“They said the signatures on all the paperwork were identical to the signature they had on file. ‘A nice woman,’ the bank said. ‘She had her little girl with her,’ they said.”
“Evil bitch,” Tommy murmured, his mouth twisted with disgust. “Ruth must have spent hours practicing your signature. And mine, too. Nice touch, that parental consent I supposedly signed.”
They sat in silence, holding hands, Sylvia dissecting Ruth’s last known movements. There had been no traces of a “Sylvia Garland and her daughter” boarding any more planes. Ruth was no dummy, obviously. She knew that by the time she’d cleaned out the account and hadn’t turned up in Saginaw, the cops would be looking for her. But South America was her oyster. She spoke fluent Spanish and Portuguese. That part wasn’t made up. That part of Ruth Steel was a razor-sharp truth. Sylvia had heard her chat on her cell one time, while they were Skyping. Ruth really could navigate her way around languages. Not to mention her gift for mimicking people. She could go anywhere by bus, by car. She had cash. Just one country in Latin America alone would be a maze in itself, but the whole mass of it? There was the Amazon. Where could Sylvia and Tommy even begin? Sylvia’s greatest fear was that Grace, with her caramel-colored skin, would blend in with the locals. She could easily pass for a Brazilian or any Latin American child. And Ruth, trilingual as she was, could become invisible. Mother and child.
Sylvia observed Tommy as he navigated about his iPad, gathering ideas. She had never seen him so focused.
They’d made two videos and posted them on YouTube. Appeals to find Grace. They showed footage of her playing and talking to the camera—on a trip they made to Yellowstone one time—mixed with a compilation of photos and their own personal pleas to help them find their daughter. They’d already had 97,000 hits in two days. But they didn’t posses one photo of Ruth to show anyone. Her Facebook page was the generic blue and white outline of a non-person. Her Skype account had disappeared. So had her e-mail account. Sylvia had not taken one photo of her in Wyoming. She had nothing. And the only thing the CCT cameras showed evidence of (at the airports and the bank in Guatemala), was a blonde woman in heels and a dress (Sylvia’s dress), wearing a straw cowboy hat that hid her face. A blonde who could have been Sylvia herself.
Tommy also had the idea to put advertisements in all the papers, notably the Herald Tribune which ex-pats read. He put posts on Internet forums on the Lonely Planet and Fodor’s—anywhere where backpackers and travelers might wander. He set up a Facebook and Twitter page with Grace’s photo. A picture of her with Pidgey O Dollars. He sent out regular tweets, and although he’d had several replies, he and Sylvia were no closer to finding Grace’s whereabouts.
THE MORNING LIGHT was warming the great hallway of Sylvia’s childhood home. An orange glow shone on one of her grandmother’s paintings, bringing the characters to life; naive stick-men in a swirl of abstract colors. Sylvia felt it was foolish, but she prayed to them anyway.
Tommy’s backpack sat bulging on the terracotta floor, a pair of Territorial Army boots tied to a ring by their laces, and a lightweight sleeping bag, neatly rolled, was attached to its sides.
“It won’t be too cumbersome, then?” Sylvia asked. She observed him standing in the hallway, his legs astride, his stance erect. He looked tough. She had seldom seen him this way. His jaw looked more angular, his sandy hair darker, his chest muscles more prominent. He’d been working out the last couple of days. He’d found some old 1960s weights in the garage and had been pumping iron in between organizing the Grace alerts. Everything about him looked resilient, determined. In the past, he’d shared stories about his Territorial Army days in Britain, but Sylvia had just assumed it was a way for him to help fund his university expenses, and that the part-time activity hadn’t meant that much to him. She hadn’t seen the tough side of him before. Now he looked like he’d stepped into another persona altogether.
He was on a mission.
“It won’t be too bulky, then, too heavy?” she repeated.
“The rucksack? No, it’s nothing. I’ve carried heavier.”
She made a mental list of the essentials inside and wondered if he’d forgotten anything. Compass, micro-flashlight, mosquito net. He’d be taking his iPhone: it had God-knows-what fancy apps—compass included—but neither knew how much network would be available down there. Who knew where Ruth was headed? With all the newspapers and Internet noise the couple had made, she might be hiding out in a rainforest somewhere.
Sylvia slipped some baby wipes in one of the backpack pockets, handy, she thought, for a quick cleanup. She’d heard from friends and from Tommy about the hardships of traveling in third world countries but it was something she’d never dared do herself. She had read about the prehistoric-looking iguanas of the Galapagos Islands, the wonder of Machu Picchu with its Inca trails, and the UNESCO towns like Cuzco, boasting colonial churches and old world charm, yet she had never had the courage to pick up a backpack and go herself. She’d always supposed that she couldn’t take the time off because of her job, but she knew, deep down inside, that the challenge of traveling on a budget was too much for her.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” she asked for the fifth time.
“Positive.”
She chewed her lip. “I could help. I’ll feel so useless here alone.”
“Look, darling, we’ve already been through this. You need to stay behind in case the FBI gets any leads. Two of us stuck in a jungle somewhere getting eaten by mosquitoes with no way of being contacted, isn’t going to help. Besides, you’re not feeling strong enough for this sort of traveling—dirty tuk-tuks belching out two-stroke, stinking fumes in your face, or schlepping about on filthy chicken buses with sticky plastic seats, driven by devil-may-care Catholics with the Virgin Mary dangling from the rear-view mirror, overtaking on hairpin bends above precipices, hurtling along pot-holed roads at eighty miles an hour, beeping at stray dogs on the road” –he stopped for breath—“which they wouldn’t hesitate to mow down by the way.”
Sylvia’s stomach dipped with a feeling of hopelessness. “I guess it’s true what you say about being here for the FBI. But I want to be with you. Grace is my daughter too.”
“And you also have the funeral in three days time,” he said gently.
“I know. If Daddy hadn’t killed himself, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” Ouch, how did that come out?
“Look,” Tommy said, “give me a couple of weeks. If I don’t have any luck then come out and join me if you like.”
If you like. Not the most encouraging invitation. They stood in the hallway in silence. Tommy’s lips parted as if he was about to say something important but then he stopped himself. He suddenly blurted, “You know we’re not going to LA anymore, don’t you? I mean, not now this second, but in general. The LA job is off.”
“But after we’ve found Grace—”
“After we’ve found Grace, we’re not going to live in LA.”
Sylvia scrunched her brow. “But what about the job?”
“I’ve told them to look for someone else. Even if I find Grace tomorrow, I don’t want the job.”
“Oh.”
Tommy looked as if he were trying to sell her an idea. “The whole reason I let go of IT was to pursue my dreams as a photographer. I mean, that’s why we went to Wyoming, wasn’t it? Because of the beauty, the awe-inspiring landscape, the strange characters you find there. I didn’t give up my successful career to become a second-rate fashion photographer in LA.”
“Oh,” she said again. But Sylvia knew that he had a point. She secretly thought the same thing but didn’t want to wound his pride. LA wasn’t Milan, Paris, or New York; it was hardly the fashion capital of the world. Fashion had never been Tommy’s thing, anyway.
“I don’t give a fuck about fashion,” Tommy continued. “I never have, I never will. I don’t care what’s going on in the vapid, vacuous head of some pretty girl, or what outfit she’s wearing. I care about people�
�s souls, what makes them tick. I care about beauty from within.”
Sylvia pictured the Bel Ange, pouting and posing—an obsession he’d nursed for over a year. It was strange, she thought, how people perceive themselves. Tommy did care about external beauty, he did choose a book by its cover. Unless losing Grace had changed his whole outlook on life.
“What made you change your mind?” she said, trying not to sound cold.
“Let’s just say I had an epiphany in LA. I had a close shave.”
What close shave? she wondered. But said, “So when we find Grace, what’s next then, if we don’t go to LA?”
“We’ll live here. In Saginaw.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, why not? We could do that for a couple of years. It’s not a good idea to sell when emotions are still raw. You’ve hardly got over your mother’s death, and now your dad. And now Grace’s kidnapping. A triple whammy. Oh, and finding out you have a half-brother, too, and that your father was living a lie for forty odd years. A quadruple whammy.”
Sylvia flinched. “We don’t know that for sure.”
“Oh yes we do. You can bet your bottom dollar it was his big secret. If your mother had known about his love child, she would have divorced him. Trust me. Anyway, the last thing you need right now is the stress of moving somewhere new. And we both know that Crowheart is out of the question. Been there, done that.”
“Michigan is in the worst crisis since the depression,” Sylvia said. “And this is everything you hate! Suburbs, Midwest America—‘obese people slurping neon-pink milkshakes, hanging out in shopping malls’ –those were your very words.”
“I know darling. I know. I felt that way before but it’s different now—I was being judgmental. I’ve been bowled over by people’s kindness here.”
There was Before Grace, Sylvia thought. The Before the Adoption part of their life. And now there was another Before. The Before the Abduction.
“And what happens,” she ventured, “if we don’t find Grace?”
There, she said it, that hideous question that had been festering in the air like a virus. Her heartbeat raced, and blood pounded her ears. White heat pooled in her stomach. She thought she might actually faint.
Tommy shook his head. He wasn’t having it. “That’s not an option. Not acceptable. We will find her.”
“But, honey, I hate to say it, but it is a reality.” Sylvia bit her lip to stop her mouth from trembling.
“It’s also a reality that France, sweet little picturesque France which makes wine and cheese, has a submarine that has six missiles—each one of them has a thousand times more power than Hiroshima, enough nuclear power alone to blow up the world twenty times. All that power contained in one single submarine! But we can’t live that way, can we? Worrying about the what-ifs.”
Sylvia knew she needed to change the subject. She’d spoken the wrong words. Negativity at a time like this was the last thing Tommy needed. “Do you want something to eat before I drive you to the airport?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay.” She’d pushed him away again. Pushed him away with her pessimism. She thought of Gracie’s name for her when she was this way: the Ground Dog way, her lips turned down, the sadness in her eyes giving her the “Ground Dog” nickname. All she yearned for was to be Grace’s Mommykins again—the other nickname Grace gave her. If she were Mommykins, once more, she’d never let Ground Dog return.
Tommy took a step toward her and said in a softer tone, “I don’t want anything to eat, but I do, darling, want to say goodbye. I want to lie with you for a while, Sylvia. I want to hold you.” He took her by the hand and drew her close. His arms were muscly and warm, his hold tight. Even at five foot nine, Sylvia felt petite against his strong, solid frame. “Let’s go upstairs,” he suggested. “We don’t have to leave for an hour yet.”
Sylvia sat uneasily at the edge of the silk-backed bed and kicked off her shoes. She needed to do this. She needed, just for a snatch of time, to escape her dark, Graceless world. She needed to help Tommy too—give him strength. She inhaled the scent of him and rested her head against his shoulder. He smelled of sweet grass and sun-warmed skin. He unzipped her dress. His generous hands slipped around her waist and moved up the length of her body, then stroked her back. She shivered. His fingertips caressed her skin and she closed her eyelids—a twirl of colors swam beneath them: red, twinkling green. She could hear some birds tweeting outside the bedroom window, perched on the weeping willow tree and, as one flew past, the shadow darted across her colored vision, just a second, just a flash. Tommy continued to stroke her—his touch tender. Warm.
She remembered how much she loved this man. How she ached for him. How much she desired him physically.
He pushed the dress away from her shoulders and it fell in folds about her waist. He pressed his hand under her white cotton panties and cupped her crotch, lifting it a millimeter from the bed. She cried out. Taken aback, almost, by the tingling flurry between her legs. She had forgotten that could happen. She could feel herself moisten, and she wriggled out of her dress, letting it fall to the floor. His hands moved upwards toward her breasts, his touch soft, hardly there, letting a finger flicker on her nipple, quiet and restful. She turned herself around to face him, her legs straddled either side of his, the saddle of her thighs and bottom pressing against his groin. He was rock hard. Bigger than she remembered. Her stomach pooled with desire and she heard herself moan quietly. They kissed. He tasted of sun and apples. He tasted of Tommyness. She let her tongue explore his top lip, then his mouth, and felt the rough stubble of an unshaven face. He groaned and pulled her closer. She remembered how little they kissed these days, really kissed—deep, probing—and she remembered, too, how he craved that.
She could feel the steady throb between her legs, and edging herself up on her knees, still straddling him, she offered his mouth her nipple. He licked it. Softly. The end of his tongue flickered like a glinting light. She let out another little cry. Her need for him, like a volt, made her push him to the bed. His head thumped on the puffed linen pillows and hungrily she unbuttoned his shirt, grappled the belt, reaching for the buttons of his jeans, feeling the rock that was his desire, the pulse in her groin rhythmical and hot. She drank in his chiseled abs, the definition of his pectorals. She pulled off his pants, halfway. She kissed him on his muscular thighs, her head resting against his hips, her tongue and lips searching for his cock as she looked up at him, a monument of flesh and bone and blood and love. They needed each other. For the first time in years, they could really give to one another. They needed each other’s strength, each other’s weakness.
Being united was imperative right now.
“Come here, my angel, my light. I need you close to me.” He grabbed her, pulling her up toward him from the waist, placing her on top of him. Her toes tingled, and she heard him hold his breath for a second as she let him slide into her, her hands guiding him in. It felt huge, unfamiliar, as if it were her first time. She caught her breath at the smarting pain. It lasted a second and then it was over, her wetness welcoming the man she loved, the fit perfect. She had forgotten how well they slotted together.
She had forgotten that.
She gyrated her hips in a tiny figure of eight, then opened her mouth so her breath could come faster. She shut her eyes again and moved down, closer, tighter, her lips pressing on his, her pale hair flopping about his concentrated face. Her body needed this.
“I love you, Sylvie. I love you.” He kissed her harder and groaned. “So beautiful. So, so beautiful.”
She said nothing but carried on with her rhythm, fearful to break its spell, her elbows planted either side of his shoulders, up and down, the skin of their torsos clapping, she mewling with each plunge, controlling the penetration, teasing him, the throbbing tip, now the whole, now just the tip. He felt incredible.
His patience could no longer bear her coquettish torment.
She could feel him grab her buttocks w
ith his large hands. He spun her round, her on her back now, gently, careful not to let their groins part. He started pumping. Hard. Deep. Her man had taken command. The captain of his ship. His vessel. He started fucking her rhythmically. Dominating her. She splayed her legs open even wider.
She moaned at every thrust. She tilted her thighs higher and still with her eyes on him, grabbed a cushion beside her head and pushed it under her hips. They were closer now. Her fingers grabbed his ass, smooth and hard like a rounded boulder. She pulled herself back. Just a touch. Steady. Slow. She was in control again. She needed to change the pace. Slowly she pushed herself toward him and held the motion. Pulled him in tighter. Still. Together. One.
Then she drew herself away.
He let out a deep, guttural growl. “Jesus you’re incredible.”
Again, she pulled him, her nails like little weapons, clutching his buttocks. She could feel it now. Her racing pulse, the heat like an orange flare, the deep quiver inside her, taut as a boxing glove. The sensation, she knew, could rush like a falling cascade, or evaporate to an invisible mist. The timing was crucial. Her eyes were tight. Closed like a knot. The tunnel of both light and dark was rushing behind her head. She pulled him closer. She stopped. Her breath was fast, her heart pounding like a fighting fist.
He moaned. She could feel him expand inside her. Huge. Filling and pushing the edges of her walls. She lifted herself toward him. And stopped. She held her breath.
One. Two. Three. Four.
“I’m coming,” he moaned into her mouth, lashing his tongue around hers. His hardness inside her throbbed like a raw red heart.
She arched her back a little higher and pulled him closer with her hands, clawed like eagle’s talons. And then it came.
The unexpected.
The expected.
The moments of bliss that for a woman can never be guaranteed. The seconds where brain and soul meet flesh, and the brain goes blank. The second that can be snatched away and melt like an ice cream on a sweltering day to a helpless mess of nothing, or that can load you with a rush of blood, love, seed and Heaven—the bolt of thunderous orgasm. It came in her, under her, pulsing through her like a flooding river. Deep. Hard. Powerful. She could hear a woman scream and she realized it was her own lustful voice.
Stolen Grace Page 13