Free Stolen Grace by Arianne Richmonde Page B

bear thinking about.
    “I guess that’s something I’ll need to discuss with her.”
    “Well,” Marg said. “See you later, honey.”
    “Thanks a million. See you later, Marg.”
    The Coca Cola tasted good. It tasted of America, of everything Sylvia knew and trusted. This house had been her world. She, a nice Midwestern girl with her wholesome friends and a college degree from the University of Michigan, should have been content with her lot. But New York changed all that and she doubted she could ever return to Saginaw for good. Especially now. Poor Michigan. Once synonymous with growth and opportunity, now smashed hopes and run-down housing projects seemed to be the symbol to the outside world of this great state.
    She loved this house, though. It was considered a historic property, built in 1930, Spanish in style, with a red tiled roof and balconied windows. Could she ever live here again? It was too raw to even consider that now, but she couldn’t keep two homes going at once. The truth was, as Melinda had sensed, Sylvia would have liked to have moved back to Brooklyn. Get back her old life, or a semblance of it. They’d gone to Wyoming mainly for Grace’s sake. Fresh air, plenty of space, low crime—a place where her daughter could ride a horse and go hiking and camping. The first time Sylvia set eyes on Wyoming—when she and Tommy drove across the country and stopped by Yellowstone—she thought it was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. Sweeping blue skies, mountains, and rivers with gushing crystalline whitewater, beckoned them to return. And they did return with open hearts.
    But it was challenging, she discovered, living in a state where international adoption was rare. Most people assumed Grace was of Native American heritage, but one little boy at kindergarten, a farmer’s son, had called Grace a “wetback,” something Sylvia assumed would never have occurred in a melting pot like New York City. Sylvia’s parents denied it later (falling in love with their grandchild the moment they saw her smile), but they had originally been scathing about trans-racial adoption, trying to convince Sylvia to choose, “a child who has something in common with you, who won’t raise questions”—e.g. a white-skinned baby. They argued that it wouldn’t be in the “best interest” of the child, and that Sylvia and Tommy would not be able to prepare her to effectively deal with racism in later life.
    Sylvia knew Tommy wasn’t feeling fulfilled with life in Wyoming either, despite his love for fly fishing, which was one of the main reasons they chose the town of Crowheart—so close to Wind River Canyon. Sylvia had never pegged herself as a career girl but she guessed she was; not having a proper job didn’t suit her. She missed communicating, being involved in several people’s lives at once. The “creative freedom” dream came with long, tangled strings attached and it was time to make a change. Melinda was right—they had a choice now.
    But how could she break up this house? It would be impossible. Sylvia wished she could airlift it to Brooklyn. Her mother’s dresses hung like ladies who lunch, gossiping in her walk-in closet. How was she meant to take them to Goodwill? Or find a new home for her dad’s faithful old golf clubs that sat like guardians by the backyard door? Having money in her bank account would be bittersweet. Parents die, she thought, they pass what’s theirs onto their children; that’s life, but her father’s death shouldn’t have happened the way it did. He had not “passed away,” he had killed himself. It didn’t seem right that she should be benefitting in any way, at all.
    She thought of Tommy, how he had always worked hard for privileges. He hadn’t grown up in a world of country clubs the way she had. He’d won a scholarship to Cambridge, one of the top universities in England, and his first Saturday job was when he was fifteen. He’d joined the Territorial