Stolen Grace
What people are saying about Stolen Grace:
“I couldn’t put it down, and am aching not only to re-read it, but to instigate reading it with a group or book club where I can challenge others to deliberate their own life tenets through the engaging storyline, shocking plot turns, and surprising conclusion. Five exhilarating, thought-provoking and courageous stars!”
—The Book Enthusiast
“A very dramatic, spellbinding, and out of the box success for Ms. Richmonde!! I LOVED every minute of it!!”
—Kawehi Reviews
STOLEN GRACE
by
ARIANNE RICHMONDE
Mendacity. You know what that is? Lies and liars.
Tennessee Williams
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
All rights reserved. This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any form without prior written permission of the publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible maybe liable in law accordingly.
Arianne Richmonde 2014
Copyright © Arianne Richmonde, 2014.
The right of Arianne Richmonde to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) 2000
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover photograph © Arianne Richmonde
Cover design © Okay Creations
Editing by: Precision Editing
Formatting by: BB ebooks
Table of Contents
Cover
Praise for Stolen Grace
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1: Sylvia
Chapter 2: Grace
Chapter 3: Tommy
Chapter 4: Sylvia
Chapter 5: Tommy
Chapter 6: Sylvia
Chapter 7: Sylvia
Chapter 8: Grace
Chapter 9: Sylvia
Chapter 10: Tommy
Chapter 11: Sylvia
Chapter 12: Grace
Chapter 13: Sylvia
Chapter 14: Grace
Chapter 15: Grace
Chapter 16: Grace
Chapter 17: Tommy
Chapter 18: Sylvia
Chapter 19: Tommy
Chapter 20: Sylvia
Chapter 21: Grace
Chapter 22: Sylvia
Chapter 23: Grace
Chapter 24: Sylvia
Chapter 25: Grace
Chapter 26: Sylvia
Chapter 27: Tommy
Chapter 28: Sylvia
Chapter 29: Tommy
Chapter 30: Sylvia
Chapter 31: Grace
Chapter 32: Sylvia
Chapter 33: Grace
Chapter 34: Tommy
Chapter 35: Sylvia
Chapter 36: Tommy
Chapter 37: Sylvia
Chapter 38: Grace
Chapter 39: Sylvia
Chapter 40: Tommy
Chapter 41: Grace
Chapter 42: Sylvia
Chapter 43: Grace
Chapter 44: Sylvia
Chapter 45: Tommy
Chapter 46: Sylvia
Chapter 47: Grace
Chapter 48: Tommy
Chapter 49: Sylvia
Chapter 50: Tommy
Chapter 51: Sylvia
Epilogue: Sara
Acknowledgements
Reading Group Guide
An Interview with Arianne Richmonde
Questions and topics for discussion
From the Author
CHAPTER 1
Sylvia
“So you’re definitely going to Los Angeles then?” Sylvia asked. She knew what the answer would be but the words still tumbled out of her mouth. She needed to break the silence which had been festering in the air all day.
Tommy’s eyes swept over her, and she wished she wasn’t wearing an apron. Not the glamorous Sylvia I married, is that what he was secretly thinking? Sylvia used to feel so graceful, so elegant, but now it was as if that grace had been stolen from her, snatched from inside her like the Devil taking someone’s soul.
“Yes, of course I’m going,” Tommy answered, his British accent sounding more clipped than usual. He was leaning against the fridge, drinking a beer.
Sylvia fumbled with the apron knot and untied the strings, but then didn’t take the apron off. What was the point? He watched her as she wiped the table. His gaze still affected her, still made her heart flutter, even after all these years of marriage.
Tommy’s lips curved up just slightly, perhaps a small attempt to cajole her into believing that he was doing something worthy. He added, “What makes you think I’d pass up an opportunity like this? I’ll make more money in two weeks than I have all year.”
They were standing in the roomy kitchen of their Wyoming log home, a soft May breeze wavering through the open backyard door, the grassy scent of an almost-summer lingering with the sweet smell of apple pie. Sylvia was baking. She never baked. She hoped that it would, in some way, fix things. She abandoned cleaning up the mess of flour and globs of dough, and focused her eyes on their huge kitchen window and to the landscape beyond. She observed a moose in the distance, its curved muzzle bent to the ground, droopy lips foraging for food, its antlers flat like a doubled-clawed hat. By September those antlers would be massive—over five feet across—then the creature would shed them in winter.
Winter—she dreaded that time of year. When early wet snow would freeze and cattle couldn’t break through to the grass. The mud—boots on, boots off—heavy coats and gloves to brace the hissing wind. Then the howling Wyoming wintry nights would sneak up, Sylvia’s breath puffing faintly warm in the icy air. The hardships of country life were not what she had signed up for, not what she had left New York City for.
She looked back at Tommy and studied his beautiful, dark brown eyes; it was hard to gauge his expression. Flecks of golden afternoon sun lit up his face, making his sandy hair blonder, his defined jaw softer. Was he telling the truth, she wondered? Was it really just a job offer and no more? A part truth, yes, but the truth? She doubted it. She wished she didn’t feel the pit of her stomach pine with emptiness—then it would be easier.
Easier to watch him lie.
It was a shock when she had realized, just six months before, that Tommy could be duplicitous—the awful discovery that the kind, trusting man she married had changed. She’d never snooped or pried, had always taken his word for everything, but she began to snatch his Smartphone whenever she could—her hands trembling, fumbling, searching for snippets of evidence while it lay like a potent, dark secret on a table in the bathroom or kitchen, with only minutes of spying time before he came back into the room.
But Sylvia, green as a sapling trying to push through a mass of bramble to a blue sky, had worn herself out, and now she was trying to make things better. Hence the pie.
“So how long will the job last?” she asked, trying not to sound too despondent.
“I told you. Two, three weeks. Depends on the weather and stuff,” he replied, standing strong, his legs assertively astride, all six feet, two inches of him. This very same stance could make her go weak with butterflies. If she allowed herself. Right now, her armor was on. Would she, she wondered, trust him again? Enough to let herself feel that all-encompassing love once
more?
She brushed her hands on her apron. “But it’s May. You’ll have guaranteed sunshine in LA at this time of year.”
“Yes, but you never know.”
“No, you don’t ever know,” she muttered. Funny thing, sunshine, she thought. One minute you have it and the next it’s obstructed by a storm cloud. Unexpected—out of the blue, yet with a faint hope that it will vanish . . .
Sylvia glanced at Tommy again. Grace’s painting of Mrs. Paws, the neighbor’s white cat, was just to the right of him, stuck on the fridge door with a magnet. A reminder. What the hell had he being playing at, jeopardizing their family life, risking losing her and Grace? Temptation by way of Facebook, the modern-day Jezebel? Ugh! She turned her eyes again to the window to hide her resentment. That time-wasting Internet addiction. The thief that was swamping people’s lives, robbing people of their creativity. Robbing relationships. There were some people with a thousand so called “friends” usurping tangible, flesh-and-blood friends. Real feelings. Touch, smell, humanity. The cyber world was making children insensitive (all those violent video games), and husbands and wives unfaithful. Her old school friend Bob, for instance, who just a month before, had been dumped like a hot brick. His wife had reunited with an old flame from college. With a click of a button, she fell in love all over again, leaving her husband an empty, bitter man, fighting to see his children.
Sylvia’s internal ramblings pattered on in her head. Love like fast food. Want to find an ex? Type his name in the Facebook search bar. Want to hook up with that pretty girl you saw at a party? Bingo, there she is. Ask her out, why don’t you? You could even find her on Twitter. Easy, no phone call necessary. Just send a message. Tweet, tweet.
“So it’s a fashion shoot, you told me?” she asked with a faint smile. “Do you know who the models are?”
“Not really.”
“Not really? What’s with the ‘really’?” She turned back to the window. She didn’t want to see Deceit, with a capital D, on her husband’s face, but still, she couldn’t drop the conversation.
“I got sent a couple of photos of some girls but nobody’s been chosen yet.”
“Who chooses? You or the magazine?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“So she isn’t part of the parcel, then? Or is this whole trip an excuse to see her?” There, she said it.
He let out an exasperated groan, walked over to the kitchen table and sat down. “Of course not! This is a photography job—they need a model for a clothing line. It has nothing to do with her, she’s an actress.”
“No, she isn’t.” Sylvia wanted to add that the girl was a wannabe actress, that she’d never had a professional acting job. Hadn’t even been to drama school. A wannabe actress who fancied herself as a model, posting photo after photo of herself on Facebook, so men could drool over her. But she and Tommy had been through that tired argument already, so Sylvia held the tip of her tongue between her teeth to stop herself from lashing out.
As if reading her thoughts, Tommy mumbled, “Give the girl a break; she’s embarking on her career, she’s only twenty years old.”
The sting. Young. Fresh. Desirable. Could practically be her daughter.
“Exactly. Only twenty. A baby. Didn’t that make you feel odd, Tommy, and old, to be obsessing about a twenty-year-old? You do realize that she’s a female, don’t you? Right now, all she has to worry about is which pair of heels she has to wear, or what make-up, because she’s only twenty, for Christ’s sake. If you actually started having a relationship—”
Tommy banged his fist on the table. His empty beer bottle toppled onto its side, rolled to the edge, but he caught it before it smashed to the floor.
It made Sylvia stop herself mid-sentence. She would have continued . . . She’d be just like me, nagging you, finding fault, being disappointed . . . but she was glad for the interruption. The sound of her own voice reminded her that she was turning into the kind of woman she swore she’d never be; the nagging, picky, ball-busting wife. She and Tommy had become the type of couple she used to despise, that snipped at each other over inconsequential nothings, who went to bed feeling angry without a kiss to make up for it—the sort that couldn’t be bothered to have sex anymore because it seemed like just too much effort after a long day. Besides, she needed to put on a happy face for Grace. It wasn’t fair on their daughter to be fed her parents’ marital breadcrumbs.
Tommy stood up with a jolt and said, “Look, we’ve been through this, Sylvia. I told you I wasn’t going to have contact with her anymore, and I’m not. Please can we drop this whole Bel Ange thing? You have to trust me, darling. Please.” The please was a begging sort of please.
Tommy laid his arms around her. He was warm—Sylvia loved that about him. His feet were like hot water bottles in bed, his touch generous. Yes, he’d always been that way, even when he’d obviously been fantasizing about other women. Because sniffing about on Facebook, looking at pretty young girls, was as good as looking at porn, wasn’t it? She took a deep breath and counted to three—she needed to dispel that grudge and allow the warmth of her husband’s arms to engulf her. The seesaw of emotions was driving her crazy. She leaned into him and her stomach pooled with longing. It infuriated her that Tommy turned her on so much when she still couldn’t trust him.
Umm, he smells so good, she thought, inhaling the odor of his neck and remembering just one of the reasons why she had fallen in love with him. Sun. Earth. The faintest smell of sweat; not acrid but masculine. He always smelled of whatever he had eaten or done. Today he must have been outside in the fresh air—he smelled of wood. She loved his natural smell—the beautiful, sensual and masculine man he was, he simply didn’t need any sprucing up to make him more attractive.
“Please promise you won’t put that poison all over yourself again,” she whispered.
He laughed. “Eau de Cologne isn’t poison, Sylvia.”
Despite her disappointment in him, Sylvia couldn’t help herself; she yielded completely to the firm hold of her husband and pressed herself against his strong, hard chest. His solidity made her feel momentarily safe. Perhaps if she held on tight enough her insecurity could melt away. It felt good—he felt good.
But her inner-voice reminded her that she mustn’t let her guard down.
It had been that insidious after-shave that started the whole episode six months earlier. She’d always told him how she hated him, and men in general, wearing scent of any kind. Why cover up your natural odor when you smell so incredibly attractive? Like dogs, really, rolling in manure—convinced they smell fabulous when they don’t. After-shave, Eau de Cologne, fragrance, eau de toilette—whatever—it smelled like a cloying lie. When Tommy took that last trip to LA, six months before, he had bought some at the airport. After always having smelt of grass and sun, of . . . Tommyness, he stank of a pungent, sickly TV commercial. He reeked of a lie. A stinkingly-sweet lie. After he returned, Sylvia discovered what that lie was. She’d glanced at his public post on Facebook:
Phew that was a long ride home, and then a comment from a woman she didn’t know, that read: It was great to see you. Then his remark below hers, written in French, Avec plaisir, bel ange.
Sylvia remembered how her heart felt as if it had, literally, been stabbed. Who the hell was this “bel ange?” Tommy wasn’t the type to go round calling people “darling” or “love” or “honey.” Bel. Freaking. Ange? Her palms glistened now with sweat—remembering how she felt—as if she would black out, blood rushing to her disbelieving head. He’d never called her a beautiful angel. At least, not in forever. And yes, “bel” ange, not “belle” ange, as she had supposed. An angel, Tommy had explained, takes the masculine in French, even when referring to a woman. Ugh! Thanks for that tidbit of information—because if the bel ange isn’t me, why the hell would I care?
Reminding herself about all this made a rush of adrenaline surge through her. She pulled away from his embrace.
“You promised you’d fix the fauce
t,” she said coldly. “It’s still dripping and it’s really bugging me.” She turned her back on him and stared out of the window again, back to the safety of her loneliness.
For the past year and a half Sylvia felt the ache of Tommy’s distance. He’d cuddle her or put his arm around her but he’d stopped saying, “I love you.” Compliments were saved for rare occasions. Sylvia realized that he had fallen out of love with her like a man bored with his out-of-date computer or car. Yet she found herself making excuses, putting it down to the monotony of their life, living in the deep Wyoming countryside, the tough winters, the stress of having a five-year-old without the paychecks to support their daughter with ease. Yet Sylvia’s gut told her something was pecking away at their marriage and the Bel Ange was the cause.
No, the Bel Ange was not the cause. Tommy was.
Sylvia shifted her stare away from the view, leaving the moose to his foraging, and she looked back at her husband.
Damn, he’s so annoyingly handsome.
He must have felt her gaze boring into him because he stopped what he was doing and looked at her. She noticed hope dancing in his beautiful, sable-brown eyes. They still glittered with warmth, despite her frost. She heard herself sigh again, and she wondered how long she would keep this up. Punishing Tommy with her barriers.
Punishing herself.
The telephone rang, jarring her from her inner monologue. She glanced at the caller ID. It was her father.
She broke into a smile and picked up. “Hi Dad.” She hadn’t realized that the Bel Ange pitter-patter of negativity in her head had been making her mouth turn downwards. She wanted her father to believe everything was perfect with her world—didn’t want to pile him with her burden. Every time she spoke to him, she sensed his fragility. “How are you doing? Is Melinda still with you?”
“Yes she is, and it’s been such a treat to have her here. When are you coming to stay, sweetheart?” he said down the phone. “I know, I know, it’s not the right moment—Grace is still in school—but soon, I hope. Make it soon, honey. I miss you.”
“I promise. Or you could come here.” I miss you, her dad just said. He rarely spoke those words. Sylvia’s heart pinched.