Free Stolen Grace by Arianne Richmonde

to Brooklyn, maybe. Perhaps you could even afford to buy a spacious apartment with a small backyard. Or somewhere near a park. You could even look into private schools.”
    A private school for Grace—that would be nice. As her mind wandered, Sylvia noticed a muscle-bound man in a wife-beater tank top, strutting along the street, with a pit bull wearing a studded collar. Poor dog was probably being used for dogfights in some disused warehouse, or car factory. She turned her attention back to Melinda, who seemed to be suffering from verbal diarrhea.
    “I mean, Grace may not end up being a horse rider but she could do ballet, or even martial arts. Not bad for a girl to learn that sort of stuff, especially in the city. Or Sylvie, the other option is that you guys could come back to live in Saginaw, although come to think of it, I’m not sure that’s something Tommy would welcome. I mean, I know the romance of the beautiful countryside wooed him in the first place, and a town like Saginaw in the middle of a recession probably wouldn’t be much of a temptation. I guess you don’t want to test your marriage.”
    “No.”
    “Speaking of which, are you and Tommy, you know . . .?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Did you make up the other day, after you baked him that apple pie? You’re not being all cool with him, are you?”
    Sylvia shifted in her car seat. “Cool?”
    “Detached. Unavailable. You need each other right now. With your dad gone, you need him now more than ever.”
    Sylvia stared out of the car window again, and focused her eyes on a woman pushing her baby’s stroller ahead of her, across the road. She always marveled at how women could do that—use their children as a sort of buffer with oncoming traffic. The car fumes were nose level for a child. She had always carried Grace in a special sling until she was old enough to walk.
    “Sylvia?”
    “Sorry?”
    Melinda shook her head and smiled. “Never mind, honey, I’m just being my bossy old self—ignore me.”

CHAPTER 7
    Sylvia
    W alking into the hallway of her childhood home without her parents, or at least one of them to greet her, was eerie.
    Sylvia felt the pit of her stomach dip as she stood there in the hallway, her eyes moving about the still, quiet house; memories living in the walls, soaked in the furniture, the drapes, her mother’s tennis trophies, the paintings that her grandmother had done. Like colorful friends supporting her through heartbreak and happiness, they’d seen her have her diapers changed and get ready for her first date. She looked up at the sweeping, wrought iron staircase and remembered coming down, one step at a time, as a princess, a witch, a fairy, dressing up with Melinda and their friends, her mom taking snapshots. The little Regency sofa, where she’d chatted for thousands of hours on the telephone, sat below, it too remembering, perhaps, the time she fell and landed on its arm, saving her life (or at least a hospital visit) from the hard, Spanish tiles below.
    And Tibby, her Siamese cat, was his spirit here, too? Tibby, her best friend, who was one when she was one, eighteen when she was eighteen. It didn’t seem right that he had died when he had, just as she was going to college, as if his heart could no longer bear the parting. He obviously knew; he could smell her treacherous suitcases, the betrayal of a girl grown up. Her eyes now wet with tears, Sylvia sobbed, her body heaving from all the memories. She sat on the cold terracotta floor and felt the weight of responsibility shroud her like a musty-smelling winter coat from the attic, demanding, What are you going to do with us? Armchairs, sofas, crystal, miniature wooden boxes, paintings—they all commanded her attention. Right here, right now. Help us ! they cried. We are all alone. We need your care. Remember . . . your parents are dead.
    Sylvia walked into the kitchen, opened the icebox door, and took out a Coke. Rows of pretty glasses, green with golden