“Oh God . . . Tommy . . . oh my God!”
She could feel him harden inside her; he was huge, her desire obviously turning him on like a switch.
“Oh, Sylvia . . . baby.”
Her hands were now clawed around his butt, pulling him closer, even deeper inside her. She started coming in a blissful rush. The pulse of her heart was between her legs, and only there in that moment. Every feeling, every emotion was thundering at her center. She could feel him coming too, his climax intense as his hot rush burst inside her. “I love you, Sylvie. I love you so much.”
She lay there, weakened. Strengthened. Emotions were circling about her like a wild autumnal wind and she realized that they both needed this release after everything they had been through. Then slowly, she allowed her inner fireworks to cool to a warm plateau of bliss. She could feel her heartbeat again, not only in her groin, but in the place where hearts live. She felt sated and at peace. She opened her eyes and saw the handsome face of the man she knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. A man she could forgive. A man who she loved for his weaknesses as well as his strengths. He had come a long way in the last couple of weeks. They both had. They were meant to be together. And she knew that she had no choice but to forgive him, because she couldn’t be without him.
Oh yes, Tommy was back, alright. They had gone full circle. She was his again and he was undoubtedly hers. She could feel it in the pattern of his breath, see it in the glimmer of his dark brown eyes. Love lived again. People had warned her that marriages were “work,” but this kind of work was worth it for the reward—having him live through her again.
Making love was just one of the bonds that united them as one, but it was an integral ingredient to fulfillment. She had been riding her high horse, she realized, for the last couple of years. So much better to ride Tommy instead, she joked to herself.
She was back down to earth again.
And it felt incredible.
SYLVIA WATCHED HER cousin later at dinner, and was aware that she, too, had been on a spiritual journey—the kind that only unexpected bouts of adversity can offer: the roller coaster ride that is Life. Melinda seemed mesmerized by the wild surf, the trees edging the ocean, the forests, and the clean air. After living with the howling wind of Chicago and the bitterness of the winter cold, the caressing warmth of Nicaragua had obviously wooed her. She was counting her pennies.
“I mean, it’s not a crazy idea!” she exclaimed. María was sitting on her lap, toying with fallen wax from the candles that was dripping onto the dinner table. It was after sunset. The sky was swirling in a moody haze of purple. A sluice of dark rain was imminent. But even if it poured, it was warm and the dash of it wouldn’t last long. “A plot of land is feasible,” she said, “and then I could build something simple in wood. I’ve been asking around. It’s doable, it’s not too expensive.” Melinda was simultaneously reading a local newspaper, scanning the property ads. “Be careful of that hot wax, María, honey. I don’t want to set this paper on fire. Or for you to burn your fingers.
Cuidado.
”
“You’d have to factor in the earthquake possibility,” Tommy said in a teasing voice, savoring the flavor of his
Flor de Caña
which he he’d told Sylvia, was the best rum he’d ever tasted. “Although, maybe up here in the north you’d be far enough away from the fault lines.”
“Listen, one thing I’ve learned,” Melinda said seriously, “is that disaster can strike at your own front door
wherever
you are—look what happened in nice, safe Wyoming. Ruth came along like a tornado! Oops, sorry.”
Nobody had mentioned the R-word for days. They had all, independently, decided on a Thoughts of Ruth Sabbatical.
“Okay, on a different subject, are you going to tell me or do I have to force it out of you?” Melinda glared at Sylvia and then smiled. She had a wicked glint in her eye.
“Me—linda?” Sylvia asked suspiciously.
“Tell me who that photo’s of. The one that’s sitting at the bottom of your backpack? The curiosity is killing me.”
A frisson darted up Sylvia’s backbone—LeRoy. Even though she’d never known him, he felt a part of her. She’d brought along one of his pictures as a lucky charm—a mascot. The one of him in a uniform. A little soldier. Grace had also been a soldier. So brave.
“Melinda, have you been snooping through my things?”
“Well not exactly ‘snooping,’ but with that endless packing and unpacking we’ve been doing like nomads, it kind of stuck out of your backpack.”
“Backpack,” repeated María, who was learning new words every day.
“What’s in your backpack, Mommy?” Grace asked, her curiosity returned.
“Just a photo of a brave little boy who has brought me lots of luck. Sylvia glanced at Melinda. She never had managed to keep secrets from her prying cousin, no matter how hard she tried. Give it a couple of days and Melinda would pin her down and demand every tiny detail. Oh well.
Melinda burst out, her hand slapping the newspaper, “Oh my God! Oh no!”
“What?” everyone asked. All eyes turned.
“It’s here in the paper. That priest, Padre Marco. Oh my God! He was involved in an accident. A bus collision. Hang on, hang on, I’m just trying to translate here. Blah, blah blah, an Italian missionary . . . who spent the past ten years trying to alleviate the problem from the city dump in Chinandega . . . blah, blah, blah . . . it’s talking about all the good work he did for the local people, for the children of the dump. Quote, ‘One way to successfully reduce poverty and children at risk is through education leading to financial sustainability.’ Then the paper talks about the school he started and his extraordinary accomplishments, blah, blah . . . Oh my God! He was on his way back from a three-day visit to Managua. He was riding a motorbike taxi and there was a collision with a bus! His body was thrown into oncoming traffic and then crushed instantly. He was killed, the motorbike driver injured but not grave, not serious. No other deaths.”
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, muttering 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.”