The Garden of Grace

Jake mightn't have the same level of wealth as Shelby Holborn but his last three shows had pulled in over three-quarters of a million each and he was the current shining light of the art world. Australia's new Brett Whiteley. On top of that, he was a self-made man. No one had handed him a single thing on a platter.

And he wasn't shallow and vain and selfish.

His patience was rewarded, though to Jake the reward was bittersweet. He was right—she did intend to stay the night at her lover's house. He was close enough to see that the slit of her cocktail dress almost reached her waist as she exited Holborn's sleek Ferrari. The bastard didn't even have the manners to open the door for her. Close enough to see that the neckline of the almost-dress plunged so low she couldn't possibly be wearing a bra.

Worse, he was close enough to overhear them as they continued a conversation that had clearly begun in the vehicle.

"Do you really think I could realise that much if it came to a divorce?"

Jake's jaw dropped, stunned. Divorce? She wanted to divorce him? He'd thought the decision would rest with him. He'd confront her, she'd beg for forgiveness, swear she loved only him, and promise to end the affair and he would decide to forgive. It would be difficult and take time, but for her he'd try. He loved her enough to give her a second chance.

"Yes, easily. I've checked the values of both properties. You guys bought at the right time, property prices have skyrocketed since then. And then there's whatever dollars you have in the bank, his private art collection..." Holborn trailed off suggestively.

"Wow. I never even gave a thought to all his artwork."

Holborn laughed. "They'll be worth even more when he's dead. And, of course, being still married to him, you'll automatically inherit everything."

"But what if he doesn't off himself before the divorce becomes final?"

"You'd still inherit his estate, unless he's changed his will and even then, you could contest it."

Dear sweet lord, she wanted him dead. She wanted him to commit suicide. That Grace would use knowledge he'd confided in her in the early days of their relationship to drive him over the edge was too much. What kid wouldn't have attempted suicide after being told he was the only surviving member of his family after a car crash?

The last bit of Jake Morissey died.

"Jake? Can you at least answer me?"

"It's Jacob and no I can't answer you because I wasn't listening to you."

Jacob sensed her anger and frustration.

"Well, you better start listening. I am fast losing patience with you. You can't avoid me forever."

"I can give it the good old college try."

He smiled when the mask of her false sincerity dropped again.

"Well, then at least make it permanent. Go top yourself, you arsehole, and save us all the hassle of a divorce."

Jacob laughed and hung up.

******

JACOB STOOD BEFORE the easel, the now familiar frustration radiating out from his gut. Nothing. No 'it'. Jacob hated Grace as much for robbing him of 'it' as he did for her betrayal, her evil desires.

He looked to his left, beyond his workbench, out the window at her cottage garden. He used to watch her as she worked in her garden. His last body of work was a semi-abstract exploration of her in all her guises in the various gardens surrounding their home. How could she say he wasn't there mentally and emotionally when he'd spent twelve months following her around, drawing her, photographing her, painting her in her beloved gardens? She couldn't. Her words were false; a deliberate lie meant to poison his memories. A conscious attempt to rewrite their history, making him the villain.

And all to justify her deceit. Her greed. A way to rationalise her infidelity. A way to drive him insane, drive him to suicide. Jacob sneered. She could lie to herself and everyone else as much as she wanted. He knew the truth.

The truth was she was a malignant cancer. A tumorous growth in his life.

Jacob's fantasy of Grace's destruction played out in his mind. He stared at her garden, and as he stared the colours seemed to become even more intense; the blues more vibrant, the yellows more radiant, and the reds a deeper, lusher hue, like blood. Even the greens were more verdant, like moss on the forest floor. Euphoria washed through his veins, filling his heart, his head, his fingertips. Soon.

Jacob reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels, taking a swig; firewater swirled intoxicatingly with euphoria.

******

JACOB CHECKED HIS phone and smiled; six messages. He could guess who the caller was. It pleased him to frustrate her attempts to speak to him. He hoped her self-control was unravelling as fast as she hoped his sanity was.

He decided to reward himself; he had, after all, walked to the letterbox to retrieve the mail. He mightn't have read any of it, merely adding the handful to the already huge collection covering the desk in the office, but the fact that he'd emptied the mailbox deserved acknowledgment.

He sat at the dining table, leaning back in the chair, coffee at hand. He added a slosh of JD and typed in the number to access his messages.

"Hey, Jake. It's me. Please call me back, baby, I'm worried about you."

Jacob snorted. Who did she think she was fooling with her saccharine sweet words? No one. Certainly not him.

Jacob waited as the generic voice told him the date and time the second message had been left on his cell.

"Jake, its me again. I know you're there. Please stop ignoring my calls. I need to talk to you. Call me back as soon as you get this message."

Jacob smiled at the hint of annoyance in her tone. Grace wasn't the most patient of people and Jacob knew better than anyone she hated being ignored. He took an appreciative sip of coffee while he waited for the third message.

Disappointingly, it was Bart, his agent, wanting an update on his progress with the next show. Jacob scowled. He'd have to ring the leech back and soothe his concerns or Bart was just as likely to turn up unannounced and that wouldn't do at all. No, not at all.

Another sip of coffee, another generic intro as to time and date for message #4.

"Jake, you ignorant prick, you'd better damn well ring me back or you'll regret it. I will make your life a misery."

Jacob grinned from ear to ear. Shucks, Grace sounded upset. She was yelling her messages now. And who was she calling an ignorant prick? At least he'd always opened doors for her, brought her home her favourite chocolates every time he went to town, and made her a coffee every morning to sip while still in bed because she wasn't a morning person. Was pretty boy Shelby doing those things? Jacob thought not. He was probably too busy following in Granddaddy's and Daddy's footsteps and wondering what to spend his next million on to bother with such paltry considerations. He certainly wasn't opening car doors for her and he sure did like calling her a slut. Jacob shrugged. Maybe she liked being treated like a cheap whore, maybe that's where he'd gone wrong. Cherishing her and treating her with love and respect certainly hadn't worked.

Message number five was a return to sugary sweetness; a gushing apology filled with endearments and pleas for him to call her. It should have earned her an academy award.

With the final message, Jacob experienced elation. He selected the number from the message service needed to repeat the message. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, and drank in the exultation.

"That's it, Jake. My patience is at an end. I will not be avoided any longer. I'm coming out to the house and you better damn well be there."

Jacob selected the option to save the message. He topped up his coffee, adding another slosh of JD and sauntered into his studio. His gaze immediately went to the window. He put his cell to his ear and replayed Grace's last message. He smiled at her cottage garden. Soon, he promised the blooms, soon she'll be home.

******

JACOB HEARD THE car before he saw it. He smiled as he dashed out the back door and around the side of the house to Grace's cottage garden. He grabbed his weapon, one he was sure Grace would appreciate, and found the concealed entry into the garden—a narrow zig-zag path where each turn was artfully concealed—and carefully found his way to the grassy centre where she'd placed a low stone bench. She'd called it her secret garden, her secret place to go to where she could think or read or daydream.

Jacob went to it to hide.

As he secreted himself behind the wall of shrubbery Jacob had to admire the clever way Grace had built the garden. The large mound slowly rose in height with various flower types planted in tiers. At the time she'd said it allowed her to grow more varieties, showcasing them. It looked impenetrable. The top row of gladioli concealed the fact that the mound had a narrow but deep hollow at its centre. Had he wanted to, Jacob could have stood halfway up the bank of the hollow and remained hidden, and Jacob was six-two.

Instead, he made himself comfortable and waited.

He listened as the car drew closer. He recognised it as being Grace's Lexus. It came to a stop at what he estimated was just behind his ute. What came as a surprise was the sound of two car doors opening and closing. Interesting. Jacob wished he could take a peek to confirm it was pretty-boy Shelby she'd brought with her. If so, he could take out two birds, so to speak, with one stone.

He heard voices, too far away to ascertain the actual words, but clearly enough to discern one was male, the other female. Jacob smiled.

He closed his eyes to cut out peripheral distraction and concentrated on the sounds which grew louder as they drew nearer.

"He has to be here," Grace said. "His ute's here. I'll check inside. How about you do a circuit of the house to see if he's outside somewhere?"

"Sure thing, baby. Can't wait to see his face when he sees I'm here with you."

Jacob grinned. Pretty-boy Shelby might well see more than he'd bargained for before the day was out.

Grace giggled. "You're so bad, honey."

"You like bad, my little slut."

"Yes, I do. We're a match made in heaven."

"Do you think my confronting and taunting him will be enough to send him over the edge?"

Jacob shook his head at the Holborn's arrogance. He could only assume they thought he was in his studio and couldn't hear them.

"I hope so. I'm so sick of having to pretend I care. Have you any idea how hard it is to pretend day after day, year after year, that you're a pretty butterfly when you're really an eagle?"

Jacob's lips curled at Grace's metaphor; she was no majestic eagle. She was a hyena; a scavenger ready to pick over a carcass.

"Now who's being bad?"

Grace giggled again, repeating Holborn's words back to him. "You like bad. That's why you love me. We're two of a kind."

And then Jacob heard the front door opening.

The walls muffled her voice, but he could make out her calling his name. He pictured her going from room to room, her frustration growing when she failed to find him.

"Yeah, Jakey-poo," Jacob heard Shelby mumble. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

Shelby's snide condescending tone didn't bother Jacob; he knew he was going to have the last laugh.

He listened, hearing doors open and close and Grace calling his name. All went quiet for a moment and Jacob wondered where she was.

"Shelby?"

Jacob had his answer. From the proximity and direction of her voice Jacob knew she was standing at his workbench calling out through the open studio window.

"Yeah, babe?" Shelby replied, his steps indicating he was approaching from the back of the house.

"You find him?"

"Nope. I haven't checked that shed out the back, though."

"That's the pottery shed."

There was a pause and Jacob pictured Shelby's look of query.

"The previous owner was a professional potter. There's two state-of-the-art kilns in there along with an electric pottery wheel. He died, and we bought the place off his daughter."

"I take it he's not inside the house?"

"No, and you should see the place. It looks like a bomb's hit it. I don't think he's washed a dish or changed his sheets since I left. There's empty Jack Daniels bottles everywhere. The rubbish bin is overflowing, and the place stinks to high heaven. By the look of things, he's losing it big time. This might be even easier than we thought."

Jacob noted Grace's matter-of-fact tone. There was certainly no concern in her voice. You'd have thought she was discussing the weather rather than her husband's suicide.

"Do you think he's already topped himself?"

"I don't know. Maybe," replied Grace thoughtfully. "He's certainly sounded different lately and it's not like him to ignore my calls."

"Shall I check the pottery shed?"

"Yes, you might as well, and I'll brave going over the house again. Perhaps he's hiding in a cupboard or under a bed or something equally stupid."

"Okay, meet you back here in five."

Jacob's pulse escalated. It thundered in his ears. It was almost time. He took a slow, deep breath to calm himself. Jacob slid his weapon into the back pocket of his work trousers and made his way as quietly as he could back along the narrow path, stopping short of the entry and crouching. He winced as the weapon jutted into him and adjusted his position slightly to ease the pressure. He counted down the minutes, anticipation making him impatient. The muscles in his thighs protested at the enforced stillness but he ignored the discomfort.

He waited until Shelby was a foot or two beyond his hiding spot.

"Hey, lover-boy. You looking for me?" Jacob asked casually, rising and stepping clear of the garden.

Shelby spun around, clearly surprised. He took a reflexive step backward.

"What the hell? Where..." Shelby's words trailed off. He shook his head and squared his shoulders, recovering and taking a step forward. "Well, look at you, Jakey-boy. Aren't you a sight? Anyone would think you'd lost your wife."

Jacob tilted his head to the side as if perplexed. "Wow, I didn't know you were a clown as well as a corporate wanker. That must look good on your C.V."

"Careful, Jakey-boy. You're forgetting who's in the driving seat here. I'll give you a hint: it's not you. I've already got your wife and, as an aside, isn't she a sweet fuck? Way too much woman for you. Word of advice, man to man, women like Grace need a firm hand, not the lovey-dovey shit you showered her with." Shelby Holborn grinned maliciously." And, Jakey-boy, I have to say after my little wander around your hacienda I've decided I quite like the idea of a country house. Yeah, I think I'll take it too."

Jacob smiled. It was more a thinning of the lips, a revealing of teeth. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and wrapped his hand around the weapon in his back pocket. Holborn raised his hands, forming them into fists, ready to fight.

He was too slow.

Jacob stepped into Shelby's personal space, making it impossible for Holborn to identify Jacob's weapon without breaking eye contact, something Jacob was confident he wouldn't do.

"Pity," Jacob thought. "I would have liked to have seen awareness of his imminent death reflected in his eyes. Oh, well, you can't have everything."

Jacob shoved the gardening fork with its carefully sharpened tines into the soft flesh of Shelby's stomach. And it was soft. The guy should have spent more time doing stomach crunches.

With one hand Jacob angled the fork upward, pushing hard, aiming to pierce Shelby Holborn's heart. Apparently, the way to a man's heart truly was through his stomach. He'd have preferred to rip the man's heart out—it would have had more symmetry—but piercing would have to do. With the other he covered the man's mouth, muffling any cries. He stared deep in Holborn's eyes, enjoying the look of shocked horror. Holborn's hands gripped Jacob's arms, as if to steady himself.

Jacob brought his face so close to Holborn's their noses were almost touching. He gave him an intentionally crazy look.

"Get forked, Holborn."

Jacob laughed happily at his play on words, certain even Martin Riggs, Mel Gibson's character in the Lethal Weapon series of movies, would have enjoyed his cleverness.

"Shelby? Jake?"

Grace's voice momentarily distracted Jacob from his joke. He looked over Holborn's shoulder and smiled at his wayward wife.

"Hey, Grace. How nice of you to pop in with lover-boy."

As Grace took a step forward, looking confused, Jacob gave one last shove. Holborn's last whoosh of breath gusted over his face. Jacob scrunched his nose. Yuck. The guy had been eating garlic recently.

Jacob felt the pressure in his wrist as Holborn's knees buckled. He withdrew the gardening fork, Holborn crumpling at his feet like a puppet with its strings cut.

Grace's eyes went from her lover's prone form to Jacob's hand.

"Oh my god! Jake, what have you done?"

"I'd have thought it was pretty obvious," Jacob replied, grinning. "I forked lover-boy. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about, so I forked him too. You're right. It is fun. Kind of messy, but, yeah, fun."

"Oh my god. Oh my god," Grace repeated over and over again, backing away from him.

Jacob stepped around Holborn's motionless body. Grace took another step backward, Jacob a step forward. The faster Grace backed away, the faster Jacob advanced. Grace shook her head, Jacob nodded his.

And then she turned tail and ran.

Jacob gave chase. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and he knew what it was to be the lion in pursuit of the gazelle. It was intoxicating.

He closed the gap, adjusting his grip on the gardening fork. While running at full tilt, he boomeranged the fork through Grace's legs, grinning when she fell face first on the front lawn within a yard of her car.

In a moment, Jacob was on her, rolling her on her back and straddling her, locking her arms to her sides with his thighs. He clamped her tightly, risking leaning to the side to retrieve the gardening fork.

"Lover-boy said you like it rough. That you need a firm hand. So, how are you liking it, Grace?"

"Jake, don't, please don't," she whimpered, clearly terrified.

"I'm not Jake. I'm Jacob."

"What? Jake? Please don't hurt me. You love me. I know you love me."

"Read my lips, bitch. My name is Jacob. I'm not Jake. Jake loved you. I don't. Oh, boy, did that man love you. He was the only person who ever truly gave a fuck about you. You were his reason to breathe. And how did you repay his devotion? You fucked him over. You killed him."

Grace sobbed, rolling her head from side to side. "Jake, you're talking crazy. Please listen to me. You're not this Jacob guy. You're Jake Morissey. You're my husband and you love me. Just as I love you. As I've always loved you. I came here today to ask you to forgive me."

Jacob laughed.

"Good try, bitch. That's why you brought lover-boy with you. Was he going to ask for forgiveness too? Yeah, you loved Jake. Sure you did. That's why you've spent months trying to push him over the edge. You tried to kill the guy who gave you everything. Even then, you and lover-boy didn't have the balls to do it yourselves. You wanted Jake to do it for you. The guy who gave you the perfect house with the perfect garden. Tried to be the perfect husband and give you the perfect life. What did you give him?"

"You're Jake, you love me," she sobbed repeatedly.

"No, I'm not. When Jake looked in your eyes, do you know what he thought he saw? An angel. A sweet and perfect angel."

"You're Jake, not Jacob."