She thought of LeRoy. How he’d wanted to be a soldier when he grew up. To sacrifice his life to help people. She still hadn’t told Melinda about him, and wondered if she ever would. Maybe someday. Melinda had a way of unraveling her too much. She wanted LeRoy to be hers.
“I’m going tomorrow,” her cousin decided, “to the dump. I want to witness it too. I mean, we’ve all seen documentaries on TV, but there’s nothing like understanding misery with your own eyes.”
“And nose. That was the worst. It stank. I mean, it
stinks
.”
“To think that Grace was part of it, and yet children live this way their whole lives. Just horrible.”
María stirred in her bed. Both women looked over and lowered their whispers.
Melinda shook her head. “Shame really. I mean Nicaragua’s got all those amazing national parks which are carefully controlled, and new hotels that are being designed to blend in to their surroundings. Responsible tourism is really beginning to take off. I’ve read about home-stays and stuff. It sounds as if the government is really trying to get this country going in the right direction. But the poverty factor is so crippling.”
“You know, I’ve been so wrapped up with Grace, I haven’t had time to do my homework. I know so little about the history of this country. Kind of shameful, really.”
“You mean the war and everything?”
“Yeah. I mean, US soldiers were involved, weren’t they?” Sylvia thought of LeRoy again. He could have been one of them if he’d lived. Well, not that war, but Iraq or Afghanistan. Believing he was going in for a good cause. And then getting his heart shattered with the truth.
Melinda said, “Well, I don’t know a lot but basically, this family, the Somoza family—a father and two sons—were in power for, I don’t know, forty years or more. It was pretty much a dictatorship. From the 1930s right up until about 1979 when the shit hit the fan. They were supported by the USA. But then the leftist Sandinista party got into power, who, in turn, were supported by the Soviet Union, and that whole Contra War thing broke out—it went on for a good ten years. This is my simplistic explanation. I’m no historian. But I know our country had a lot to answer for at the time. It was pretty brutal. And corrupt, of course. Then, just as Nicaragua was getting back on its feet, Hurricane Mitch struck. They’ve really had it tough.”
Sylvia looked over at María sleeping. “And they still don’t seem to have gotten over it.”
Melinda also fixed her eyes on María, and said, “Wouldn’t it be great if we could help in some way?”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Let’s sleep on it. Maybe we can come up with a plan.”
Sylvia slipped under the sheets beside Grace. It felt so good to be close. To smell her, to wrap her arms around the being she treasured more than her own life. She could feel her heart pumping with love.
IT SEEMED LIKE hours later when the still of the night was jarred, interrupting Sylvia’s serenity like a hatchet. Her phone was ringing.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I’m so sorry to wake you, but I thought you’d want to know straight away—”
“Yes?” It was Agent Russo.
“Ruth has out-foxed us again,” the detective said bitterly. “She knew exactly what she was doing. The house wasn’t empty—she’d been staying there as a kind of paying guest, with a woman and her teenage son. She paid the boy to send those messages to the
Lonely Planet
forum, to do it from different e-mail addresses. She knew we’d be on to that—to make us believe she was still in Rio. In fact, she left several days ago. Bought herself a few days grace—no pun intended. They think she might have got on a ship.”
Sylvia felt disappointment rip through her chest. “How can she be so brazen? So confident that she wouldn’t get caught? I mean, the port authorities were on the lookout!”
Agent Russo sighed. “I’m sorry, you must have lost all confidence in us. We
will
get her. One day.”
One day. When? Although they had Ruth’s photo and DNA, neither matched any database to an actual person. They couldn’t do a background check because there was
no background
—no old school friends, no family—nothing. Nobody had come forward with information. Ruth was still a mystery—even to the FBI. Without a record to go on and with her blank canvas of a past, there was no chance of preempting where she could go next.
Ruth was still no better than a phantom.
Tommy
T
ommy sat back in his airplane seat. He could breathe at last. Really breathe. His heart was still racing, not from all the drama that had happened in the last few days, but with fear that Sylvia would not forgive him, or that she might reject him for having been such a jackass. He had pursued her relentlessly when they started dating because he knew how special she was, knew that she was one in a million. Hell, one in a billion. He had never cheated on her during their marriage—not physically, but he had in his mind. He had wandered mentally, had been unfaithful, in a sense. That hurt. How he could have even imagined life without her was an enigma now. She was his everything. His angel. His love. Not to mention Grace. Jesus, to think he had jeopardized that! Thank God some little voice in his head had stopped him from actually going through with any of it—he had overcome temptation with Marie.
He’d win Sylvia back. He’d make her head over heels in love with him again. Failure wasn’t an option. He had to have her. Had to make her his again. He dozed off and, with a gentle smile on his lips he whispered to himself,
I will get my wife back. My life back.
Wife/life—the words were interchangeable.
HE STOOD WATCHING Sylvia from afar, sweat beaded on his brow from the long walk. She was lying on her front on a beach towel, the curves of her bottom and thighs making him remember—remember what he could have lost. What he could
still
lose if he didn’t play his cards right. Sylvia was still so beautiful, so serene and bronzed; his heart felt as if it could split his chest open. Grace was playing on the sand, making a castle. Her friend was nearby as she ran around, squealing with girlish delight. The scene brought a tear to his eye. His daughter was skinny, her hair short like a boy’s—if it hadn’t been for her familiar movements, he would not have recognized her. But she was still his girl. Still his All. They both were. Grace and Sylvia. Sylvia and Grace. All this he had gambled with. What a fucking fool.
Grace looked up and screamed, “Daddy, Daddy!” She ran over toward him, flinging her tiny arms around his legs. She buried her face in his jeans. “Daddy, I missed you.”
“I missed you too, my angel. So much. He lifted her high in the air and laughed. “Let me see your little pixie face. That’s my girl. I could swear you look more grown-up now.”
“I have a new friend, María.”
“So I’ve heard,” he said.
“She can ride a grownup’s bicycle.”
“Can she now?” He twizzled Grace about him in a circle and hugged her tight. She smelled so good. Of the ocean and vanilla, or something sweet. She threw her head back and fixed her large amber eyes on his. It felt as if a small bird was flying about inside his ribcage, causing beautiful havoc. Grace’s lips quirked into a smile and that smile zapped through to his chest, squeezing his pounding heart so he could hardly breathe.
So much love and wonder packed into such a tiny little girl.
He felt another presence and he saw María standing coyly by them, her long lashes framing her huge brown eyes. Tommy bent down and said hello to the little girl, and Sylvia sat up on her towel. Her faint smirk with a hint of irony told him,
I forgive you.
Maybe.
She looked down and then up at him again like a flirting schoolgirl. He felt himself shudder, his solar plexus burn, and all he could think of in that second was holding her in his arms and never letting her go.
Sylvia
T
hey had been at the guesthouse four days. They were near the quiet fishing village of Aserradores, close to a breezy hillside, just a short walk from the cabin where Lucho and Elodie were still settled. Below the simple hotel was the great sweep of beach that stretched out like a long yawn, and on one side was a wide estuary mouth running into the Pacific Ocean. Behind them was a view over the river’s water of the smoking volcano, San Cristóbal, erupting gently every once in a while. It seemed as if it was just a walk away. So high it sat, dominating the horizon, proud, the largest in the country, as if it knew that, one day, it could destroy millions with just one eruption. One day. Maybe not in their lifetime. Maybe never. But who knew?
Every morning, the view looked like it could have been a backdrop for a painted, Hollywood set. The mirrored water of the estuary reflected golden shimmers as the orange sun rose like a child’s balloon, and quickly became a glaring ball, too bright to look at without sunglasses.
It was the Garland’s first beach vacation outside of the US. Sylvia now understood what holidays overseas could do. The unfamiliar acted as a glue to bond a family together—at least that was how she felt now. All of them as one in their adventure, their moment-by-moment discoveries: a riotously colorful crab, a beautiful shell, the silhouette of banana leaves against a cerise sunset, the river-ribbed patterns rippling in a soft breeze on the estuary. A sailboat drifting by. The mark of a snake on the pristine sand. The rustle of high grass and bamboo at night, the bark of a monkey.
Sylvia felt at peace. Grace was opening up, beginning to chat in her old curious way. Tommy had changed. He was attentive, alert. When Sylvia spoke, it seemed that he eyed her with renewed fascination, even watched her mouth as she spoke, as if each syllable was special. And she laughed. How could she ever have the Ground Dog Look again when all that had passed, had passed? Happiness was something she felt she deserved just a month before. Now she felt she’d earned it and knew that she could never take it for granted again. Happiness was something to be worked at, even in small ways.
SYLVIA AND TOMMY lay side by side in bed. The little girls were in the adjoining room, still fast asleep. Sylvia could feel her husband’s eyes on her as if the air around them was shimmering with molecules of love. She nuzzled her head against his warm, wide chest and sighed.
“This is how it should always be,” she whispered.
Tommy stroked a tendril of hair away from her face. “It’s how it always was in our hearts. I missed you so much.”
“I know. Me, too.”
“Not just during this whole ordeal, but before that. The distance we had from each other. We let go of what was true. We—”
“I know, Tommy. Sometimes you’re not aware of what you have till you’ve lost it. Things can slip away from you like sand running through your fingers. Or in an egg timer. If you don’t flip it around, it can be too late. But we made it, Tommy. We made it.” She kissed his arm and breathed in his scent.
“Thank God. I never stopped loving you, Sylvie. Not for one second.”
“I know.”
“Please forgive me, baby.” His eyes shone wet with emotion. “I don’t know what came over me. I fucked up. Maybe in some crazy way I was trying to get your attention, but still, no excuse, I—”
Sylvia cut him off, “I know, Tommy, I know.” She was sure that he was referring to the Bel Ange but didn’t want any of that to sully the moment. He was contrite and that was all that mattered.
Tommy held Sylvia’s face in his hands, cupping her cheekbones with his palms so that she was looking at him. He gazed into her eyes. “Christ you’re beautiful. I don’t deserve you.” He rested his lips on hers and gently let his tongue explore her mouth. She moaned quietly and parted her lips. She felt her nipples harden as he plunged his tongue in deeper, running his long fingers down her neck, until they rested on her breast. She could feel herself moisten in between her legs, as desire pumped through her.
“I need you, baby,” he said. “Please say you forgive me. Please say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” she told him in a whisper. “And yes, of course I forgive you.”
“All mine,” he said, and kissed her again, his hunger palpable, his desire a raging flame.
Tommy was back. Oh, yes. He wanted to claim her and it felt incredible. She deepened the kiss, letting out whimpers of pleasure. His hand trailed down her stomach as his middle finger dipped into her wetness. This she had been longing for, but had been too closed to even realize it. She opened her legs.
He groaned again. “So beautiful. So ready for me, my beautiful Sylvia.”
Sylvia’s eyes fluttered as Tommy began to suck one nipple. He let another finger slip deeper inside her. “I need you, too, Tommy. I love you.”
He growled like some sort of wild animal, prizing her legs even wider apart, and she arched her back. His mouth sucked greedily at her breasts, her stomach, and then his tongue trailed down to her soft opening. He flickered it around her hard nub and she bucked her hips at him. He swirled his tongue around in tiny circles, teasing her. It was driving her into another realm. He could make her come that way but she needed him inside her. His warm body on top, blanketing her—skin on skin—their psyches entwined; no distance between them. She desired him whole. All of him. Every last inch, every last drop.
“Please, Tommy.”
He cupped her buttocks with both hands, pulling her hips closer, bringing her tight against his mouth, devouring her, laying his firm tongue over her quivering core, licking and sucking at her wetness. She clenched her fingers around his head. She’d come any second but she didn’t want this to be over so soon. She pulled at him, her fingers walking down to his neck, her nails digging into his biceps, until he eased his way up the bed.
“Please, Tommy.” She observed the rising and falling of his solid chest and rippled abdominals as he edged his way closer. He laid himself over her.
“You bet,” he murmured, reading her mind. She didn’t even need to say the words. He plunged into her and she felt his power. She was his vessel and she loved that. As he drove in deeply, he groaned with each thrust. She couldn’t stop herself—it had been so long. She could sense her contractions tight about his erection, and she frantically kissed his mouth, her nipples brushing against his chest each time he came down on her, making her tingle in every part of her body.