Read Meet Me in Barcelona Online
Authors: Mary Carter
Meet Me in Barcelona (28 page)
Was Stan here? Was Stan actually here? Her stomach twisted in anticipation. A strange part of her wanted to see him. It was being in this perverse house. It was making the abnormal seem normal. Grace looked around. The room was empty. She closed her eyes and began to count. It was excruciating not to open her eyes and see if Stan was here. When she reached fifty-nine, she heard a whisper, clear as day.
“We can bring her down
.
”
Oh my God. Don't open your eyes; don't open your eyes; don't open your eyes
. Could she open one eye? Would he notice?
We can bring her down.
What did that mean? She couldn't believe how clear the whisper sounded. It was a male voice with an American accent, and it sounded familiar. She knew that voice. It made her stomach turn. It was Stan.
We can bring her down
. He was talking about Carrie Ann. Or he wanted her to think he was talking about Carrie Ann. Was he sitting directly across from her? It was excruciating not to open her eyes, but she didn't want to lose any chance she had of getting Jake back, so Grace silently began to count. When she reached thirty, her phone buzzed yet again. Her eyes flew open. She was alone. She shot off the bench and resisted the urge to run through the house, trying to catch him. She forced herself to at least read the message first.
Salvador Dalà married an ugly woman and worshipped her. I married a beautiful woman and despise her. You are the one for me, Grace. Be mine and I will set them free.
Â
He was crazy. Not part genius like DalÃ, just pure crazy. Grace stood and called out. “Jake? Carrie Ann?” There was no answer. She ran to the pool to find Jean Sebastian pacing. “Thank God,” he said. “I was just coming in there.”
“Let's get out of here,” Grace said.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Grace said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I sat there. I waited. And nothing. I'm getting the creeps. I just need to get out of here.”
“Okay,” Jean Sebastian said. “Let's go.” Once they exited the house and grounds, Jean Sebastian suggested they sit down, get something for lunch, discuss their options.
“I'm sorry,” Grace said. “I'm going to take a walk. I need to be alone.” Jean Sebastian gently grabbed her arm and swung her around to him. Grace could feel her heart beating at their proximity, and she feared he could too.
“Is there something you're not telling me?”
“Like what?”
“Did you get another message? Did he threaten you?”
“No, I swear. It's just me. Whenever I'm upset, I need to be alone and walk it out. Compose in my head. You can ask Jake.”
“I've been thinking about Jake,” Jean Sebastian said.
“What?”
“How long have you known him?”
“Three years. Why?”
“How did you meet?”
“What's this all about?”
“Lookâdon't get too upsetâbut didn't Jake say, âYou never know who you're with?' ”
“Yes.”
“What ifâjust bear with meâwhat if he was talking about himself?”
“What?”
“What ifâhe's Stan?”
Grace burst out laughing. “Jake? Stan?”
“Isn't it possible?”
“No. God. No.”
“Why not?”
“Besides the fact that Stan was fat and covered in pimples?”
“People lose weight. Their skin clears up.”
That was true. And back then she could barely even look at Stan, so there was a good chance she wouldn't recognize him now. “Stan had the lightest blue eyes I've ever seen. Those wouldn't have changed. And before you say colored contactsâJake doesn't wear contacts. I should know. I've been living with him for the past three years.”
Jean Sebastian put his hands up. “Okay, okay. I just don't want to leave any stone unturned.”
“I'm going for a walk.”
“I'll go with you.”
“I want to be alone.”
“But Stan could be here somewhere. It's not safe.”
“Nobody whispered to me in the house. That means they're not here.”
“Are you sure? I get this feeling you're holding something back.”
“You're right.” Grace took a deep breath and threw her arms open. “I need to get some feminine items from the market at the top of the hill, and I'd rather do it alone.”
“I'm a grown man. I can handle your buying feminine products.”
“It's not dark out. There are people around. If anyone comes near me, I'll scream. I'm sure you'll be able to hear me all over town.”
“I don't like it.”
“I just need to clear my head. Do you want anything?”
“I want to go with you.”
“You're starting to make me feel like a prisoner.”
“I'm sorry. All right. Just be careful.”
“I will. I'll see you later.”
“I'll be at the hotel.”
Grace nodded, then turned and walked up the hill from the house, making sure not to run in case he was watching, but dying to get away. When she was at the top of the hill, she looked down to the bay and pulled a stack of letters from her purse. The ones Carrie Ann had thrown back at her. All marked: RETURN TO SENDER. Grace had been going over and over every single thing she could remember Carrie Ann's saying to her since she had seen her on that roof deck.
She remembered Carrie Ann telling her that she should have made time to read the letters. She would do that now, read every single one of them just to see if there were any clues. Then, she had to find the nearest market, and then she had to find a computer with an Internet connection, and then she had to buy a phone card. She knew Carrie Ann better than anyone. So all Grace had to do was figure out the end game and beat her or Stanâor both of themâto it.
I married a beautiful woman and despise her.
You just never really know who you're with.
This time, there really is a wolf.
Grace paced underneath an old tree at the top of the hill and started opening the letters. The first few were pretty generic. Carrie Ann missed her. She wondered what Grace was up to. She wanted to see her. She “forgave” her. In later letters, the tone became more threatening.
Our thirtieth birthday. If you don't answer these letters, you'll see me then. We'll have our adventure. Maybe I'll enlist the help of an old friend.
Old friend. Stan. Grace knew it. The two weren't married at all. It was Grace who Stan had a crush on.
You just never really know who you're with.
We can bring her down
. That was what Stan had whispered to Grace in the whispering room. It was Carrie Ann he wanted to destroy. And apparently, he was under some kind of delusion that he loved Grace.
Grace flashed back to Park Güell. The look on Jake's face. He was absolutely terrified. At the time she had thought he was afraid of what Stan would do to him and Carrie Ann. Suddenly she knew, clear as day. Jake had been terrified for her.
The whisper had triggered a nagging suspicion, one too awful to face, but before she freaked out completely, she had to check it out. First, she had to find a computer. As she was putting the letters back in her purse, a flyer fluttered to the ground.
A spark of something akin to hope reverberated inside her. Grace had never called her agent to cancel her spot in the concert. There had been too much going on. Maybe she could use that to her advantage.
Although the scenery was spectacular, it was a hot day for a walk, and by the time Grace made it to a little market, she was damp with sweat and dehydrated. It was ridiculous of her to think there was an Internet café in this little village, but maybe one of the shopkeepers would let her use his computer. She could ask at the hotel, but for now she couldn't involve Jean Sebastian in any of her thoughts.
The small convenience store felt nice and cool. Grace bought a bottle of water and a calling card.
There was a middle-aged Spanish man at the register. His eyes had been on her since she entered the store. When he smiled at her, Grace pounced on the opening.
“Hola.”
“Hola.”
He grinned. His teeth were yellow and crooked, but the smile was straight up.
“Por favor,”
she said.
“¿Habla inglés?”
“Yes, English. Hello, American.”
Wow. Grace would never get over how obvious it was to people. “Hello,” she said. “Hello, Spanish man.” She grinned. He grinned. “Have you seen any other Americans in here in the past week or so?”
He squinted. “Only I see French,” he said. “And Spanish.”
“I see.” Just what she was beginning to suspect. Carrie Ann and Jake hadn't been here, had never been here. This old flirt seemed like he would remember Carrie Ann. It confirmed what Grace was starting to dread. “I was wonderingâdo you have a computer here with Internet connection?” He thumbed to a door behind him.
“My wife,” he said. He mimicked her typing. “All day.”
Grace laughed. “I'm so sorry to ask thisâbut do you think I could use it? I have to look up a phone number. It's very important.”
“SÃ, sÃ,”
he said. “I kick her.” Grace prayed he meant “kick her off,” but either way it looked like she was going to get to use the computer.
“Gracias,”
she said.
“Gracias.”
Â
Grace's hands trembled as she held them over the keyboard. She didn't know his last name. She typed in Jean Sebastian, Congo, international rescue agency. Why hadn't she asked the exact name of the organization he had worked for?
Was it the International Rescue Committee? If so, she could find no mention of him on their Web site. Or anywhere else on the Internet. She also didn't know the name of his supposed blog. She'd been so wrapped up in herself, she'd completely ignored the person who had been right in front of her this entire time.
You never know who you're with.
She didn't find a travel blog, or a Facebook page, or anyone resembling the Belgian man who had been by her side.
She thanked the shopkeeper and hurried outside. Just as she was wondering what move she should make next, she saw him, coming up the hill in the distance. She hid behind the nearest tree, heart hammering. She was at the top of a steep, wooded hill. Just below was the hotel, but the only true path back to it was the way she had come. The way Jean Sebastian was coming. If she went straight down the hillside, she could reach the hotel room before he reached her. As long as she didn't kill herself on the journey. She ducked, then before she could talk herself out of it, she started scooting down the hill on her bottom. The terrain was littered with rocks and giant tree roots. Branches scraped the side of her face and clung to her hair. Leaves rustled and twigs snapped and everything sounded so loud, and even though she tried to slow down, she was picking up speed. If she went too fast she would slam into the back wall of the hotel. Speed plus stone wall would not a happy union make. Grace tucked her head into her body and gave in to a somersault. She turned at the last minute, and her side slammed into the wall. She lay for a moment, out of breath, adrenaline and fear pumping through her. She was all right. Nothing broken. Nothing bleeding. Slowly, she got on her hands and knees, then to her feet.
She forced herself to walk, rather than race, up to their rooms. Even though she knew he wasn't there, she opened the adjoining door and called out to him. “Jean Sebastian?”
She hurried into his bathroom and faced the medicine cabinet. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her hair was tousled with a few leaves stuck in the tangles. Dirt was streaked on her cheeks. For a moment, she just stared at the bedraggled girl in the mirror. Then, knowing full well what she would find, she took a deep breath and opened the medicine cabinet. And there it was. On the top shelf. A bottle of saline solution and a contact lens case. Of course he wore contact lenses. Colored ones, no doubt. He had to do something to cover up eyes so blue. Next to the saline solution was a prescription bottle. Shaking, she picked it up. Lithium. She closed her eyes before looking at the name.
The minute he had first whispered into her ear, not in the whispering room, but in the bedroom, when he had been all too happy to tell her about Dalà and Gala's sex life. Something about it had nauseated her. At the time she had blamed herself. It was just guilt for being attracted to him. But then, when she had heard Stan whisper to her in the whispering room, something had clicked. Grace was a musician; she had an ear for pitch. The whispers matched. Disbelief and dread dropped into the pit of her stomach.
You just never really know who you're with.
That's cold, Grace, you're so cold.
This time, there really is a wolf.
Grace had been thoroughly played. People could lose weight. Their skin could clear up. They could cut and lighten their hair. Braces eventually came off. Contacts could color your eyes. An accent could be faked. Jean Sebastian's eyes were such an odd color, such a light, light brown. Because even with colored contacts it was hard to disguise eyes so blue. Grace couldn't deny it any longer. She opened her eyes and faced the name on the little orange bottle. And there it was in black and white. Hiding in plain sight. The prescription belonged to Stan Gale.
The day after Grace got her cast removed, she climbed up to her tree house to find a note stuck on the wall.
You have to come see me. I have to tell you something.
Come tonight. CAG.
Tonight? In the dark? Grace had been grounded since she last snuck over to the Gales' barn. Part of her didn't want to go, wanted to pretend Carrie Ann had never existed, but the other part of her missed Carrie Ann as much as she'd missed using her arm. Grace's bedroom was on the first floor, and her parents rarely locked the doors (if only child services knew), so once the house was quiet and dark, Grace slipped out and made her way through the woods and over to the barn. The minute Grace saw Carrie Ann, huddled in the hayloft, she knew something terrible was going on. For once, Stan was nowhere to be seen. “Are you okay?” Grace said as she climbed up. Instead of hugging her, Carrie Ann scooted away.
“Get out of here,” she said. Carrie Ann, at fifteen, had never lost her rough edges.
“But you told me to come.”
“I did not.”
“You left me a note.”
“I
didn't
.”
“It's not my fault,” Grace pleaded. “I didn't know my mother was going to send you away.”
“I hate it here,” Carrie Ann said. “I hate Stan, and his stupid mother, and his evil father!”
Grace winced when she heard Carrie Ann call Lydia stupid, but she didn't challenge her. “He's pretty strict, huh?”
“He's a perv,” Carrie Ann said.
“What do you mean?”
“You really want to know, Gracie? You want all the dirty details?” Grace could barely swallow. She nodded. “You know how I like to sleep in the nude?” Grace did know. Carrie Ann had done it ever since she came to live with the Sawyers. No matter how many pairs of pajamas Jody bought her, they, along with Carrie Ann's underwear, were always on the floor in the morning.
“He's been coming into my room at night with a flashlight.”
“What?”
“When he thinks I'm asleep.”
“Oh my God.”
“He lifts the sheet and stands there staring at me. Running the flashlight up and down my body. Every night. And he's taking longer and longer.”
A sick feeling crawled into Grace and lodged itself in her stomach. “No,” she said. “No.”
Carrie Ann, who had been clutching her knees, pulling them into her chest, suddenly shot out and grabbed Grace's shoulders. “Don't tell anyone. No one. Especially not your mother.”
“But Carrie Annâ”
“Who knows where I'll end up, Gracie. At least this way I get to see you.”
“We have to tell herâ”
“Do you think if she knewâshe would let me come back and live with you again?”
This time, when Carrie Ann looked into Grace's eyes, Grace saw it all. The pleading. The desperation. And the plotting. Carrie Ann was lying about Stan's father coming into her room at night with a flashlight. She was making it all up just so Grace would go running to her mother and tell. Because Carrie Ann thought Jody would take her back. What Carrie Ann didn't know was that Grace's mother wouldn't believe Carrie Ann in a million years. Grace could even tell she was lying. Carrie Ann was the girl who cried wolf, and anybody could see that the local insurance man, married to the art teacher, was anything but a wolf. He was just strict. He wasn't letting Carrie Ann rule the household. And she was lashing out.
“I have to go,” Grace said. She suddenly wanted to get away from Carrie Ann, wanted to be anywhere but in the hayloft. When Grace stepped onto the ladder, Carrie Ann crawled over and grabbed ahold of it. Not again, Grace thought. This time maybe she'd break more than an arm. Why didn't she ever learn her lesson? Carrie Ann pushed the ladder back about two inches. Grace screamed. Carrie Ann brought the ladder back in. Grace was fine, but her heart was hammering so hard it was a full three minutes before she could move again.
“Tell her,” Carrie Ann said. “Please.”
“I will,” Grace promised. “I will.”
And then Grace went home and didn't tell a soul.
That was her dirty secret.
Not a whisper. Not a peep, not a soul. And maybe, just maybe, she should have.
But somebody told. Because it wasn't long before tongues started wagging in town. Whispers spread into full-blown rumors. Around water coolers. At the local diner. Grocery stores. Then at the pub. Faster and faster, rumors started to float around town.
Did you hear that Lionel Gale is a pervert? He comes into Carrie Ann's room at night
.
With a candle . . .
With a flashlight . . .
With a match . . .
With a knife . . .
The first time Grace caught wind of it was in the girls' bathroom at school. A group of girls swarmed Grace, asking her if it was true. Grace clamped her mouth shut and ran out of the bathroom.
The next week, Lydia Gale didn't show up for work. She was out for five days. When she did return, briefly, her eyes were bloodshot. She sat at her desk and cried. When somebody called her Lydia, she lashed out.
“My name is Mrs. Gale! You will call me Mrs. Gale!”
At the height of the rumors, Carrie Ann left Grace a ton of messages. Grace was too petrified to answer. Carrie Ann was going to think she was the one spreading the rumors. And she wasn't. She wasn't. Grace prayed it would die down. It didn't. Somebody said they'd seen a police cruiser at the Gales' home. No doubt questioning Lionel. Somebody else said he was fired from his job because they didn't want a pervert working there. Next, Stan dropped out of school. Grace was secretly relieved; ever since Carrie Ann had moved in with him, he'd stopped staring at Grace in that strange way, pretended to see right through her, even when they passed in the halls. And although she would have thought it would have brought her relief, being so blatantly ignored was even creepier than when he had been openly staring at her with those pleading blue eyes. Grace wasn't sure what had happened, why Stan was acting this way. She had thought he worshipped Carrie Ann. Now it was as if he blamed Grace for Carrie Ann's very existence. She could only imagine the tension in that home. And it was her fault, in a way. If she hadn't broken down in front of Lydia, the Gales probably would have never thought to take Carrie Ann in.
Then came the night that still shamed Grace to the core. It was before Lionel's death, at the peak of the nasty rumors. Jody Sawyer climbed up to the tree house where Grace had been holed up every day after school.
“Do you know anything about this situation with Lionel Gale?” her mother asked. “Did Carrie Ann say anything to you?”
Grace looked at her mother's face, contorted in worry. “No,” Grace said. “She didn't say a word.”
To this day her insides burned in shame. Why didn't she just tell her mother that she hadn't told because she knew Carrie Ann was lying? Her mother would have understood that. But just the fact that her mother had asked, in that voice ripe with concern, made Grace's blood feel like ice water running through her veins. Did it mean she should have told? Did it mean her mother thought that Carrie Ann might be telling the truth?
Then, one night, came another message from Carrie Ann. A note. Left in her tree house. It was the most frantic Grace had ever heard Carrie Ann.
Please. Help me. Come tonight. You're my sister. I need you. Meet me in the hayloft.
Below the note was a drop of blood. Grace ran to the Gales' house as fast as she could. She took the woods between their homes, tripped on several tree roots in her haste, then stumbled yet again at the entrance to their farm.
She passed the tree where Stan's tire swing usually hung. The tire was lying on the grass. The barn door was open. Just barely, just enough for Grace to slip through. A single light was shining in the middle of the barn. Grace took slow, quiet steps. As soon as she neared the hayloft, she saw something hovering in midair.
Shoes. Brown, leather, size-eleven shoes. Big, shiny brown shoes hovering right in front of her face. The smell of shoe polish was overpowering. At first, her brain couldn't compute what she was seeing. She thought it must be Carrie Ann, practicing magic.
She's made a man float,
Grace actually thought. Until Grace looked up, past the gleaming shoes. Lionel Gale dangled in front of her, hanging from the rafters by a thick, braided rope. Later she would realize it was the rope from Stan's tire swing. Lionel was the first dead person Grace had ever seen. The spotlight had been aimed directly at his face.
His face bulged, his skin was purple above the neck, and blood was dripping from his eyes. His blood vessels had burst. Grace didn't know a cadaver could look so gruesome. She whimpered. Then she moaned, and finally, she opened her mouth and screamed. And she screamed, and she screamed, and she screamed. She wished she hadn't.
She wished she had it to do over. She would calmly, bravely walk up to Lydia's house, and tell Lydia she was very sorry but she needed to call the police. Instead, Grace's screams brought Lydia flying from the house and into the barn. The horrific sight, coupled with Grace's hysteria, brought Lydia Gale to her knees. Grace would never again be able to imagine Lydia smiling, standing in the middle of the art room in her beautiful homemade skirts, smelling of vanilla or lavender, encouraging the children with what seemed to be an endless well of optimism. Instead, Grace would see Lydia on her knees, rocking back and forth, fists in her mouth to keep from screaming, head bent down and blond curls kissing the dirt.
Two things hit Grace as she replayed that awful memory. One: Carrie Ann had told her she hadn't left the first note. So, what if she hadn't left the second note either? What if someone else had lured her out to the barn to find Lionel Gale?
And two: His shoes. They were so shiny. So polished. Gleaming. They looked like shoes that had never even touched the ground. Wouldn't there be some little scuff, at the least some disturbance to them from when Lionel had hanged himself? Or was Grace just imagining how shiny the shoes wereâwas it a detail she'd exaggerated in the trauma of the moment?
All these years it had haunted Grace that Lionel Gale, before he had slipped the rope around his neck and stepped into thin air, had stopped and taken the time to thoroughly shine his shoes. It meant something. Grace didn't know what. But she knew. All these years, like a secret message, like a name written in blood, those shoes had been trying to tell her something.