Page 25 of My Darling Girls

Grace peers over Jo’s head, out the window again, her gaze scanning for something in the street. Then she squeezes Jo’s hand back, her eyes pleading something of her that Jo isn’t certain she can deliver. “How much can I make, and how fast?”

“I can’t give you a number, but I’ve heard it’s a substantial amount of money. Would you want that?”

Dropping Jo’s hand, Grace leans back into the sofa, her long hair catching the last daylight and lighting up with bronze hues. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

A tiny wrinkle appears in the middle of her smooth forehead. “My family won’t like it.”

“They don’t need to know. You’re old enough to make your own decisions. Aren’t you eighteen? Think about it. And if you decide you want to do it, bring me my shawl back tomorrow. We’ll take your pictures then. Can you get away in the early afternoon?”

Grace chews on her lower lip, thinking. “I can’t do it.” She starts to turn away from Jo, starts pulling herself up to her feet, but Jo reaches for the girl’s hand and softly pulls her back into the sofa.

“Are you being honest with yourself? Is that what you want? I’m not asking for the truth. But don’t lie to yourself. Those are the worst lies.”

“I’ve never been given a choice. I’m not used to deciding.”

Jo’s body heats up with fury. She knows exactly what Grace means. Women are not supposed to think for themselves. They’re supposed to be told what to do. To be managed. They’re supposed to obey. If they don’t, then their bodies and souls will be covered in ripe bruises. “You always have a choice, Grace,” she says, gravel cutting her throat raw. “Always. You have the power to decide for yourself.”

“I’m frightened. My family won’t be happy.”

“Are you happy?”

“I want to be free of them.” She lifts her chin in defiance. Not of Jo, but something else or someone else entirely. “Being free of them would be enough.”

“Will you come back to the studio tomorrow?”

“All I have to do is sit?”

“Yes. Sit still and smile.”

Grace nods right at the moment when a knock comes at the front door.

“It must be Finn,” Jo says. “Why don’t you go to the kitchen? It’s at the end of the hall. I boiled water for tea while you were sleeping. It should be warm. Wait there. I’ll handle Finn.”

Grace nods and slips out of the room.

Jo unlocks the door and swings it wide open. Finn is wearing a black shirt, two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up. He doesn’t have a coat or a jacket. There is no hat. His face is flushed, as if he has been running. He isn’t happy; it’s obvious by the pinch of his lips and the way he rounds his shoulders as he storms through the front door.

“Where is she,” he roars, the warmth of brandy on his breath. He inhales sharply and deeply, like a bloodhound on a hunting trail, and fixes Jo with a glare. When she doesn’t reply, he takes her by the shoulders and firmly moves her out of his way. His touch tightens her core; the proximity of him feels like a threat. She doesn’t follow him, allowing herself to pause, to calm her heart. He’s upset with his young niece. He isn’t here to hurt anyone. Or is he? What if he’s the one hurting Grace? For a moment, Jo can’t move. There are so many emotions churning in the pit of her stomach. She’s terrified and angry and confused. No, it can’t be Finn. He doesn’t come across as a man who conceals violence under the pretense of care.

Jo shuts the front door as Finn takes a few long strides into the studio.

“She isn’t there,” Jo says. “She’s in the kitchen. Don’t be angry at her. She just lost her sister.”

“Don’t I know it,” he snaps and walks down the hallway. “Grace!”

Jo follows Finn into the kitchen, where Grace sits at a small table with a cup of steaming tea in her hands. She raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows at him and purses her lips. She says nothing.

“We’re going home now.” Finn towers over the girl. He’s silent for a few seconds, waiting, and when no one says anything, he adds, “What on earth are you wearing? This ain’t yours.” He glares at the green shawl wrapped around the girl’s shoulders.

“It’s mine,” Jo offers. “Grace borrowed it. She was cold.”

Finn rubs his forehead forcefully. “Grace, what were you thinking?” His anger sounds a bit too forced. There are hard edges to his voice, but there’s something else, a slight undercurrent of a different emotion that thickens his voice. Fear, Jo realizes. He’s afraid, but of what she doesn’t know.

Grace’s face flushes a deep purple color. “I . . . I needed it.”

“Whatever for? And how in God’s name did you even know about that place?”