Stolen Grace (23 page)

She went into the living room and looked in the travel section of her father’s little library. Her parents had been all over Europe, taken six months for their honeymoon—the dreamy honeymoon that had given birth to albums full of photos. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to her father, LeRoy had already been born, poignantly not part of her father’s book of life memories.

Sylvia browsed through the selection of books. There were quaint travel guides, dog-eared, loved, smiling out from the bookshelf, remembering the good times they had along the French Riviera, Rome, Barcelona, and the island of Majorca. Sylvia turned the pages of a Spanish phrase book. Latin American was a bit different from Castilian. She remembered from classes at school that in Spain they said
coche
for car but in South America they said
carro
. As for Portuguese, it seemed her parents hadn’t needed it. Still, she could brush up on her Spanish—just in case they ended up in neighboring countries.

She sat down cross-legged on the carpeted floor and laughed at herself. Why always the floor? She used to do her homework here, books spread out, her body contorted into yoga-like positions that were easy enough for a nimble twelve-year-old, while she wrote essays and did her math. It used to drive her mother crazy that she would never sit at a desk. Here she was again, about to do a little Spanish revision. She’d got an A once—perhaps it would come back to her. It was such an expressive language and a subject she’d always hoped to re-visit, but she’d never happened to have the time. Or the will.

But now she had the will alright.

And
how.

SYLVIA COULD HARDLY SLEEP. The excitement and nerves were too much to bear. She wanted to take a sleeping pill but ever since her father’s overdose, she’d fought against the temptation. Could she call Melinda so late? Her cousin was like a sister, but sisters could also be mean. Melinda worked. She had a real job. She was some important analyst in computers, databases.
Why is it that the people closest to us get the least attention
, Sylvia wondered? She felt ashamed that she didn’t even know what Melinda did,
exactly
, for a living. She’d inquired several times. Melinda had explained, but if someone had asked Sylvia to describe Melinda’s job in detail, she found herself lost. Shameful.

Melinda had been great, calling every day for updates. She felt mortified that she hadn’t suspected Ruth’s motives. She had unwittingly aided the “psycho ball to get rolling” as she described the situation. But how could Melinda have known that Sylvia’s “nice friend” would be a psycho in the first place? Was Sylvia that bad a judge of character?
Obviously, yes, she was.

As she lay in her parents’ bed, Sylvia pressed the buttons on the telephone.

Melinda’s yawny voice answered, “So you didn’t take a pill?” Sylvia hadn’t even said hello, Melinda knew obviously, that only one person could be calling her at three a.m.

“No. I’ve been,” Sylvia said, “resisting. I want to be alert. Awake. It’s my daughter at stake. I don’t want to be comatose on a sofa somewhere, sleeping.”

“Comatose on the sofas in your parent’s house? Sorry,
your
house now. Not likely. So uncomfortable.”

Sylvia smiled but didn’t laugh. “I’m going to Rio tomorrow. I’ve booked my flight.”

There was silence.

“But Tommy’s taking care of stuff down there, isn’t he?” Melinda asked.

“What is
wrong
with everyone? What makes everyone think that a man can take better care of this situation than a wooo-man?”

“Honey, d’you even
know
where Grace is?”

“We have a lead.”

“Great! Where? What?”

“Someone posted an anonymous tip on the
Lonely Planet
forum. They’ve been seen in Rio. But whether it’s Ruth and Grace, we have yet to find out. We’ve already had one false alarm.”

“What about the FBI and the police? Haven’t they come up with anything?”

“Maybe I should say that Grace is carrying an Al-Qaeda bomb strapped to her body—maybe then they’d perk up. So far, all they’ve been is, “understanding.” I mean, maybe they’re really working on it behind closed doors, who knows, but nothing’s come up yet.”

“Does Tommy know you’re coming?”

It annoyed Sylvia that Melinda knew her so well. “No,” she admitted.

“I figured. So I guess I’ll have to pack. What do I need? A suitcase? A backpack? Are we going hippy-style or medium-comfort style?”

“
We
are not going any style. You have a serious job, Melinda.”

“My serious job, my dear, is my family. Fuck my day job—I get the feeling I’m about to be let go anyway—everyone’s walking on eggshells at work, eyeing each other up, wondering who’ll be the next to be fired, so it’s only a matter of time. Jobs are jobs, and family? Well family is for life. And if the FBI are too pussy to hunt this bitch down, and Tommy’s too . . . whatever. You need assistance. Obviously.”

“I can’t let you get into this.”

“Oh Pl-eeaze, do you know how guilty I feel for not having had the feelers out about Ruth? You’ve always been gullible, Sylvia, when it comes to friends—always so trusting of everybody—I should have second guessed this.”

“Thanks, Melinda—that makes me feel
even
better.”

“Sorry, sweetie, I didn’t mean it like that. Of course you couldn’t have known some nut-job was going to steal your daughter, but you do need help. Okay, I’m booking my flight
as we speak
. What’s your flight number? I assume you’ll be changing in Chicago? I’ll meet you there.”

Tommy

T
he staff at the Copacabana was helpful but Tommy realized that he should be working directly with the police and needed a translator. He had hoped that, by some miracle, he’d see Grace by the swimming pool or around the lobby, and that would be that—they’d be reunited and it would be over. He showed everyone his daughter’s photo but nobody, not even the kitchen staff, had seen her. Nor anyone like her.

Tommy’s Portuguese was even worse than his Spanish—zero. He could hardly understand a word. Another bloody fiasco. Grace obviously wasn’t here. Could someone have been playing a practical joke, posting false information on the
LP
forum? He did think the anonymous side of it strange. If so, that person was beyond sick.

Another blow for Sylvia. He reflected on their telephone conversation earlier. He’d tried to stay calm, unemotional, but the way she lashed out words about divorce sliced through him like a shallow, but poignant, razor-sharp paper cut. It was totally unexpected.
Where
had it come from? He thought their moment together—making love the way they had—was a magical connection that he feared they’d lost over the past year. For him, it was like bright sunlight slipping through lugubrious clouds after a British winter. Yet there she was, flaying him with divorce words only a week later. She was still punishing him, he decided.

His mind wandered back to his last dinner in LA with Marie, the “Bel Ange” as Sylvia called her. He felt pleased with himself for having overcome temptation. There she was, this beautiful young thing, licking her lips, flashing off her knickers, enticing him with come-hither eyes, and although he desired her physically (or his dick did), he did nothing. He knew she wanted to use him for his photography, get a load of free pictures and, even though he could have used her too (isn’t that the unsaid contract in LA?), he paid for the meal and left. In the end, the whole idea had been a turn-off. He remembered he had a wife who had been loyal to him, who loved him. She was the mother of his child and that counted for everything. He didn’t even kiss Marie. His big sin? Taking a pretty girl out to lunch and harboring secret desires that he never even played upon. And, as uneasy as he felt about it now, Sylvia didn’t even know. So why was she punching him with the threat of divorce? He’d been planning to come clean, tell her about their meeting, and reassure her that his prepubescent mid-life crisis was over, but then they heard about Grace. Just bringing up the subject of seeing Marie again could, quite rightly, ignite a fire.

She was an enigma, his wife. They’d been married seven years and yet he felt he still didn’t know her. He wondered if he had ever truly reached her. Grace had. Grace had a place deep in her soul, but did he? Would she ever let him in? Thinking about that lovemaking session made his heart swell with love. And desire. He loved fucking Sylvia and wished they were constantly doing it. But she’d iced him out, bit by bit, and they’d drifted apart. He had to win her back. All of her. Every last inch of her. Her mind, her soul, her body. He wanted IN.

“Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt your daydream, but I overheard your conversation with the manager earlier, and I wondered if you needed some help?”

Tommy, startled, turned around. A woman was studying him, searching his face with an air of quizzical pity. She had a strong accent when she spoke English, Brazilian maybe? Auburn-red hair, olive skin. “I heard you were having trouble,” she went on, “that you have a missing daughter and you need some help translating.”

“Yes. Do you
know
something? Do you know where she is?” Tommy’s voice was thick with desperation. He could hear waves of it roll and tremble from his mouth.

“I’m afraid not,” the woman said. “But I can help you with translation. I’m Brazilian but my English isn’t bad.”

He swallowed.
Help at last.
“Your English sounds perfect.”

“Perfect? I wish. But I have worked for the UN in the past. Amongst other things.”

“How much is your daily rate?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to charge you a fee. Your daughter is
missing.
I want to help. You look so lost, so lonely.” She looked up at him almost seductively. Was it his imagination? Maybe it was. Maybe none of these women desired him—it was all in his fantastical, mid-life crisis head.

“Come on.” She linked her arm into his. His dirty backpack, resting at his feet, acted as a buffer between them. “Please,” she offered. “I really want to help a man in distress. You have that expression in English, don’t you?”

“Usually it’s a damsel in distress,” he replied.

She laughed. She had a friendly smile that flashed white even teeth, like an American smile. Around the bridge of her nose there was a faint purple bruise. Bumped into a lamppost, had she, or involved in an abusive relationship? He saw her notice his stare.

She touched her retroussé nose and told him, “A horse whinnied up at me the other day and bashed me right here. Nothing broken, but still a little tender.”

“Oh no, that must have been a shock. Horses can be scary when spooked.”

She was still smiling. “Oh, it was just an accident. Now if it had been a
cat
that would have been another story.”

Tommy furrowed his brows. “A cat?”

“Cats scare the crap out of me. Their nasty vicious claws and sharp, pointy teeth. Just something that happened to me when I was a child, you know.”

“Your English—it’s impeccable. How does a Brazilian know a word like whinny?”
Good. She can really be useful,
he decided.

“I had an American fiancé once. Come on, let’s go by the pool. The meal’s on me. I bet you could use some sustenance after your long journey.”

“How do you know I’ve had a long journey?” Tommy asked.

“Just guessing. Your backpack kind of gives you away.”

They walked out to the terrace by the pool. Tommy had been hanging about the hotel all day, and it was now past sunset, the dark closing in. The terrace and pool were lit up, the water shimmering and twinkling, catching reflections on ladies’ jeweled earrings and gold-sparkled arms. The guests here were loaded, obviously.

Rio—
Beauty and the Beast.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I completely forgot to introduce myself. I’m Tommy. Tommy Garland.”

“Like Judy?”

“Sorry?”

She grinned. “Judy Garland. Bet you’ve heard that before.”

“No, never,” he said deadpan. “Sorry, I’m just very tired, that’s all, not very on the ball.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.”

Cheeky, he thought. Flirtatious and over-intimate like she’d known him for years. Not that he was adverse to an attractive woman chatting him up. Especially if she was going to help him find Grace. “Sorry, and your name is—?”

“Oh, how silly of me.” She held her gaze for a moment, and looking directly in his eyes said, “I’m Ana. But I won’t tell you my last name as you won’t be able to pronounce it!”

“Nice to meet you, Ana.” Tommy picked up a menu from a table and glanced at it. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the prices. “About buying me a meal? Really, no. I wouldn’t feel comfortable. Since you’ve offered to help me out, let me treat you. But I have to admit it can’t be here at this hotel, it’s a bit beyond my budget, I’m afraid. I don’t have too long, either. I really want to get going about Grace as soon as possible. Is a quick snack okay with you?”

“No problem. I know a place nearby. As I happen to be staying here on business, I don’t mind the exorbitant prices at this hotel because
they’re
footing the bill.” She laughed and laid her hand on his shoulder.

“Your English really is word perfect.”

“I went to the International School. Here, in Rio.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said you had an American fiancé.”

“That too.”

There was an awkward silence.

“We can leave your backpack in my room—”

He cut in, “Oh no, really, that would make me feel awkward.”

“Then we’ll leave it behind the front desk. They won’t mind.”

Tommy looked down at his dirty sneakers. “Normally, I don’t think they’d be so welcoming in a place like this. But I have to say, I think every single member of staff knows my life history, all my woes, and they’ve been extremely kind to me, considering I look like a dirty old hippy.”

“Not so old. Let me take a guess. Thirty-two?”

He frowned. She was getting personal again. “What are you, a white witch or something?”