Finding Grace Read Free Page B

have been satisfactory for a number of reasons. I talked to your principal at your graduation. We have been friends for many years. She described you as being responsible, intelligent and having a delightfully quirky sense of humor.”
    There's that word again.
    “Your manager at the café, who is also an old acquaintance of mine, said you were punctual, hardworking and excellent with customers. We have discussed your suitability on the basis of these references and your competence during the course, and have decided that with adequate support from the nursing staff, you should be more than capable. And given the wage and the proximity of Grace'shouse to the university, you should still be able to pursue your studies.”
    “Great,” I said.
    “Do you still want to do it?” he asked.
    “Yes,” I replied.
    “It's not going to be easy,” he said. “How about we take you on trial?”
    What is this? Nobody thinks I can do it. My mother doesn't think I can do it, Kate doesn't think I can do it— and now even the guy who's offering me the job is questioning my ability.
    I got an A+ in snakebites and hyperventilation. What's so hard about it? What do I have to do to prove that I'm capable?
    “I'll do it.”

I drove my car to my new house on a Saturday and arrived exactly on time.
    I have a car that's older than I am. Sometimes I have to pump the brakes before they work. The car goes through more oil than petrol. Also, steam blows in through the heater vents straight from the radiator and it doesn't turn off. It would be less of a problem if the windows opened properly, but they don't. This is not a bad thing in winter, because the hot air from the radiator keeps me warm, but in summer the condensed water and coolant can be pungent.
    I've been concerned about the effects on my health of breathing coolant. That can't be good for one, can it? So I keep my trusty snorkel on the passenger seat and when Idrive I poke it out the narrow slit between the pane and the seal of the driver's side window.
    Anyway, I found the house. The street was probably once a main thoroughfare, but the end has been blocked off with giant plane trees reaching over and meeting in the middle. It's cool and quiet, except for birds.
    Three blocks away is the “restaurant strip.” There are heaps of restaurants, Mexican, Italian and Turkish. I love Turkish. I love sitting on those little cushions. Then there's the “contemporary Australian cuisine.” I wonder if it's known as “CAC” in the biz?
    As far as I've observed, contemporary Australian cuisine means that instead of laying the food out flat on an ordinary plate, they pile up the food in a cone shape in the middle of a very big plate.
    Anyway, the house is lovely and cozy like the ones you see in those country magazines. There are agapanthus bobbing about in front of a white picket fence and overgrown daisies in pink and white poking through the pickets. Pavers warped by flourishing weeds lead to a small front veranda.
    The front door to the house is open. I can see down the hallway straight through to the dappled green and yellow light of the back garden. The hallway has a high ceiling. I can hear the hollow clop of footsteps on a polished timber floor. I can hear the echo of voices from inside the house.
    Down the hallway there are two open doors opposite each other. The bedroom on the right is yellow, the same as the hallway, and the other is cream. I can see a large mahogany four-poster bed and cream mosquito netting pulled back with two big satin bows on the wall. I hope that's my room.
    Farther down the hallway is an opening to the kitchen. Soft light comes through a large skylight. There's a bookcase, floor-to-ceiling, on the far wall, filled with cookbooks, ferns and crockery.
    As I stand in the doorway to the living room I see two women. One is wearing bright pink rubber gloves. She's sitting on a hearthrug on the floor in front of a big stone fireplace, rolling a glass vase in