, therapist, a security detail and
competitors. She’d never had a boyfriend.
She did,
however, have more than one gold medal. She’d been first in every significant
competition in the world.
