by Mary Carter
“You’re good at that,” Stan said. He sounded impressed. Grace was kind of impressed too, although she knew it wasn’t something she should be impressed about. She could see Carrie Ann leaning against an old building, smoking with a group of ragtag little boys. Carrie Ann was tougher than Grace would ever be.
“I should be. We smoked at the orphanage all the time.”
“Really?” Stan said. He sounded in awe. Grace had heard it before. Carrie Ann’s stories were always horrifying but gripping.
“I was seven when I smoked for the first time,” Carrie Ann said proudly.
“Wow,” Stan said.
Carrie Ann passed the cigarette to Stan as he handed her the bottle of whiskey. It was now or never.
“I don’t want to smoke,” Grace said. “And I don’t want to drink.”
“Then go home,” Carrie Ann said. It was the last thing Grace had expected to hear. “Be careful climbing down,” Carrie Ann added with a smile. She knew. She always knew what to say, what button to push, what scared Grace most of all. How did she always know?
“Is there another way down?” Grace said, looking around. Carrie Ann laughed.
“You could jump,” she said. “Try and land on a bale of hay.” Grace considered it for a moment. Hay was pretty soft. But most of it was up here, not down there. Maybe Stan would let her throw some bales down. “I’m kidding,” Carrie Ann said. “Just climb down the ladder already.”
Now Grace had to pee. She was terrified of the ladder, but even more terrified of peeing her pants in front of Stan and Carrie Ann. She crawled over to the ladder and looked down.
“Go down backwards,” Stan said. “It’s the best way.”
Grace shut her eyes and started the descent. Each rail felt like death was near. She was halfway down and almost breathing normally when she felt the ladder sway. She screamed and opened her eyes. The ladder was falling backward. Carrie Ann’s and Stan’s faces hovered over the edge. Grace locked eyes with Carrie Ann. She’s trying to kill me, Grace thought. She quickly let go of the ladder and tried to curl into a ball. She landed hard on her left arm and screamed in pain as the ladder barely missed knocking her on the head. She knew, before she even tried to move, that she had broken her arm. Carrie Ann was the first to sign her cast. Smoking Kills, she wrote. Then she added a smiley face.
I’m sorry, Stan wrote.
Grace couldn’t wait to get the cast off, not because it was itching her, not because it was bulky and sweaty, not because she was tired of not being able to use her arm. All those things were true. But the biggest reason she wanted to get that cast off was so she didn’t have to stare at Stan’s signature on her arm. It made her feel sick. Because, under his name, so tiny she almost missed it, he had drawn a heart.
CHAPTER 36
Captured between the Mediterranean Sea and the extension of the Pyrenees Mountains, Cadaqués, Figueres, and Roses, Spain, glimmered like little gems sprinkled along Costa Brava. The town car that Grace and Jean Sebastian were riding in wound up and up and up. Bright skies stretched above them, and the wild blue sea churned below. Grace couldn’t believe she was able to appreciate the beauty given the circumstances, yet one would have to be dead not to.
The peninsula encasing Cadaqués was the Cap de Creus, and the surroundings were composed of geological wonders. The rocks dotting the rugged coastline were formed along with the Pyrenees Mountains. Costa Brava, which meant wild coast, was named for the temperamental winds that would whip through at terrifying speeds, stirring the sea into a boiling frenzy.
Is that what had happened to Carrie Ann and Stan? Had the years stirred them into a boiling frenzy?
Salvador Dalí grew up in Figueres, where now the Dalí Theatre-Museum stood, showcasing a broad range of his work, but Grace and Jean Sebastian were headed instead to his house, the Casa-Museo Salvador Dalí, in Port Lligat as the clue had instructed. It would be too late to go this evening, but Jean Sebastian had managed to book them adjoining rooms at Hotel Port Lligat. It was a longer drive than if they stayed in Roses, or Cadaqués, but it would pay off the following day; their hotel was only a few meters from the Salvador Dalí House.
The entrance to the Island of Port Lligat was separated from the mainland by a narrow thirty-meter-wide canal. Dalí was known to have incorporated the island into several of his paintings: The Madonna of Port Lligat, Crucifixion, and The Sacrament of the Last Supper. Grace was infused with a sense of peace as they pulled up to the hotel. Check-in was a breeze, and soon Grace and Jean Sebastian were standing on the shared veranda of their adjoining rooms.
The small family hotel offered stunning views. The building itself seemed to grow right out of the sea, just like the Dalí House, which Grace could see from her vantage point. Dalí’s villa was a white-stone building topped with terracotta roofs. It rose from the bay at irregular levels, encompassing over three stories, although it still wasn’t very tall. Simple, fisherman beauty, a marriage of land and sea.
“You’ve been here before?” Grace said as they stared out to sea.
“This is my third time,” Jean Sebastian said. “I think it’s one of the most beautiful places in the world.”
“I can see why.”
“In fact... No. It’s silly.”
“Tell me.”
“If I had a choice—this is where I’d spend my last day on earth.” Jean Sebastian pointed to the small cove in front of the Dalí house. “I’d like to be lying in a rowboat, right there. Just bobbing along until I take my last breath.”
“Who wouldn’t want that?” Grace said.
Jean Sebastian laughed. “I guess I’m not as unique as I like to think I am.”
“I’d say you’re pretty unique.” He stared at her until she found herself trying to remember how long average human eye contact lasted and if they had gone over the average time limit. They’d definitely gone over it. And this was the most romantic setting on earth. Grace could only imagine it at sunrise and sunset. The air was warm, and she could hear the water lapping on the rowboats scattered along the bay below. Where were Jake and Carrie Ann? Were they still here? Was he close enough to touch? “Tell me something about yourself,” Grace said.
“Like what?” Jean Sebastian said.
“I don’t know. I just realized I don’t know the first thing about you. I haven’t even read your travel blog.”
“I am a simple guy,” Jean Sebastian said. “But I’ll show you my blog sometime.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No. It’s just me.”
“Do your parents still live in Belgium?”
“Only my mother is alive.”
“I’m sorry.”
Jean Sebastian shrugged. “It is life.”
“I wish it weren’t. Don’t you?”
Jean Sebastian moved closer. Grace’s hands were resting on the veranda wall. Jean Sebastian put his hand on top of hers. “I hope your mother will be all right,” he said. For a second, Grace was startled, but then she remembered he had been in the room during her last video chat.
“That’s not going to happen,” Grace said. “But thank you.”
“How long does she have?”
“A few weeks ago the doctors said one to six months.” Tears filled Grace’s eyes, and Jean Sebastian stepped closer and put his arms around her.
“You’re going through too much,” he said. “Too much for one person.”
His cologne smelled so good. It was probably expensive, designed to be irresistible. His body felt nice next to hers. This just wasn’t fair. She had to admit, if she could carve a little time out of her life and step out of it, just for a moment, she would be tempted to kiss him. God. She already had kissed him. On the dance floor when she had thought he was Jake. It had felt exciting and new because it was exciting and new. Grace gently pulled out of Jean Sebastian’s arms. “I just want to get Jake and go home,” Grace said. “I just want to go home.”
“And I won’t tell you what I
want.” Grace waited, holding her breath.
“What?” she asked, even though she knew she shouldn’t.
“You.” His face was so handsome by the moonlight. The air was thick and warm. Their faces were only inches apart. He’s going to try and kiss me, Grace thought.
“I can’t,” she said. She stepped back.
“I’m sorry,” Jean Sebastian said.
“Don’t apologize. Look. I’m attracted to you too.”
“You are?” He stepped forward. “Do you really mean it?” He seemed so intense. Had she made a mistake in mentioning it?
“Of course I mean it. Come on—you must have a million girls after you.”
“Last count it was under nine hundred thousand,” Jean Sebastian said.
“Funny.”
“I don’t get close to many people,” Jean Sebastian said.
“Why not?”
“I guess it was just the way I was brought up. Protecting myself.”
“From what?”
“From everything.”
Grace knew there was more to the story, but she didn’t want to feel any closer to Jean Sebastian. She had come this far; she just wanted to focus on Jake. “You’re a catch. There, I said it. You’re handsome, and you have had a very exciting life, and you’re funny—”
“Okay, okay. Please. Keep talking.”
Grace laughed and slugged him on the shoulder. He grabbed her hand and held it for a moment. Her breath caught. Please, don’t. Not tonight. She felt too weak, too vulnerable.
“Get some sleep,” Jean Sebastian said. He turned her hand over, kissed the top of it, and let go. Grace nodded and turned to go back to her room. Then, she turned again, and kissed Jean Sebastian on the cheek.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe another time. Another place.”
“Then I wish this were another time,” he said. “Another place.” It took Grace an eternity to fall asleep.
They were at the Dalí villa the minute it opened. Jean Sebastian gave Grace a rundown on the history. Salvador Dalí moved into his fishing cabin in 1930 with his wife and muse, Gala. He worked on and added to the house over the next forty years. The result was a maze-like structure within the Spanish-style home, consisting of his workshop on the upper level with a view of the bay, the bedroom he shared with Gala, a kitchen, an expansive library room, and the “whispering” room where it was said you could hear someone whispering to you from way across the room. The outside consisted of an elaborate outdoor pool, sculptures, and gardens.
Grace stepped into the entryway and was confronted by a giant grizzly bear standing upright. It had paws out, mouth open, teeth showing. His fur was the color of toffee, and he was decked in silver and turquoise jewelry, complete with a rifle slung over his shoulder. A few other stuffed animals sat on shelves above him; Grace couldn’t tell if they were possums or something else—she’d never thought of taxidermy as art until this moment. Who in the world was this man? Grace couldn’t help but wonder as she toured the house. It was hard to tell if he was a genius or a madman, and she concluded he was definitely both.
At the top of the house, facing the water, was an attic room with a circular window. An easel faced the window. Upon it sat a half-finished canvas. A paintbrush lay across the ledge of the easel, and a rag was balled-up at the base. It looked as if Dalí had just been here, stepping away momentarily for a cup of coffee, or a phone call, or a kiss from his wife. Grace wondered what he would think of all these strangers traipsing through his house. One thing was clear: He had spent his days doing what he loved, surrounded by the things he loved. It was really that simple, and yet so few people got to live their lives that way. It made her ache for Jake, and her stomach had been in knots since they had arrived.
Every time she turned a corner, she held her breath, praying Jake and Carrie Ann would just appear as they had done in the park.
Instead, every corner was filled with unique objects: dried flowers, stuffed wildlife, painting easels, artwork, jewelry. The windows in every room varied drastically in size and shape, and sometimes passages seemed to lead nowhere. Candelabras, vases, animal heads and animal bodies stuffed everywhere. Strange dolls, and ornate, tall birdhouses, and velvet built-in sofas. She hadn’t been paying much attention to where Jean Sebastian was, but they ended up stepping into Dalí and Gala’s bedroom at the same time. They had separate beds covered in red and gray bedspreads. The same material was draped on the wall behind the beds, held up at the ceiling by a golden eagle.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Jean Sebastian whispered in her ear as she took in the pair of beds. “They were very sexual. Especially Gala. And Salvador liked to watch her make love to other men.”
Grace felt little pinpricks on the tops of her arms, and she shivered. Jean Sebastian took a step back. Grace felt slightly nauseous. Why? Because he had whispered in her ear? Because it was too intimate? She couldn’t put her finger on why she was reacting this way. It was probably because a man she was attracted to was whispering in her ear about Dalí and Gala’s experimental sex life. Grace didn’t want Jean Sebastian to know he was sparking this reaction inside her. “Really?” She hoped she sounded nonchalant.
“She had quite the appetite. Even in her seventies she was bedding much younger men.”
“My God,” Grace said.
“You’re shocked?” he said.
“A little bit—but mostly because—is it me or was she really homely?”
Jean Sebastian burst out laughing. Grace felt guilty saying it, but from every painting and photo she had seen of the woman, the best compliment she could give was that maybe, in certain lights, Gala was handsome.
“She must have had other enticing qualities,” Jean Sebastian said with a wink as they exited the room.
The most unusual object to catch Grace’s eye was hung on the wall in a small alcove above a built-in table. It was the head of a rhinoceros with the wings of an eagle. Around his neck hung a bell.
“Wild, isn’t it?” Jean Sebastian said.
Salvador’s artwork hung on the walls, and pictures of himself with his curled-up mustache, and again, pictures of Gala. Jean Sebastian was right. Gala must have had something going for her, for it was obvious that Dalí had been absolutely mad about her.
There was that word again—mad. Everything about the house screamed madness, and yet somehow it totally worked.
“Wouldn’t you love to live here?” Jean Sebastian said.
“The views are pretty,” Grace said. “But I don’t know how I’d feel about all these dead animals staring at me all day long.”
Jean Sebastian laughed again, and Grace joined in. It wasn’t right, was it—these little moments of mirth? When Jake was God knows where?
“Let’s go outside,” Jean Sebastian said.
Out back was an in-ground pool consisting of two round sections separated by a narrow passage, like a hallway made of water. The swimming pool dead-ended into a little seating cove, complete with a hot-pink sofa in the shape of giant lips. Next to it, enormous tires were propped up, with Firelli signs adorning the tires like Miss America sashes. More windows, and sculptures, and animals. There were stone swans, and the remains of a huge python twisting above the archway. The plants—a mix of cacti, flowering shrubs, and overhanging trees—blended into the architecture. A white stone wall surrounded the property, and in various positions giant white egg sculptures sat on top, as well as a pair of giant heads cuddled together.
“Totally trippy,” Grace whispered to Jean Sebastian. Her phone dinged.
“I like to be a clown, a buffoon, I like to spread complete confusion.”—Salvador Dalí
“What in the world?” Grace said. She showed it to Jean Sebastian.
“More games,” Jean Sebastian said. It had Carrie Ann written all over it. Grace’s phone dinged again.
Whispering room. Alone.
“Oh my God,” Grace said. “Do you think they’re here?” She looked around as if Carrie Ann or Stan m
ight be crouching in the bushes.
Jean Sebastian sighed and looked around too. There were others on the tour, but the number was limited due to the size of the house. “I doubt anyone would try to hurt you here,” he said. “But I don’t like it.”
“I just want to get it over with,” Grace said. “Stay here.” She left Jean Sebastian by the pool and hurried back into the whispering room. Please be here, Jake. Please be here, Jake. She sat on the curved built-in sofa, turned her phone to silent, and waited.
Close your eyes. I’ll whisper to you. Wait 30 seconds before you open your eyes again, or I will hurt them.
CHAPTER 37
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 Dalí 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.
