Authors: Sally John
“What about you?” She changed the subject. “I never imagined you as being a kid, period. Where did you grow up?”
“Here and there.”
She eyed him now beside her. “Can we dispense with the tight-lipped rigmarole? We’re practically living together again, except this time I’m not preoccupied with assassins and whether or not my husband will live through the night.” She attempted a snippy tone. “Apparently your job is not over yet.”
“Calissa wants to talk to me here. It may take a while.”
“Whatever. I really hope I never see you again, Luke Traynor, but for now a regular conversation might help pass the time. For instance, you had to grow up somewhere.”
He narrowed his eyes in a somber expression. “Okay, but you must swear not to tell a single living soul.”
The angry facade didn’t hold. She burst into laughter. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“It’s good to hear you laugh.” He smiled.
“Oh, I give up. You’re not going to answer. Forget I asked.”
They had reached the top of the staircase. He set down the bag and clicked the handle into its raised position. “My dad was in the Navy.”
“For real?”
“Yes.”
“A straight answer. Will wonders never cease?”
He tilted the bag onto its wheels. “Where to?”
“I’ll take it from here.” She accepted the handle from him. “So I guess you were a military brat, not a spoiled one.”
“My mother would debate you on that one. I always wondered what it would be like to stay put for years on end. My parents retired to a city where I never lived. There is no house for me to visit where the walls breathe out memories.”
She glanced down the long, wide hallway with its several doors and framed prints of foxhunting scenes on the walls. If she held her breath, maybe she could avoid inhaling whatever it was the old place exhaled.
“Sheridan, are you okay?”
“Sure.”
“It’s been a crazy morning.”
“And I’m still walking and talking. At last count, we’re at two down, two to go.”
“Meaning?”
She held up a finger at a time, numbering as she spoke. “I have survived one, a reunion with Liss; two, a reunion with Harrison.”
“And the two to go?”
“Hear my sister’s message and, if Harrison dies on schedule, attend the funeral.” She shut her eyes briefly. What an ugly thing to say.
I’m sorry.
“What about being in this house? A lifetime of memories must be coming at you. You’re okay here?”
Well, obviously not.
Earlier she had assumed she would stay in a hotel or at Calissa’s condo in the city. When they left the hospital, though, Calissa informed her otherwise. Her place was a mess. The kitchen was being remodeled; the guest room had become her office away from the office. Calissa rounded off her excuses with the opinion that the house was the best place to talk privately, and of course, it was spacious enough for them to stay, Luke included.
Sheridan sighed to herself. Luke perceived what she was feeling, but what could he do? Whisk her off to the Drake? He was being paid to whisk her off to exactly where she was.
She said, “Sure.”
“‘Sure,’ you’re okay?”
“Sure.”
“All right.” His tone indicated he did not believe her.
“All right. So stop hovering.” She started down the hall toward her old bedroom, pulling the suitcase along the worn runner, and thought about a hot shower. She would wash away travel grime and maybe even a memory or two while she was at it.
* * *
A short time later, Sheridan emerged from her old bedroom’s bath wrapped in a terry-cloth robe and towel drying her shampooed hair. Some equilibrium had returned.
On her desk was a large silver tray. Calissa must have put it there while she was in the shower. Except for the bone china place setting, the display looked like something from a hotel with its covered dish and a white thermos carafe.
Sheridan lifted the cover from the silver-rimmed plate. An omelet sat there, a beautifully formed fluffy oval covered with hollandaise, surrounded by strawberries and grapes and sprigs of parsley.
“Bram.” She smiled. Her sister’s significant other had to be responsible for this edible work of art. If the coffee in the carafe was his as well, she just might be able to function through the remainder of this hellacious day.
Even in the years before his hair and beard turned snow-white, Abram Carter had reminded her of a Santa Claus without dimples, a cherry nose, or a belly that jiggled like a bowlful of jelly. He was jovial, giving, carefree, and yet one of the most hardworking people she’d ever met. Time and again he had used his connections to help her in some aspect of her work. As the owner of a Chicago newspaper and magazine, Bram moved within a vast network of business associates. The only chink in his delightful character was his relationship with Calissa. It never made sense to Sheridan what the man saw in her sister.
She poured herself coffee and carried the tray to the double bed. With thoughts of procrastinating over a quiet meal, she climbed atop the old-fashioned, off-white chenille spread and sat cross-legged.
“Mmm.” She swallowed her first bite. “Spinach, lemony, a touch of nutmeg. He has not lost his touch. He’s almost as good as Mercedes. Thank You, God.”
God. Thank You. Yes.
She smiled again. Of course God would show up in her room. It was the only place in the house that might exhale His presence.
“Thank You for this food and for this cozy spot. This safe spot.”
Despite the tears shed throughout the years in her bedroom, she felt surrounded by good memories. For thirteen years her mother tucked her into bed every night with prayers and hugs and whispers of love. That was what the walls breathed out around her now.
She thought about the crucifix her mother had given her when she was twelve. Within days after Ysabel’s death, Sheridan had flung it hard and high. It bounced off the wall and landed atop the tall bookcase. Out of sight, out of mind did not happen. She never forgot it was up there.
Not much was changed in the room. It still had the white furniture with gold trim, pale blue shag carpet with matching frilly curtains, and three framed posters of Latin American scenes. Knickknacks, books, papers, and pens still sat on shelves and in drawers. Old clothes, mostly volleyball team T-shirts and sweats, hung in the closet.
It was kind of pathetic how her dad never had the place cleared out. After twenty-some years she figured he’d have believed her declaration, when she left for college, that she was never coming back.
Sheridan pulled the desk chair over to the bookcase and climbed on it. Stretching on tiptoes, she swept her hand around the dusty top until she felt the cross.
She carried it to the bed, sat back down, and brushed the dust from it with the napkin. It was about five inches long, made of wood. The body of Christ on it was a simply carved figure without detail.
What was it Ysabel used to say? She would caress the piece and speak in a reverent tone.
“Jesús is not dead on the cross, but we cannot forget how He suffered there for us. It is only through His suffering that we are healed.”
Sheridan rubbed her thumb over the crucifix and let the memories of her mother’s voice come.
“Sheri, He is alive and right here with us. He lives in us. Don’t ever forget Him. This life is a journey of suffering, but it will pass, and then we shall see Him face-to-face.”
Whenever her mother said such things, a painful expression had scrunched her pretty face. Most often joy spilled from her, but Sheridan understood that Ysabel’s life was one of perpetual suffering, compliments of Harrison. Even as a youngster Sheridan comprehended his disdain for Ysabel. It was continually in his facial expression and tone if not his words.
Sheridan slipped the cross into the nightstand drawer beside the bed.
Eliot suffered something awful. Her mother would have been able to talk to him about that, not so much about the physical aspect of pain but about how it hurt to be cut off from relationships and work. It was her mother’s story.
Good grief, it was Sheridan’s own story.
Suddenly overcome with a desire to talk to Eliot, she scooped her handbag from the foot of the bed and pulled out the cell phone. She had left him two messages from the airports, but that came nowhere close to being in touch. Even with daylight saving time, there was only a two-hour time difference, so calling Eliot was no problem.
Except that he wasn’t at the other end of the phone to answer.
“Oh! You are such a fool, Sheridan.”
You drop off the face of the earth and now expect your stupid can’t-find-us system not to work? You can’t call him, just like no one has been able to call you all these months. And you know he is not going to go to Mesa Aguamiel. First of all, he doesn’t trust Javier to lead a mule, let alone drive the car. Even if he did manage to go, he’s not going to wait at some stranger’s house in case her phone rings.
What had she been thinking? She had willingly cut herself off from the only true relationship she had left. No, their life was not what she signed up for, and yes, it was a hiding from reality. But at least it was predictable. Out of the limelight and out of politics, she and Eliot did live in peace. There were no surprises more serious than leaks in the roof during monsoon season.
There was no Luke messing with her emotions.
She missed everyone. Eliot. Mercedes, Javier, Padre Miguel, the village children. Her mother. The voice of Jesús calling her. She even missed the father she never had.
She turned the phone off, yanked open the drawer, and tossed it in with the crucifix.
Topala
The promise of a scrumptious meal outdoors was Eliot’s sole incentive to leave his room and join the padre at the patio table for lunch.
All of Mercedes’s dishes were scrumptious. In honest moments, Eliot admitted to himself that her cooking ability was her saving grace, else he would have dismissed her long ago.
As he slid the spoon from his mouth, he shut his eyes. Cumin, cilantro, tomato, garlic, chicken, a hint of black beans—not his favorite but she made them work—and a delicate broth.
Padre Miguel chuckled. “It is lovely, isn’t it?”
He swallowed and looked at him. “Yes, it is.”
“I imagine you must have been exposed to the very best. Your embassies probably employed highly trained chefs.”
Eliot bristled and pursed his lips.
The little old man with big brown eyes reached across the table and touched Eliot’s arm. “Señor Montgomery. Some of us backward locals know how to use the Internet. Neither Mercedes nor your wife needed to tell me that you were once an ambassador. And rest assured, friend, I do not pass along personal information.” He smiled and removed his hand.
The spot on Eliot’s arm burned as if a branding iron in the shape of five short fingers had lain there. Of course, no wonder. The padre had to be roasting in his coarse-textured brown robe. There were beads of perspiration across his forehead.
“Well.” Eliot cleared his throat. “I have been blessed to not have to cook for myself. Sheridan and I both have. Eating would be a disagreeable task if we had to depend on her culinary skills or mine.” Did he just say
blesse
d
?
“She has told me she cannot boil water correctly for tea.”
Eliot smiled. “She can’t.”
“The good Lord has given you both other talents, other work to do. Meanwhile He takes care of feeding you.”
“And He has fed us well. Mercedes, though, is by far the best chef we have ever known, including those from state dinners at the White House.” Goodness! What was with the excessive chatter?
“And to think that she is a simple, uneducated girl. Isn’t God amazing? Señor, I know it is difficult for you to come down to Iglesia de San José for Mass. But you know Him, don’t you?”
“Uh . . . um . . . I grew up in the church. I believe Jesus is God’s Son.”
Padre Miguel clapped his hands, pleased as punch at the rote answer. “Then you miss the communal time of adoration. We will get you there when you are ready.”
“I’m really fine—”
“Yes, you are.”
“Without the church.”
The padre shrugged a shoulder. “Oh, what am I thinking? Please forgive me, señor. I forgot why I came. I have messages from señora.”
“What?” Eliot all but squeaked. “You have messages from my wife?”
“Yes. Two of them, as a matter of fact. Let me see here.” He carefully set the spoon in his bowl of soup and put both hands in his pockets. “We thought it best to write them down.” He continued to fumble.
“Padre, please.”
“Señora’s arrangements to communicate do work, though more slowly than you would like. She called Maria, Mercedes’s aunt, two times. Chavez, Maria’s second-to-youngest son—or is it third?—who is Mercedes’s cousin, hitched a ride with the propane truck driver, Necalli, but he wasn’t coming to Topala today. He was going to La Petaca. Well, they got to talking and completely forgot to stop at our turn. So Chavez had to get off further up the road. He began to walk, hoping for a ride. Praise be to God, Xochitl came by. You know her, the pretty one who works at Davy’s. She was on her way back from visiting her mother in Borbollones, who has been quite ill for some time now. Anyway, Chavez eventually found me at the church.” Padre Miguel moved the knotted rope at his waist to get a better angle to a pocket. “And here I sit, enjoying Mercedes’s delicious soup, not thinking.”
Eliot removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Oh. Here it is.” He produced a torn piece of wrinkled paper, smoothed it on the table, and read from it. “Señora said, ‘Please . . .’” Padre Miguel looked up with a smile. “She is always so polite.” He began to read again. “‘Please tell my husband that we are fine. We are in Los Angeles.’ And the second message, ‘Please tell my husband that we are fine. We are in Chicago. It is raining.’”
Never since the shooting had Eliot so badly wanted to run again, and he wanted it every single day. He was a runner.
Had been
a runner. His body was built for running. It released stress and tension and whatever bothered him with sublime perfection.