“Yeah.”
We sit there in silence for a moment when she speaks again. “I know you told us about what happened but I need to hear the truth. If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask Leo or Jordan.” She takes a deep breath. “Was Stella involved? With the attacks?”
There’s no use trying to sugar-coat this. “I don’t know, Mom. I don’t think she was. We have the video of Ellis saying she wasn’t. As to whether she knew more before the attacks than she claims…I can’t answer that because we just don’t know and probably never will.”
I’m not even sure Stella thought she was going to die, or if she was being melodramatic and didn’t realize Ellis was actually going to kill her. She could have been setting up what she thought was a defense for later, when she knew Ellis would be prosecuted, believing I’d get law enforcement there in time to “save” her and conveniently lock her husband up and out of her way.
“We don’t want her money,” Mom quietly says. “We talked about it, your father and I. We want to donate a million to our church, so they can use it for repairs and expansion. The rest of it we want to donate to your library foundation.”
“That’s a lot of money to give away, Mom.” Not to mention the rest of it, once probate’s completed.
She shrugs. “It’s blood money. It needs to be used for good works. If you’re uncomfortable about us giving your library that much, then help us find a few other charities to spread it around.”
One comes to mind. “The foundation my old buddy helps run. For wounded vets. They could use an angel donor. I’ll have Jordan do some research.”
“Good.” Her tired smile looks like it’s nearly too much for her to bear. “Did you know our minister admitted to us he voted for you, even though he’s a Republican? And that he’s going to vote for Ciro?”
“Did he?”
Ciro, Ily, and their two kids came over last night and had dinner with all here, a casual family affair where my parents actually smiled a few times as Daniela and Mateo taught them how to play a funny card game with exploding unicorns or angry llamas on them or something like that.
She nods. “See? Even in the middle of Nebraska there are Christians who will vote for a gay Democrat who isn’t their son.”
That makes me snort. “Thank goodness.”
“Just promise me something, El.”
“Anything.”
“Make sure some of her money goes to an organization that helps gay kids. Or…” She wearily waves her hand. “One with all those letters. You know what I mean.”
“LGBTQIA+.”
“Yes,that.” A hard edge in her voice slices through her weary grief. “And promise me thatnoneof the organizations she worked for will get a cent of it. Orthosechurches. Stupid megachurches, with the pastors living in mansions and flying around on private jets and driving fancy cars while at the same time begging for more money from their congregation to buy their wives expensive clothes.”
“There are good churches out there, Mom. Of all denominations. They’re not all small-minded like the people Stella worked for. Most of them aren’t. Yours appears to be a good one.”
“I don’t care.” She takes another sip of coffee. “Too much pain and evil has come from everything she did. I’d rather the money go to other places.”
“Fair enough.” We drink our coffee. “Sure we can’t talk you and Dad into staying a few more days?”
“No, sweetie. We miss home. Not that this isn’t wonderful here,” she quickly adds. “Besides, we’ll already be there. The sooner that guest house gets built, the more often you can come visit.” She takes a sip of coffee but I spot her smile.
“You won’t get tired of us invading you?”
“As long as it’s all three of you.” She sets her mug down and reaches for my hand again, squeezing. “Hold on tight to them,” she whispers. “For years I worried you wouldn’t have the kind of love your father and I have. You’ve got it times two. Maybe it’s God making up for us losing Stella but the three of you willalwaysbe our sons.”
My eyes blur again with tears. “Thank you, Mom. So much. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Dad walks in and stops when he realizes we’ve been crying. “What’s wrong?”
Mom smiles. “You owe me a trip to the movies.”
It takes him a moment to process that statement before he sighs and heads toward the coffeemaker. “Okay, you were right. Happy?”
Mom grins. “Happy I don’t have to watch a season of football? Absolutely.”
