Stolen Grace

by Arianne Richmonde

  Grace turned to María and translated, “El Padre está muerto. Un accidente. No tenemos que jugar Pinocchio nunca más.” She exhaled heavily as if her body were dispelling some fear that had been locked inside and then said, “No está muerto . . . ES muerto, para siempre.”

  It was a glimmer, a tiny moment that Sylvia was sure nobody else noticed. A Mona Lisa smile, set ever so subtly on her daughter’s sweet face, giving little away except serene hope. For the first time since she found her, Sylvia sensed Grace’s expression relax. The Padre must have represented homelessness to her, Sylvia reasoned. Or was he less of a good guy than they all supposed? They’d “never have to play Pinocchio again?” Hmm, what did that mean? When Grace was back home—when she was ready—she’d find out more details.

  “Isn’t fate so bizarre?” Melinda went on. “I mean there are some people doing good and they get their life taken away and others—well we all know who I’m talking about.”

  “The Padre’s school, who’s going to run it now?” Sylvia asked.

  Melinda laughed. “Oh no! Don’t look at me. I wouldn’t know the first thing about running a school.”

  “You’d be great,” Tommy said. “You love organizing things, bossing people about—it’ll give you something to do while you’re getting your house built here.”

  Melinda took a long swig of beer and said, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  María’s arms clung to her new protector. Melinda had styled her hair in pigtails and it was heartening to see María as the little girl she was, not a grown-up dressed in a child’s body, fending for herself, battling to survive. María wanted, Sylvia noticed, to be part of their family, involved in every moment. Would they find her mom? She knew what Melinda was secretly thinking—with the girl’s mother missing she could raise her as her own. Be the parent she had always dreamed of being. The least that would happen would be Melinda’s sponsorship for school, and money for clothes and food—María could be certain of that.

  And Sylvia, what did she want herself? It was a good question. She’d been mulling over the possibility of raising money and setting up some sort of charity here. There were already plenty, but all seemed to be religiously affiliated—nothing wrong with that—it was what Christianity should be. But there was a gaping hole. Children weren’t turning up to school, mothers were not around—everybody was busy scrabbling for a dollar. The word used for wife here was esposa, not mujer, the word for woman. Esposa also meant handcuff. Something about that resounded with Sylvia. Women here needed help—some sort of network. Finding Grace had been an unforeseen journey, culminating at the dump. A wake-up call, if ever there was one. Sylvia wanted to get back to work, but not soothing actors’ woes and insecurities, nor negotiating deals for them, but making transactions on a human scale. Not that actors weren’t human, some were the most enlightened people she’d ever met. But she needed to feel useful. She’d been searching for years and thought she could find what she was seeking in Wyoming—tapping into her untamed side, the raw core of her nature. Yet it left her feeling isolated.

  Was Nicaragua calling her name? They could live in Saginaw, too—in opposite worlds. With her New York contacts, she could fund-raise. Tommy could set up a website. She and Melinda could surely get things moving. They could try, anyway. She’d put the idea to her tomorrow.

  Or would it be better to keep Grace away from South America altogether? Perhaps she should leave ambitious schemes alone. After all, she had the best job ever—being Grace’s mom.

  AS SYLVIA LAY in bed asleep, images of LeRoy sent her head into a spin of dreams. She saw herself with him high up in that tree. She saw them eating ice creams, holding hands and laughing. She was woken, though, by real laughter, and then shouts coming from below: Melinda’s whoops of excitement, followed later by an expletive outburst from Tommy.

  Sylvia slipped downstairs, thinking she would find a still-starry sky, but it was already light. The two were sitting at the table on the porch, their cell phones placed before them, coffee cups half full. The waves were lapping at the hot beach, the sun already high. Tommy had the magic pen in his hands.

  “Shush, you guys, the girls are still asleep. What’s all the racket about? What time is it?”

  Tommy cut a glance at his watch. “Ten twenty-five. You slept like a log, darling, right through the night.”

  She yawned. “It feels like dawn. I was really knocked out.”

  “Your body needed the rest,” he said, pulling her onto his lap. “Three things have happened while you’ve been sleeping. News, both good and bad.”

  “All concerning Ruth,” Melinda added, her face exposing no clues.

  Sylvia felt that familiar lurch of her stomach. Just the R-word made her feel sick. “Please don’t say she’s done something else to hurt us.”

  “First, I’ll tell you something that will make Gracie jump for joy.”

  Sylvia’s heart leapt. Poor Grace had been through the wringer.

  Tommy grinned. “Pidgey O Dollars has been found!”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “He was all over the Internet, after all—the infamous kidnapped teddy, with no legs and only one arm. He is unique, let’s face it.”

  “Where was he?”

  “A little girl in El Salvador had him, and a tourist recognized his patched white face. She bribed the child to give up the bear and then contacted the FBI.”

  A tear trickled down Sylvia’s face “That really does make things a whole lot better,” she said.

  Tommy stroked her knuckles, then wiped away her tear. “I spoke to Agent Russo,” he said.

  “Doesn’t that poor woman ever sleep?”

  “She’s been sending faxes and making calls all morning. She’s a miracle worker.” Tommy poured Sylvia some coffee and winked at her.

  “You’re the one who’s the miracle worker,” Melinda remarked—she in turn, winking at Tommy.

  He grinned. “Finding it wasn’t a miracle. Sylvia must have fast-forwarded over it or something. Easily done.”

  Sylvia rolled her neck and stretched out her arms. “Fast-forwarded over what? I’m not feeling so on the ball. What’s going on?”

  “Last night, I listened to the recording pen the whole way through,” Tommy told her. “Somehow, you missed a chunk, darling, of the first half. Not only were there Grace’s monologues, and the bit where that bitch was belittling her for peeing in her bed, but there were two other recordings when Ruth must have switched the pen on by mistake. Or not. I can’t imagine Gracie could have been that shrewd.”

  “But Elodie said Grace had the pen hidden in Carrot the whole time. Ruth didn’t even know about it.”

  “Well Ruth must have used it at some point. I mean, look, unless you’re clued-up you can’t really tell it’s a recording pen. It writes just like a biro. Ruth just didn’t realize, obviously.”

  Sylvia took a sip of coffee. “Why, what happened?”

  “The stupid cow unwittingly pressed down the recording button on the pocket clip, didn’t she? While she was on the phone to the bank where she’d stuffed your money! The gadget picked up a good ten minutes worth of Ruth’s echoey but clear voice during her telephone conversations.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes way. It’s all here, you can listen if you want. She revealed the account number, the name of the person she spoke to and even, can you believe it, mumbled the telephone number to herself—she must have been writing it down.”

  “Unless Grace pressed—”

  “No, I think Ruth finally caught herself out.” Tommy was beaming, his white teeth gleaming like a movie star’s. Sylvia hadn’t seen him look so smug in years.

  “Actually, come to think of it,” Sylvia said, “you’re right. I remember now while we were driving to the airport, she had an obsession with scribbling my instructions in her notebook. Couldn’t retain one single thing in her head—even wrote down that she had to run the kitchen tap a long time before the hot water arrived, m
uttering to herself at the same time. I assumed it was a sign of being a sort of school nerd and attributed all her fancy university degrees to being so diligent.”

  Tommy punched the air as if he were at a soccer match. “Well thanks to that we’ve been able to trace the money’s whereabouts.”

  “Oh my God! It’s still there?”

  “Not completely.”

  Sylvia felt a great talon clawing at her insides. Her money lost. The beckoning bills: the credit card debts that had mounted during the last few weeks: air fares, food, taxi rides, hotels.

  Tommy laughed. “Don’t look so terrified, darling. Obviously it’s not all there. Not all two hundred and forty-seven thousand. She already squandered about thirty grand of it, but still, quite a bonus when we thought the whole lot was lost for good. It’s been frozen now. Frozen so Ruth can’t get her Ruthless hands on it again. It’s right here in a bank in Managua in Knicker Agua,” Tommy joked, “where knickerless girls shouldn’t climb trees. Ruth can’t make off with it now.”

  “And what about Ruth herself?”

  “The money part and Pidgey O Dollars was the good news,” Melinda warned with a grimace.

  “And the bad?” Sylvia asked, feeling her hackles rise.

  Tommy shrugged his shoulders. “Nobody has the foggiest idea where Ruth is. She’s simply disappeared into thin air.”

  EPILOGUE

  Sara

  Dubai was hotter than Sara expected. Still, the air conditioning in this mansion, with its sealed windows—and the gated, topiary gardens surrounding it—was making her feel claustrophobic. She was like an exotic bird in a gilded cage. How much more of this way of life she could stand, she wasn’t sure.

  The shopping bags and boxes from their spree were still strewn about the bedroom: Chanel, Prada, Christian Dior, Valentino. Where she was going to wear all these garments, she had no idea. Every time they went out she was expected to wear that goddamn burka. How these poor women had put up with this shit for centuries, she couldn’t fathom. Geez, she thought, you’d think they would have staged a revolution by now.

  Sara sat up, and sinking into the luxurious, silk satin cushions, leaned her head against the headboard. She sucked in a long breath and surveyed the bedroom. Everything shone and sparkled. The drapes were pink, the Persian carpet, the paintings on the walls—all glimmered pink. Or gold. She’d have to do something about the tacky decor. He was still snoring. He was like some sort of pig being fattened up for a feast. That’s right, not pig, Heaven forbid, not here in Muslim land. She tried to think back to all her encounters over the years with different men. None had been so distasteful as last night: finally, she gave in and went down on him. She needed to show good will. Enthusiasm even. Yes, she’d pressed her nose to his naked crotch and nestled her mouth around his walnut—which was topped by shelves of multiple, sweaty bellies—sweat trapped between the hairy, overflowing ridges of his flesh. Never again would she stoop so low. She sniggered at her pun and then bit her lip in disgust. Uh, oh, he was waking up.

  Mahmoud opened his dark eyes, turned his head, and smiled at her. The smile was full of devotion. “Good morning, my darling one,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “Even in my sleep I missed you. Thank you for last night, my precious.”

  Last night. Ugh! She knew what he was referring to but said, “Yesterday was fun, thank you,” and she squeezed his clammy, jeweled hand. She smiled brightly. “I feel very spoiled. You shouldn’t have spent so much money on me, Mahmoud.”

  “A morning’s work, that’s all. I earn money when I sleep, you know that.”

  She tittered. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a morning’s work?”

  “Depends on the day. Depends with whom I’m playing ball. Which country, which president. It’s usually a lot more than that.” He laughed.

  Sara thought of Tommy and Sylvia. Poor things. That sum of money was their life. To her now, it was not even a few hours’ shopping. She was glad that she’d at least left them their nest egg. Maybe she’d even pay them back someday for what she’d spent—send them some cash, anonymously.

  The whole thing had been such a mess. What she’d been thinking, she had no idea, although Tommy was temptingly hot. Still, thank God she was out of it—a narrow escape, for sure. She’d got sloppy—should have been more careful. But she was safe now. Protected. Twenty-four-seven armed guards, a fleet of private jets, helicopters, and a man who would die for her.

  “Anyway, I feel spoiled,” she told Mahmoud, running her fingers through some strands of his oily black hair.

  “I want my future wife to have whatever she wants, whatever her heart desires,” he said to her warmly.

  “Do you now.”

  He adjusted the position of his heavy body between the purple, silken sheets and put his arms around his fiancée. “She needed me to pick her up in Rio, so I sent a jet. She wants a cinema in this house, so she shall have a cinema. She wants a chateau in France—her wish is my command. She can have whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I promised you that twenty years ago, Sara, but you never believed me. Now, do you believe me, my angel?”

  “I did believe you but—”

  “I know, I know, you weren’t in love with me then.”

  “I was too young,” Sara explained, “I wasn’t ready to commit.”

  “But now you are.”

  “Yes,” she answered, holding up her left hand and inspecting the gleam of her enormous engagement ring. The diamond was blindingly sparkly. She thought of Grace and her Dorothy shoes, also sparkly. Sweet kid, but boy, what a nightmare it had been playing mom. Too much goddamn work! That fantasy was over, for sure. Lucky Mahmoud had been waiting in the wings—phew what a close shave. He’d been patiently waiting all these years like an eager spaniel, and it was desperation that had finally caught her in his web of love. Sara had no choice. She had to go with the flow.

  “Finally, I got my princess,” he said, stroking her cheek.

  She grinned, her smile wide and fixed. “I guess you did, honey. Finally, you wound up with me—the object you’ve been chasing, Lord knows why, for twenty years.”

  He laughed. “I don’t deserve you, Sara.”

  Oh yes, you do. She gazed at him, and for a split-second her smile turned to stone, before it set itself into a dazzling grin. “I’m exactly what you deserve, baby. Just you wait and see.”

  Acknowledgements

  I began this novel several years ago and it has been through many different drafts. I would like to thank a few people who helped shape it.

  Firstly, Michele Paige Holmes. Thank you for going through my manuscript with a fine toothcomb and suggesting things that I had missed myself, and for questioning my characters. Because of you, Stolen Grace evolved into a much better book.

  To my beta readers, Nelle l’Amour, Cindy Meyer, Gloria Herrera and Kim Pinard Newsome, who gave me invaluable feedback and mended a few holes in the net. Cheryl Van Horne and Paula Swisher, and Loca Crz for being there with your eagle eyes. Precision Editing for doing a great job. Paul, my formatter at BBebooks, as always, thank you. And to my very early readers who championed me and offered their advice, Betty Kramer, Claire Owen and Lisa Morocco.

  And finally, to all my loyal readers. Thank you. Without you, none of this would be possible.

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  STOLEN GRACE

  A novel by

  ARIANNE RICHMONDE

  An Interview with Arianne Richmonde

  (Spoilers ahead—make sure you have read the book before you read this interview!)

  What inspired you to write Stolen Grace?

  I think we often think we know a person when, in fact, we don’t. How many of us trust someone who then lets us down? I started asking myself, “What if?” and came up with Ruth. I don’t have a child but it was easy to imagine myself as a desperate parent. It was something I wanted to explore. This is every parent’s nightmare—something which all of us fear. The What-if question got my ima
gination ticking.

  It is very unusual to read an adult novel written from a five-year-old’s point of view. And yet, without that, the book would have been completely different. At what point in your creative process did you decide to tell the story from Grace’s perspective?

  Right from the beginning, I knew that if the novel wasn’t told, at least partly in Grace’s voice, then I would only have half a story. The only way this book would work, I decided, was for the reader to experience things through Grace’s eyes on a very personal level. I did have an editor warn me that nobody wants to hear a five-year-old’s point of view in an adult novel. I disagreed. Readers tell me that Grace is their favorite character so I am glad I followed my instinct.

  How did you manage to get so thoroughly into the mindset of such a young child?

  I have a great memory, especially long-term. So many of the things that Grace felt and said came directly from my feelings and memories as a child. There is no filter at that small age and kids tend to be honest about their thoughts, until they are conditioned otherwise. I have vivid memories from childhood that seem as if they happened yesterday. The emotions never leave you, both happy and sad. I incorporated all that into Grace’s character.

  You chose to tell the story from three different points of view, omitting Ruth until the epilogue. Why?

  I wanted the reader to feel as if they were in my protagonists’ shoes, experience their journey, and ask the question, Why, Why, Why? How does this person’s mind work? Why did she do something like this? If I had told the book from Ruth’s perspective, it would have been her story. But it was about a family being shattered and the adversity and heartbreak thrown at them, and how each one dealt with a horrific situation. And ultimately how they survived it.