Stolen Grace Read online

  Sylvia would now be dealing with not two, but three homes. “So what do we do with Crowheart?”

  “Darling, you told me you were done living there. You said you’d had it with the winters and stuff.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know it would be so sudden, and I’d always imagined we’d go back to New York.”

  “New York City is not the best place to bring up a child. You know that. What can be better than LA? Great weather, the sea—”

  “The ocean, not the sea.”

  “Whatever. I’m British—we always say sea. We don’t get to see oceans in Europe. Get the pun? We don’t get to sea oceans in Europe.”

  “Very cute.”

  “Anyway, LA’s an easy, fun place. There’s loads to do for a child. And for you, too. I mean, hello? It’s far better than New York for script writing. Can you imagine the kind of contacts you’ll make there, Sylvia? If you ever wanted to go back to work as an agent—”

  “Listen, I’d love to chat but I’ve got a million things to deal with, and I want to put in an early night and get some sleep. Got a meeting with the lawyer tomorrow. And guess what? I’m going to transfer $247,000 into our account, Tommy. I can do it online. If I can remember that goddamn password. We’ll be able to pay off the credit cards, the mortgage, and get the last bits of plumbing and wiring finished. Finally we can sell! It feels so good, I can’t tell you how great it feels. Apart from the fact, of course, that the source of the money does not exactly fill me with joy—I mean, I wish we hadn’t come to it this way.”

  Silence. Sylvia heard no more than Tommy’s measured breath. “Tommy?”

  “You know I’ll be earning pretty good money with my new job,” he said quietly.

  “Honey, I didn’t mean to belittle your job in any way. That’s great. It’s so great you’ve got this, I’m really proud of you! Just . . . well . . . just my dad’s money will take away the panic. Let’s face it, the wolf has been clawing at our door for quite a while now.”

  “Look, I’ve got to go now. I’ll call you later. I’m driving and I think I see a cop.”

  “What? You aren’t driving and talking on your cell at the same time, are you? I told—”

  But Tommy had hung up. Crap! Whatever she did, whatever she said, it always came out wrong. Damn Tommy’s silly pride. The fact was, they had nearly two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

  Now they could start afresh.

  SYLVIA’S MIND SWIRLED relentlessly as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Thinking of her father. Of Grace. She had never once been parted from her daughter before, except when they went to England and Sylvia stayed with a friend in London for the night, instead of at Tommy’s parents. The thrill when Grace learned a new fact, or the laughter when she said something funny like, Labradors being “Love Adores,” or, “Puff Adders must be very clever snakes because they’re good at math.” Sylvia had waited her whole life for Grace—she was just a little being with a fragile heart. At least she knew Ruth would be treating her like gold. And Tommy would be home later tonight.

  Sylvia’s thoughts wandered back to Melinda. Poor Melinda. The great love of her life, a guy called Mike, had died in a car accident. Since then, Melinda had been unlucky. The boyfriends were a string of disasters, one after another. She opened up too soon and was then deceived by her own high expectations. She’d put on weight, too, and she’d given up dating altogether. The weight didn’t obscure her prettiness though—her thick dark hair and twinkling blue eyes—but her self-confidence seemed shot. Sylvia believed that Melinda should just go ahead and adopt as a single mother. Tough, but still, she’d have a purpose in life, other than her career. Living alone was only letting her sink further into the cushion of her solitary ways. She wished for Melinda to feel her own heart burst with love for a child the way it did for her.

  Sylvia’s mind ping-ponged about.

  Tomorrow would be jam-packed with things to do. She made a mental list:

  * Visit to funeral parlor.

  * Pick out songs and readings for Dad.

  * Sign death certificate.

  * Meetings with lawyer and accountant.

  * Call old friends and set up a string of play-dates for Grace.

  * Call catering company.

  * Transfer money to pay mortgage off from Dad’s and my Guatemalan joint account.

  Transfer money . . . . Sylvia’s mind ticked and turned, mental papers piling and jumbling in her head. That goddamn password! Unlike Tommy or Grace, she could never remember numbers or passwords. They drove her nuts! Some with capital letters, others with numbers or signs. As much as she hated the Big Brother spyware threatening to take over the world, she longed for the day when her thumbprint would do, and passwords would be history. They always had to be chopped and changed, and she lost track, forgetting them. They must all be written down in the filing cabinet under P. Or had she written them in her old address book? She’d need to get that transfer done soon. She could move the whole lot, and next week, when things would be calmer, she could concentrate on paying off their credit card debts. She’d do it after the funeral. That reminded her, would her driver’s license be good enough ID to show for the death certificate? She’d left her passport at home. Also in the filing cabinet under P.

  Sylvia forced herself to swap all these worrisome problems for images of Grace. She had her in her mind’s eye, sleeping like an angel, her long lashes making shadows on her soft, caramel-colored skin, her little arms clutching her teddy. All that love in such a tiny body. It made Sylvia feel warm just thinking about her.

  CHAPTER 10

  Tommy

  Tommy had missed the fucking plane. Stopped by that zealous policeman on the freeway and ticketed for talking on his cell while driving. The cop was young, eager, took forever—wanting to see Tommy’s license which, after a whole lot of fumbling about, Tommy found he’d put in the pocket of his suitcase in the trunk. All that “put your hands on the wheel where I can see them” shit. In England you got out of your car. It was the polite thing to do, and expected. But in the States, you were the criminal in every circumstance. They suspected everyone. Shit, men had been shot over cigarette lighters or biros being mistaken for a gun. Usually people were charmed by his British accent, but not tonight. This cop seemed to have had it in for him, and the whole ordeal took forever. A huge fine . . . questions . . . more questions.

  He missed the gate by four fucking, lousy minutes.

  The last thing he needed was for his wife to berate him for it, or to panic about him being late home for Grace when Sylvia already had enough to deal with after her father’s death. She’d told him she wanted a good night’s rest. There was no point calling her and waking her up. So he texted Ruth and let her know—luckily he’d gotten her number from Sylvia. He sat on an airport bench, getting his breath back after sprinting to try and make the plane in time.

  His fingers hovered above his cell. Tommy suspected that Sylvia might still be awake, though, tossing in her sleep, feeling riddled with guilt for not having been to visit her dad sooner. Feeling guilty, for basically, not having been a mind reader. How the hell was she meant to have known that her dad was harboring suicidal thoughts, and worse, that he’d act on it?

  Tommy knew all about that one. The Guilt Trip. He’d been on that roller coaster ride with his own father. Years and years of trying to wean his dad off the bottle, as if he were a baby letting go of the breast. And his mum: neurotic, hysterical, dependent, almost as if every time his father would try to get his shit together, she would unwittingly sabotage his recovery. She hated it when he got too involved with his AA meetings. Felt lonely, she said. Stigmatized, even. The odd one out. She liked the odd hot toddy herself, every now and then.

  No, Tommy wouldn’t call Sylvia. Let the poor thing sleep. His mind wandered back to his dysfunctional family. He and his sister weren’t close, either. Nothing dramatic, they just had little in common. What a breath of fresh air it was to have escaped to the States. But the
Guilt had followed him there. E-mails, sad Sunday phone calls, and cheap Christmas cards, recycled from the year before. “Come home,” his mum begged every so often. But when he did go home all they did was watch TV, or go to the pub. Not even Gracie inspired them when she and Tommy visited. The opposite. She wasn’t “flesh and blood,” his parents whispered behind his back, and Tommy even heard them refer to his daughter as a “Paki.”

  “She’s from India Dad, not Pakistan,” Tommy told them at supper, when Gracie was tucked up in bed. TV dinner, not at the table. God forbid, that would be far too intimate. The TV had always been a reassuring third party. A buffer.

  His father just turned up the remote and said, “One minute, son, I need to catch the football results.”

  Since then, Tommy had managed to avoid going back again. It was easy to play happy families with thousands of miles between them.

  He remained on the bench, and started surfing on his cell for another flight. Because he lived in the middle of bloody Nowheresville, getting a connection to Riverton wasn’t so simple. He had to change in Denver. The 6:15 am was fully booked. Damn, he’d have to wait until 10:40 and wouldn’t arrive until 3:42 pm. He’d ask Ruth to pick him up.

  He dreaded admitting to Sylvia why he’d missed the plane. One thing Tommy hated about marriage was the I-Told-You-So factor. It was as if it had become a competition to see who could score the most points. He was losing big-time. He’d be in the doghouse now. Fuck.

  He got up and went to sort out his new plane ticket. Texted his friend, Gus, to tell him he didn’t need to pick him up from the airport tonight after all, and Ruth to let her know his arrival time tomorrow. He booked himself into a motel—the closest one, which he could get to by shuttle.

  “OH YEAH BABY, right there, that feels sooo good,” Tommy murmured. The girl’s hair swished back and forth over his cock; the soft tickling sensation was driving him wild. “Oh fuck,” he groaned as she took him in her mouth. He could feel how huge he was, how thick, as she sucked hard, not managing all of him because of his size. He laced his fingers through her silky hair, gripping her head, scraping his fingers gently along her scalp. If she didn’t stop soon, he’d come. Hard.

  “Get on top of me,” he ordered. “Ride me. I want to feel myself inside you.”

  The room was so dark he couldn’t even make her out. Her body was beautiful; long limbs, graceful arms. Yes, she was full of grace, like a dancer. She had a ballerina’s body. Breasts not too big, strong shoulders, a long neck. He gripped her pretty waist to guide her as she slid on top of him. He could feel his rock-hard erection stretch her open and she cried out—not in pain but with pure, girlish lust.

  “Fuck me,” he said. “Really fuck me. I want to feel you come.”

  She started her ride and it felt incredible, like ocean waves consuming him. Every time their bodies met—him deep, deep, inside her—she mewled, slapping her face on his, kissing him. Softly at first and then lashing at his tongue with hers, tangling, gasping, groaning each time she came down hard on him. She began to circle her hips, grinding herself into him. This woman could really fuck.

  And how.

  He raised his hips to meet hers and grabbed her ass, pulling her even closer towards him. Her hair flopped over his neck, his face, and she started moaning. He moved his large hands up and down her curvy butt, and felt beads of sweat gather on the small of her back. She was coming. She didn’t even have to say a word. But he could tell.

  He knew her every movement. Her every sign.

  “Sylvie,” he moaned into her mouth as he exploded into her. “I’m so in love with you. So in love.”

  Tommy awoke with a start. He felt as if he’d overslept, but only a few hours had passed. He double-checked the alarm was set on his cell—he had several more hours sleep time.

  He was still hard, even though he’d just come in his sleep. His erotic dream, starring his very own wife, reminded him how deep their bond was. How much he still needed her. Desired her. Fantasized about her.

  He wished things hadn’t gotten so complicated.

  His family, which had seemed so indestructible, was now as delicate as an eggshell. How had that happened?

  He thought of Gracie. He couldn’t wait to get home to her and see her face when he gave her that sparkly pink guitar.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sylvia

  It had been such a full-on day, and even though Sylvia wanted to sleep more than anything, she couldn’t. She thought of Aunt Marcy. The hospital had told her to call back and she’d forgotten. Damn. Sylvia had offered to bring her to the house to look after her till Melinda arrived for the funeral, although her aunt was insistent that she could take good care of herself and wanted to go straight home. If she changed her mind, it would be a lot to take on all at once, but what was family for? Infallible Jacqueline would soon be by to help. Thank God.

  Her first memory of Jacqueline’s presence was when Sylvia was about three. Sylvia had stolen her dad’s underpants from the washing basket, and secretly put them on. In those days, she wanted to be a boy. But then she peed her pants and the undergarments were saturated with yellow. Jacqueline didn’t say a word. It was their secret. She took away the enormous soiled Y-Fronts and soaked them in soapy water. Then she took Sylvia to the bathtub, pretending that the child had muddy knees and it was easier to put her in the tub. The pee was humiliating enough, but being discovered in her father’s giant underpants was doubly shameful to a small child, even a Tomboy like Sylvia, and Jacqueline sensed that. Never did she mention it to anybody. So loyal.

  Grace had occasional little mishaps in bed but, just like Jacqueline, Sylvia never made a big deal out of it, or she pretended she didn’t even notice.

  The other indelible memory of Sylvia’s was when Jacqueline took her to her church. Sylvia’s parents’ church was uneventful, with only white people looking sour and bored, but Jacqueline’s was wild with song, full of Praise-The-Lord. One man, in a wheelchair, was rocking so hard he popped out. The force of it set him rolling about the floor, still singing, praising the Lord even harder. After that, Sylvia begged to only go to Jacqueline’s Baptist church—it was so much more fun! But her mother told her to wait until she was older—then she could choose. But by the time she was older, Sylvia had lost interest in church of any kind.

  She had been brought up with so much goodness around her. The neighbors, Aunt Marcy, Jacqueline. She knew she’d had a blessed life.

  Earlier that evening, Mrs. Wicks had brought Sylvia another tasty meal in a casserole dish—wouldn’t accept no for an answer—such kindness.

  Sylvia rolled over in her bed for the umpteenth time but couldn’t even close her eyes, let alone sleep. She decided to tackle her father’s closet. She’d pick out the right suit for him and make a Goodwill pile and a Special pile. What she would do with the Special pile she had no idea, but at least it was a start. Tommy was not her father’s size.

  She got up and walked with trepidation into the spare bedroom, which her father had used as a dressing room. There were two Regency-style single beds and a chest of drawers to match. She opened the top drawer. It smelled of rose-scented paper liners, and was full of lavender bags that her mother had once bought on a trip to France.

  The walk-in closet was stuffed with hand-made shoes, too small, unfortunately, for Tommy’s feet. The same could be said for the tailored suits, which was a shame as some of them harked back to the sixties and were pretty stylish. Sylvia stood on a stool and rummaged through the shelf above. There were hats—even a top hat that folded flat, which she remembered her father had said belonged to his father. It was an opera hat, designed to sit on, so when you went to the theatre, it didn’t take up space. There were shoeboxes, all clean, meticulously organized. Except for one that nestled in the top right hand corner. Strange, thought Sylvia, it was unlike Jacqueline to let dust gather. It was obvious that it hadn’t been touched for years. She reached over on tiptoe and grasped the shoebox with both hands. At a closer
glance, she saw that it was sealed tight with duct tape. Why sealed? Could there be a pistol inside? She didn’t think so. Her father was not a pistol kind of man.

  She sneezed from the musty attic smell of the box. It reminded her that the attic would have to be next; it didn’t even bear contemplating the amount of junk that must be up there. Maybe the luxury of having $247,000 in her bank account, despite the guilt attached to it, would stave off selling the house a while longer. The idea of sorting through it was horrifying; the memories, the sheer volume of stuff. In fact, she’d leave it all. No suit sorting into piles—the whole thing would be too much of an ordeal right now.

  She brought the box close to her chest and stepped down from the stool. She took it to the bathroom and wiped off the layer of dust with a damp cloth. She set it down in a corner.

  But then she sat on the edge of the tub and took a breath, eyeing the box with suspicion. There was something ominous about it. Pandora’s Box? Was she even ready to look inside?

  No, she wasn’t.

  She loved this bathroom. It was all white with a huge old tub in which you could stretch out so your tiptoes touched the end. The mosaic tiles were original. There was a laundry chute where you could shove your stinky socks and sports clothes at the end of a tiring school day and they would magically appear fresh and ironed forty-eight hours later. Sylvia hadn’t realized how spoiled she’d been as a girl, how privileged. Because of the breakdown of the automotive industry there was a lot of unemployment now in Saginaw, even for people of her class.

  She remembered the time she had made a new friend. Not from school, but from one of the streets behind, where the worn-down clapperboard houses were, and working class families lived. Her grandmother was staying with them for the summer. Sylvia must have known that her grandmother would be unhappy about her new friendship because she took her friend upstairs, like a secret, and they played in the bathroom. And Sylvia locked the door. Her grandmother lost her temper, banging her fists on the locked door, shouting, “Sylvia, get that poor-white-trash out of this house!” The girl heard. Sylvia was speechless, she’d never heard her grandmother, who was usually so kind, raise her voice like that or be so rude. The little child (how old were they, seven or eight?) slipped away and never dared play with Sylvia again.