Meet Me in Barcelona

by Mary Carter

  Grace flopped down in the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Come home, Jake. He would help her figure this out. She would tell him everything, and then together they would figure it out.

  An hour later, Jake still wasn’t home, and he hadn’t called again. She wondered if Carrie Ann was still sleeping. Grace wished she could sleep, but she felt strangely energized. She also felt like she was forgetting something. Did she have her purse? It was on the counter. Grace began to empty it out. Something clinked on the counter. Carrie Ann’s diamond ring. Grace had forgotten all about it. She slipped it on her finger. It fit. The diamond was huge. Better not get too attached. Grace took the ring off and tucked it into her purse. Then she pulled out a credit card and driver’s license. They weren’t hers—hers were always tucked in her wallet. The license belonged to Carrie Ann Gilbert.

  How did those get in there? Carrie Ann must have slipped them in without Grace’s noticing. Why would she do that? It was just as disconcerting to find something added to your purse as it was to discover something missing. She studied the driver’s license. Carrie Ann looked like a pretty all-American blonde. Her address was in Atlanta, Georgia. Had Carrie Ann mentioned that? Was she living there with Stan or had they separated? Maybe with this new info Grace could find something on the Internet.

  Grace took the license over to Jake’s laptop. But when she went to log in, a little box popped up asking for a password. Jake had never locked his computer before. They brought the laptop primarily for video chats with her parents, so Jake wouldn’t deliberately shut her out of it. Would he? Maybe that little assistant of his had sent him naked pictures and Jake didn’t want her to see them. Grace was reaching now. Jake wasn’t the type to hide things on his computer. But if he hadn’t locked it, then who had?

  Heavy footsteps echoed above her. It sounded like more than one person was traipsing around upstairs. The hairy guy from the beach? Grace would have to ask Carrie Ann about him. Or she could casually ask the doorman who didn’t open any doors.

  Grace went into the hall and tried to peer all the way down to the lobby. The staircases curved so that you could actually see a good ways down but she couldn’t make out the desk from this angle. She texted Jake as she headed down the stairs.

  Wandering nearby. Let me know when you’re home.

  The guy was back at the desk. Perfect. Even though he simply looked at her without a word or a smile, Grace walked up to him. “Hola,” she said. “I’m Grace.”

  “Hola, Grace,” he said. “I am Stefano.”

  “Do you work here?”

  “I am here to help.” Now he was smiling, as if she had just offered him her escort services.

  “I’m just wondering, have you met my friend Carrie Ann? Blonde. Also American. She’s one floor above me?”

  “Yes, but don’t worry. I can love two girls just as much.”

  “Lovely. Do you happen to know the guy she’s staying with? Tall—uh—dark hair?” And a lot of it.

  “Rafael. My good friend. Amigos.”

  “That’s right. Rafael. I just wanted to thank him for letting us stay here.”

  “He is at work.”

  “Oh. I thought I heard him up there.” Grace glanced up at the apartment. She swore she had heard a man’s voice up there.

  “Your boyfriend is with her.”

  At first Grace didn’t quite understand him. “Jake? You saw Jake go up there?”

  “Sí.”

  He must have been confused, but Grace kept asking questions. “How long ago?”

  He shrugged. “Thirty minutes ago.”

  Grace leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Listen. Have you ever seen Rafael or Carrie Ann go into our apartment?”

  “I see nothing.”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s why I am good at my job.” The smile was back.

  Wait. So was he saying he had seen someone go into their apartment, but he was going to turn a blind eye? “What is your job?”

  He put his hand on his heart. “Security. You feel safe with me. ¿Sí?”

  About as safe as a baby with a rattlesnake. “Gracias,” she said, although she really had no reason to be thanking him. She headed back up to Carrie Ann’s room. Jake couldn’t be in there, could he? When she got to the door she stopped and listened. She could no longer hear voices. Had she just imagined things? And what about Stefano? Had he out and out lied? Grace knocked. No response. She knocked louder. “Carrie Ann?” she called. “Jake?”

  She stood in the hall and texted Jake.

  Where are you?

  Half a minute later he responded.

  Got caught up. Meet you at Miró at 3:00?

  “Jake?” Grace called again. And again, there was no answer.

  Call me ASAP.

  Phone dying. Sorry babe. C u @ 3.

  Grace realized she didn’t even have a cell phone number for Carrie Ann. She went back to her apartment and scrawled a note on an envelope.

  Miró Museum 3 p.m. See you there. Grace.

  She slipped it underneath Carrie Ann’s door and was halfway down the stairs when she was hit with a strong feeling that she was forgetting something. Video call her mother. That’s what she was forgetting. And now she couldn’t even do it because Jake had password protected his computer. The afternoon was getting more frustrating by the minute. She continued down the stairs, wondering if she should buy a calling card instead.

  It was slightly cooler outside than it had been for the past few days, but Grace was hot from running up and down the stairs. It was an easy walk to the Miró Museum, first toward the beach, then up the massive hill to the right. Maybe she’d look at some artwork on her way to the museum or grab something cold to drink and just sit on the beach. She certainly could stand to calm down.

  She bought a calling card at a small shop at the end of the street and called her mother. Her father answered. “Finally, Gracie. Your mother was worried sick.” Grace cringed, although this was an expression they used all the time.

  “Jake’s laptop isn’t working,” Grace said. “I had to go out and buy a calling card.”

  “Well, how goes it?”

  “It’s lovely, really. But we also broke our video camera.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “We were at the top of the spiral in Sagrada Família, and Jake dropped it while trying to get a panoramic sweep.”

  “That was an expensive piece of equipment,” her father said.

  “He was insured.” Grace had no idea the lie was going to pop out of her mouth until it was too late. At some point she had started protecting her parents from the truth.

  “Ah, thatta boy.”

  “Listen. How is Mom?”

  “She’s fine, Gracie.”

  “Is she awake?”

  “No, she’s pretty far under or I’d give her a jostle for you.”

  “Oh. Is she . . . ?”

  “About the same, darling. About the same.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Fair to middling. I’ll tell you—we both enjoyed that video. You and Jake have a nice chemistry together. We can tell you’re really having fun. So as soon as you replace your camera, keep those rolling in. It does your mother good.”

  “I wish I were there.”

  “No, you don’t. And she doesn’t either. She wants you two to have a good time.”

  “You’d tell me if I needed to come home.”

  “Of course. I’m telling you to stay.”

  “Because it wouldn’t be any trouble—”

  “The doctors are going to lower your mother’s dose of medication. I think her memory will start to improve.”

  “I should come home and talk to them—”

  “Believe me, I gave them an earful.”

  “I bet you did.”

  “Once she starts remembering things I’m going to take her on a few outings a week.”

  “That’s really great, Dad. I’m so happy she has you.”


  “She has you too, pumpkin. And you promised her Barcelona.”

  “Okay.” A familiar lump was lodged in her throat. She did not want her father to hear her crying.

  “What are you lovebirds up to today?”

  “We’re going to go to the Miró Museum.”

  “Excellent.”

  With Carrie Ann. He had enough to worry about. Considering how upset he had gotten when he thought Jody was simply imagining Carrie Ann, Grace definitely didn’t want to give him the news long distance. “Give Mom a kiss for me.”

  “I’ll give her two. And you just enjoy every minute you can.”

  There was a Spanish guitar player at the base of the hill leading up to the Miró Museum. The delicate notes immediately lifted Grace’s mood. She sat on the edge of a concrete wall and closed her eyes. The sun felt good on her eyelids, and she let the music wash over her.

  “I wish I had my camera.” It was a male voice, and, unless he had learned how to pull off a foreign accent in the past few hours, it wasn’t Jake. Grace opened one eye. Standing very near, to her right, was a man staring at her with a slightly crooked smile. He was a foot taller than her, had wavy brown hair, eyes the lightest brown she had ever seen, a dark tan, and stubble. He didn’t look Spanish, and his accent sounded slightly French but not quite.

  “He’s good, no?” he said. Grace nodded and looked away. She had always been shy about being hit on, and relieved when she had met Jake, thinking that part of her life was over. She could already feel her cheeks heating up. Jake was always comparing her openness while playing onstage to her shyness in everyday life, but in her mind they were totally separate things. When she was on stage she had an entire audience to hide behind. One-on-one was much more intimidating. Still, as a performer, it was something she should probably learn to get over. Carrie Ann certainly never had a problem around people.

  “Do you play?” the foreigner said, gesturing to the guitar.

  “Not Spanish guitar,” Grace said. “Not like that anyway.”

  “But the guitar you play. No?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You are strumming the air.” Grace looked at her hands, and sure enough they were in guitar position. It startled her, and then she laughed. The foreigner laughed with her and then edged closer. “I have always admired musicians. They can play what they feel. Me? I must always keep it inside.”

  Grace smiled and nodded. It was the best gig in the world. Sing her pain—

  “How long have you been in Barcelona?” He too sat on the concrete wall, although he gave her plenty of space.

  “I’m losing track,” Grace said. “I think it’s our sixth day.” There. She brought up Jake by the use of the word “our.” If this man was hitting on her, he’d probably say “Are you with your boyfriend?” or some such, and he could soon be on his way. Otherwise, maybe he was just being friendly. Music had a way of opening people up, allowing them to let down their guards. “How long have you been here?” Grace asked.

  “Sixteen days.”

  “Wow.” She wondered what he did that allowed him so much time off. Then again, he was European, and they always had more vacation days. “Where are you from?”

  “I am from Belgium,” he said.

  “Cool.”

  “But I have been traveling for the past year.”

  “For the past year?”

  “Yes. I write a travel blog.”

  “Wow.” She was suddenly very conscious of using the word “wow” twice in close proximity; she probably sounded very American. And that, as every American learned while traveling in Europe, was never a good thing. Grace looked at her phone. Jake should be along in twenty minutes. The stranger was indicating the musician.

  “Maybe he would let you play,” he said. “If I ask nicely.”

  “Oh, no. No. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

  “Why not? I would love to hear you play.” He kept his eyes on her and continued even when she broke eye contact. She felt a chemical attraction to him, and it was making her feel a little guilty. He was very attractive. It was normal, she supposed, to have this reaction to a handsome man, but it still jarred her. She hadn’t felt any sexual feelings toward any other man since she had met Jake.

  “Where all have you been?” Grace wanted to get the focus off of her.

  “I have been all over Europe of course, and some to the States, but in my last job I was living in the Congo.”

  Grace watched him to see if he was putting her on, but his light brown eyes remained steady. Would he think she was hitting on him if she told him how unique his eyes were? And even more startling, would she be hitting on him?

  The only things she knew about the Congo were from Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible. She figured it was a very beautiful but very dangerous place. “What took you to the Congo?” Something told her this man was the type to go exactly where no one else would.

  “I was the director of an international rescue agency.” Once again, no trace of joking.

  “Wow.” Oh, God, there she went again. “I’m sure you have a ton of stories.”

  “You could say that.” He smiled at her as if he had a ton of juicy ones that he was never going to tell.

  “It must be a pretty tough place to live though?”

  “Of course. Our building was surrounded by a stone wall and armed guards. My house was guarded as well. Plus I had three dogs. The people, they have it rough, but they are survivors. But do not feel sorry for me. I had good pay and a beautiful house on a lake. I would kayak every morning. I also had a lot of friends. You have to put the tough times in perspective.”

  Grace stopped herself from saying “wow” again. They were sitting pretty close, just staring at each other, when a female voice sliced through the air.

  “Up to no good, we see!” Grace and the man turned to see Carrie Ann waving and shouting from a few feet away. Jake was next to her. She was wearing the shortest red dress Grace had ever seen, and it looked fantastic on her. Jake at first looked sheepish, until he glanced at the man sitting so close to Grace. Then he looked annoyed. Carrie Ann on the other hand, eyed the foreigner up and down like she was going to bid on him at auction.

  “Jake,” Grace said. “I’m so glad to see you.” It was true too. An overwhelming feeling of relief flooded Grace, as if she had feared she would never see him again. Not caring who was watching, she launched herself into his arms. “Where were you?” she said when she finally pulled away.

  “I got caught up with a few things,” Jake said.

  “I overslept,” Carrie Ann said.

  “Stefano said he saw you go into Carrie Ann’s apartment,” Grace said to Jake. “I knocked on the door for like fifteen minutes and tried calling both of you.”

  “Stefano?” Jake said.

  “The guy who sits at the desk,” Grace said.

  “Lovers,” Carrie Ann said. She elbowed her way between them and looped arms with each. “Let’s not fight in front of our new friend.” She gave the Belgian man the once-over, her smile widening as she took him in. She held out her hand. “I’m Carrie Ann,” she said. “And you are?”

  “I am Jean Sebastian,” the man said.

  “Of course you are,” Jake mumbled. Grace snuck a glance at him. Was he jealous? He was the one walking around with Carrie Ann in that dress. Grace should be jealous. And why did she get the feeling that he was lying about being in Carrie Ann’s apartment? Jake wasn’t a liar. She couldn’t let her imagination run away with her.

  “We both just happened to be listening to the guitar player,” Grace said. She gestured to where the guitar player had been, just a few minutes ago. He was gone. Why, every time Grace turned around, did somebody in this city disappear?

  “We ready?” Jake said. He took Grace’s hand with barely a nod to Jean Sebastian and headed toward the hill leading to the museum.

  “We’re going to the Miró Museum,” Carrie Ann said to the newcomer. “Would you like to join us?”
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  Jake stopped abruptly. Grace stumbled forward. “Is she serious?” he said.

  “She’s like that,” Grace said. Always dragging in strays from the periphery. Like poor Stan. Although if Carrie Ann was telling the truth it wasn’t “poor Stan” anymore. Either way, this poor Belgian traveler had no idea what he was getting into. Run, Jean Sebastian, run, Grace wanted to shout.

  “I will let you on your own,” Jean Sebastian said.

  “Then do give us your number,” Carrie Ann said. “We can meet later for a drink.”

  “Unbelievable,” Jake said. Carrie Ann was rummaging around in her purse, presumably for pen and paper.

  “We’ll meet you at the entrance,” Grace said. Carrie Ann barely waved her hand.

  Jean Sebastian looked at Grace and held her glance. Wow, was he attractive. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Good luck with your guitar.”

  “Thank you. Good luck with your travel blog.” I hope I never run into him again, Grace thought to herself. She was horrified at how quickly she had lusted over a complete stranger. Lust at first sight. That was normal. She couldn’t help that. But hanging around with him when she knew that’s how she felt—now that would be wrong. Somehow she was going to have to get the message to Carrie Ann, without her figuring out how to use it against her, that under no circumstances was Jean Sebastian going to be tagging along.

  CHAPTER 18

  At the top of Montjuïc, Grace and Jake were treated to a fabulous panoramic view of the city. The building housing the museum was made of smooth white stone and was done in traditional Mediterranean style. In accordance with Joan Miró’s wishes, exhibits were always from a variety of contemporary artists. That was a man with a true love of art, just like Grace’s philosophy of musicians embracing, encouraging, and sharing the works of others. True artists, once they reached a certain level of acclaim and satisfaction, were not solely focused on themselves; instead they welcomed and encouraged others. Grace liked Miró’s whimsical works and primary colors. It was amazing what he could do playing with the basics. Like Gaudí, Miró didn’t seem to be baring his pain; he was playing; he was creating joy.