Stolen Grace

by Arianne Richmonde

“I used to have a problem.” Ruth’s lips twitched. “But it’s under control now.”

  “Not like Bridget Jones then?” Sylvia joked.

  “No way! I hated that novel. So boring! Such bad writing! All that weighing out calories every day. I never do that.”

  “You didn’t find the book funny?”

  “So British that type of humor. I guess because you’re married to a Brit you found it amusing. I didn’t get it. I read your movie script, by the way, Sylvia. It’s great. You’ve got to have the confidence to finish it! Did you read the new chapters I sent you of my novel?”

  “I certainly did and I wrote down lots of suggestions. I think you need to decide exactly whom you’re writing for. For whom you are writing? God I hate that whom and who stuff—I get so confused. What I’m trying to say is you need to decide exactly who your reader is.”

  Ruth took a swig of wine. “I told you. Housewives.”

  Sylvia realized that she, herself, wasn’t much more than a housewife right now. “Well in the first chapter you describe your hero taking a pee. In graphic detail. I think you can cut that out. Or at least save it till we know him better, till we’ve established the fact that he’s a great guy.”

  “Oh. Ok. You don’t like it, huh? It’s just that one of my exes told me how he urinated, always trying to make the perfect arc and I thought it was really interesting.”

  “I don’t know if your typical housewife would like that sort of thing. Hey, maybe I’m wrong. Take anything I say with a grain of salt. Maybe people would be fascinated. I mean look at all that erotica that’s so popular right now—you never know. Oh yes, and another thing. Just a detail. You said something like, “there’s a new iPhone that has a baby alarm on it,” or something like that. It’s not the phone itself, it’s the app.”

  “I’m a bit behind on all that app stuff.”

  Sylvia grinned. “I’m so glad I’m not the only one around here who isn’t a cyber-techie.”

  “Which reminds me, I wanted to talk to you about all that stuff. One of my ex-Harvard friends has told me that if I’m to be a successful writer I must have an online presence. That I have to have a Twitter account and a Facebook page.”

  “You. Are. Kidding? You don’t have all that? I thought the entire world did nothing but Tweet and do Facebook all day long.”

  Ruth pulled a face. “No! I am completely illiterate. I know nothing. All I can do is send e-mails and Skype, only because my ex set it up for me. He also did something to hide my whereabouts on my computer so I could watch American TV when I was in Europe—otherwise they block you if they know you’re not in the States. I wanted to watch ABC and things.’

  “He hid your IP address?”

  Ruth waved her arms again. “I have no idea what he did. Like I said, I’m clueless when it comes to all that. But will you help me do a Facebook page, sweetie? Set up a Twitter account?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. Agents want to see you have mass readership potential before they sign you. Sweetie, if I can show I have a big following on Facebook then I’m more likely to get an agent. I’m giving myself six months to get signed to one and, if I don’t manage, I’m going to self-publish and sell through Amazon.”

  “You have it all worked out. Good for you, Ruth. My only goal right now is to get my script finished. Period.”

  “Oh, I’ll be done very soon. Maybe even while I’m here. And thanks for the feedback, Sylvia honey—your points are always so useful. It’s so great being friends with you, you’re so direct. Also, I never seem to have women friends that are as attractive as I am. Women can get so jealous. You know, at college, they called me a ‘man magnet’ but not in a nice way. In a nasty, mocking way.”

  “But surely being a man magnet is good?” Sylvia joked. “Especially, if you’re single. I was never a man-magnet. I was too tall and gangly as a teenager, and had train-tracks on my teeth.”

  Ruth went on, “Well, maybe you were an ugly duckling once, but now you’re so pretty. You have a kind of poise in the way you carry yourself. I mean look at you, even when you just walk across the room to get something out of the icebox, you do it with a sort of natural elegance. Such grace. Spine straight, shoulders back. You’re just as attractive as I am, maybe even more so. I know you’d never feel competitive with me in that way. How tall are you exactly? Aren’t we about the same height?”

  Sylvia answered, “I’m five nine. I was way taller than all my classmates but when I hit about sixteen I kind of stopped growing and other girls caught up with me.”

  “I’m . . . ” Ruth considered . . . “quite a bit shorter, although I feel tall, you know? I’ve always felt tall. I’m five foot six.”

  Sylvia perused the face and body of this uber-confident woman. Ruth was attractive, yes. Slim. Ish. Could lose a few pounds. She was aware that she’d had a breast enlargement. Not because her breasts were big, but they were neat globes. Sylvia noticed them, for the first time, in fact, in their rock-hard, uniform spheres, nestled beneath Ruth’s tight-fitting T-shirt. Ruth had a long nose, not big, but she had to admit little Gracie had had a point—there was something vaguely weasel-ish about her, in the nicest possible way; although Sylvia felt cruel to think it. Her eyes the color of poop? They were a sort of sludgy-green. But she had almost black hair; beautiful, flawless olive skin; perfect teeth, and Sylvia could see that her overall look might really attract a man. Ruth looked so much younger than her years, too, and Sylvia had no doubt that her flirting skills were honed sharp and that she could play the sex appeal card with aplomb. She’d obviously had plenty of practice with her four engagements.

  “Anyway,” Ruth said, “I’m not going to get involved with anybody right now. I need to concentrate on my writing. And when I make millions from my novel, I’m sure the perfect man will fall into my life just when I need him.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, after Sylvia had set her friend up with Twitter and Facebook accounts, Ruth gave Grace a big bag of gifts.

  “Mommy, Mommy! Look!” her daughter shouted, skipping about. “A pair of Wizard of Oz shoes like Dorothy’s with red sparklies!” She pulled more goodies out of the bag. “And chocolate!”

  “Ruth, really, you shouldn’t have—it’s not her birthday or Christmas.”

  “And even more chocolate! And candy, too!” Grace squealed, her skinny brown arm buried deep in the bag.

  “By the way, how did you know Grace’s shoe size?” Sylvia asked. She glanced over at her daughter whose teeth were already stuck together in a green, chewy mess.

  “I guessed. Look further into the bag, Grace baby, there’s a red sparkly bag to match.” Ruth turned to Sylvia. “I just couldn’t resist. When I saw her cute little face when we Skyped the other day, I fell in love with her. She’s a little dream.” She swept her hand over her dark hair. “By the way, Sylvia, honey, do you have another shower I could use? Your plumbing is a little funky in my bathroom.”

  “Sure. Upstairs. First door on the right.”

  Ruth sashayed upstairs, her see-through negligee trailing behind her like mist. There was something very sexy about her and Sylvia felt relieved that Tommy wasn’t around.

  Grace strut about in her shoes, which were a tad too big, clicking her heels together saying, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” Grace knew all about The Wizard of Oz because Tommy was keen to educate his daughter with classic films. Some of them not suitable for a child her age, at all. Men, Sylvia mused—they can be so clueless sometimes when it comes to child rearing.

  Sylvia gave Grace a kiss and held her close, but Grace, like a jiggling, excited puppy struggled free.

  “Remember,” Sylvia said, “to say a very big thank you to Ruth. Maybe you could draw her a lovely card.”

  “She’s so nice to me. I really, really like her.”

  Sylvia felt a pang in her stomach which took her by surprise. Jealousy? Surely not.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tommy

  Tommy sat b
y the ocean in Malibu, watching the surfers, clad in wet suits like black seals waiting for the right wave. It was almost dark. He mulled over the day’s events. He really hadn’t meant anything to happen. He had just gotten off the plane when his cell phone rang. It was Marie—the Bel Ange, as Sylvia called her. Marie suggested they have lunch again—she’d seen from his Facebook post that he was in LA. Just to talk about her headshots, she said. A little chitchat about music, acting—have a nice time out.

  She was pushy, Tommy thought. A pretty girl used to getting men to do her favors.

  Still, he found himself saying “yes.”

  He had no idea that Marie would be so flirtatious. So predatory. Her skin was silky and pearlish, smooth and taut. Her dark hair hung over her shining eyes like a wild mare’s mane. She was wearing a short (oh so short!) black skirt and he could see a flash of knickers when she sat down. Wow, she looked young. So fresh. Innocent. So bloody . . .

  Photogenic.

  Just looking at her nipped-in waist and pert breasts, (so wantonly on display—visible through her tight little sweater), made him question himself. He felt old. Played.

  But tempted.

  It was as if she had some power over him and she could feel it. She played with it like a child bouncing a ball. Controlling where the ball went, how high.

  He was the ball; a worn, leathery, old rugby ball.

  Her French accent made her vulnerable, though—all the more enticing. Vulnerability and power mixed together, like a bomb waiting to explode. She had a slight lisp when she spoke. A little pussycat.

  Ready to pounce on him.

  Sylvia—a composer half-heartedly conducting an orchestra from an armchair, wanting him to play the right tune but with no direct input herself—flashed into his mind.

  It was a warm day, and he and Marie sat in the restaurant’s patio garden. Very LA. Relaxed. Cool. Smart, but not pretentious. She ordered a Margarita so he did the same, even though it was midday. She giggled and shuffled about in her chair. Her legs opened and closed as she crossed and uncrossed her legs—he saw that her kickers were white—a little twinkle of light flashed from them. Like a star. That’s right, the Americans call them panties. He laughed, remembering a chant they used to have at primary school, playing Kiss-Chase with the girls, when he was a skinny little boy afraid of the opposite sex:

  Up with skirts, down with knickers . . . Up with skirts, down with knickers . . . Up with skirts . . . .

  “So what’s your favorite kind of photography? Fashion?” Marie asked, her doll eyes wide, her lips parted.

  He thought of Diane Arbus, one of his favorite photographers, how she earned an income from fashion photography, although her real love was finding the interior soul of a subject: portraits of dwarfs, giants and transvestites. She had broken a mold, opened doors, seen beauty in the distasteful. That was Tommy’s goal, his passion.

  This girl though, would probably have never heard of Diane Arbus.

  He said, “Well what I really love is—”

  “I hope you’re going to take some amazing pictures of me,” the girl interrupted.

  “Well, I’m not sure if I have—”

  “I need the pictures to get the attention of directors, you know? Look really sexy but also like I’m a serious actress.” She licked her top lip slowly, flicking her tongue to catch a flake of salt, and then let her mouth caress the straw, gently sucking up more of her cocktail.

  Tommy felt the fly on his jeans strain. He knew exactly what would happen next.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sylvia

  It was four a.m. when the telephone rang, a couple of days later. The sound was swirled into the nightmare Sylvia was having; waiting for an ambulance, the red flashing sirens sounding louder and louder. She had to get Grace to the hospital—the house, which was not her house but one in a tropical forest, was on fire.

  She woke with a start and grabbed the phone to stop the ringing. Sweat soaked her nightgown at the small of her back.

  “Hello?” she answered in a groggy haze.

  The voice was quiet. Sympathetic. Sylvia knew immediately something was wrong. It took her a while to understand who it was.

  “Sylvie? It’s me, Melinda. I have some terrible news,” she said softly. “Sylvia, are you there?”

  “Hi Melinda. Sorry, I was fast asleep.”

  “Of course you were. I’m so, so sorry, I have terrible news.” She paused and sucked in a deep breath. “Wilber is in the hospital.”

  “Daddy? Oh my God . . . what happened?” She shot out of bed, knocking over a glass of water.

  “He took an overdose sometime after midnight. Mom heard some groaning in the night and when she went into his bedroom, he looked marbled and blue. She called 911.”

  Sylvia swallowed hard. Her throat was thick and dry. “Thank God you and Aunt Marcy were there. Will he pull through?”

  “The doctors say there’s hope. They’ve pumped his stomach.”

  “Jesus. Is he conscious?” She staggered to the bathroom, ran the faucet and gulped down some water.

  “Barely. He’s in OR still. I’m so sorry, Sylvia. He seemed fine today.”

  She coughed, the water going down the wrong way. “Yes, he did. We spoke yesterday. He seemed just fine.”

  He’d told her he loved her. Was that his way of saying goodbye? He’d told her he missed her, he loved her; she should have understood. A cliché, it was true, but the writing really had been on the wall. She wanted to cry but no tears came because there was no time for tears. She had to get to him straight away. Something deep inside her had feared this moment, although she never imagined for a second he’d be capable of actually going through with it. Or had she? Had she known all along? Her dad had been lost without her mother. He’d been co-dependent, and since her mom’s death he had hinted that his life was no longer worth living. Sylvia plunked herself down on the toilet seat and bowed her head, the receiver close to her ear.

  “Mom feels responsible,” Melinda told her gravely.

  That made two of them. Sylvia knew, somehow, her aunt would feel that way but said, “Why?”

  “She feels so guilty, she should have monitored him more closely, she should have taken them away from him, rationed them.”

  “The sleeping pills he’d been prescribed by Doctor Locke?”

  “Yes.”

  Sylvia bit her lip so hard she could feel it smart. “She’s not to blame. It’s nobody’s fault. It’s not her fault. He could have done it at any time.”

  “He’d been stashing them. Saving them up. We couldn’t know.”

  “Of course you couldn’t.” Sylvia should have been more on the ball herself, should have seen this coming. Was it a cry for attention? The fact he did it while her aunt and cousin were staying with him, made her wonder. He needed her, obviously. She’d get up, get dressed and go.

  “So when can you get here?” Melinda asked in a quiet voice.

  “As soon as I can. I’ll go online now and book our tickets.”

  “You change planes in Chicago, right?’

  “Or Minneapolis. And we have to change in Denver first. Two changes.”

  “What a bummer. Let me know your flight number and I’ll pick you up in Saginaw.”

  “But you told me you had to get back to work tomorrow.” She looked at her watch on the bathroom cabinet. “I mean, today.”

  Melinda cleared her throat. “I do. But Sylvia, this is an emergency. I’m not going anywhere right now. I want to at least wait until you get here.”

  “I’ll call the second I have our flights booked. Tell Dad I love him and we’re on our way.”

  “I will. I promise. Safe flight.”

  THERE WAS ONLY one seat available on the Denver to Chicago leg that morning. Nothing from Minneapolis. As if the entire world had decided to fly that day. If Sylvia could wait twenty-four hours there would be another seat for Grace on a later flight. But twenty-four hours was forever when her father was battling for his life. She
remembered her mom, the guilt still wrapped about Sylvia like a blanket, thick with mildew—Sylvia hadn’t been there for her at the end. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  She called Tommy—he wasn’t picking up.

  As if by osmosis, Ruth appeared as Sylvia was coming out of the bathroom. It was still dark—even the birds hadn’t yet awoken.

  “Honey—Sylvia, what’s wrong? I heard something smash and it woke me. Oh my . . . your eyes are red, have you been crying?”

  Sylvia related the dilemma. Her heart felt like a fragile piece of paper, fluttering in two separate directions, about to rip. Maybe she should just leave it—trying to get to Saginaw in record time was ridiculous. Grace took priority—she couldn’t leave her behind. Grace had never been alone without either her or Tommy.

  Ruth hugged her friend. Sylvia could smell sweet-scented cream on Ruth’s face and her hard breasts—filmed in her thin, floaty negligee—pushed up against Sylvia’s chest.

  Her voice was soothing. “Sylvia . . . go to your father, he needs you. This is life or death—you’d never forgive yourself. I know, believe me. I looked after my mom in the last stages of breast cancer. It was grueling, but the best decision I ever made in my life. I wouldn’t trade those last few weeks for anything in the world. Your dad will make it. I’m sure he will. But having you by his side will make all the difference.”

  “You’re right, I—” The phone was ringing. Sylvia raced to pick it up. It would be Tommy calling back.

  His voice was like balm to a wound. All her resentment melted away. She needed her husband more than ever.

  “Baby,” he said. “Are you okay? I figured there must be some kind of emergency, you calling at this hour.”

  Sylvia explained her quandary, her breath short, obligation strangling her like tenacious, wet ivy. Why did parents feel like children? Why the weight of responsibility? But that’s the way it was.

  “Well, Ruth is there, isn’t she?” Tommy said. “I’ll get on the first plane out of LA and come home. Gracie won’t be alone. And then Gracie and I can both come to Saginaw if need be. Or not. Depending on your dad. We’ll play it by ear. Get on that plane, anyhow.”