Stolen Grace by Arianne Richmonde Page A

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
    I t 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