I laughed, patting his head as we joined Tressa at the front door, Carmelita joining us on the doorstep, hands on her hips and wide smile plastering her full cheeks.
“Padre Castaneda’s cousin, I assume?” Her eyes danced with devious implication.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well—” she waved me away with a hand “—aren’t they always?”
Tressa tipped her head to the side, waves of dark chocolate falling over her shoulder before her grin grew wide. “As a matter of fact, I’m one of Bastien’s friends from Philadelphia, thank you for asking.”
I nearly choked on my own tongue, eyes wide as I waited for Carmelita’s reply. The old woman narrowed her eyes at Tressa, gaze crawling across her face as they watched each other. I thought I might have to step in in another moment and break the tension before it consumed Santiago and me whole.
“She’s a bold woman.” Carmelita pointed at Tressa. “So, I like her.”
Tressa’s eyebrows shot up when Carmelita scooped her by the elbow and swept her into the house.
It was exactly a moment later when I heard Padre Juan’s voice boom out of the house, “Philly, did you say?”
I stood at Tressa’s side, her eyes taking in the old man, looking as if she’d been stunned. “I…yeah, born and raised.”
Carmelita shuffled Tressa down into the nearest kitchen chair, gesturing me beside her before pouring both of us glasses of cold fruit juice. She set the pitcher between us at the table, then pulled a pocketful of seashells out of the deep pockets of her apron, letting them tinkle to life in her fleshy palms before rolling them on the table like dice. She arched an eyebrow, lips moving almost imperceptibly as she recited a string of prayers to the saints under her breath.
“You know St. Michael’s Catholic Church?” The old man finally tipped his head to one side, eyes shifting back and forth, assessing Tressa and me as Carmelita worked away with her divining shells. She’d offered to read mycaracoleson many occasions, and I’d always indulged her, the way her words whispered the prayers so reverently nothing short of mesmerizing. The way her spirits whispered sacred secrets into her ear about my life, things only I should know, uncanny solely for those unfamiliar with the mysteries of the holy spirit.
The Lord worked in mystifying ways.
Tressa crossed her arms, clearing her throat as she answered Padre Juan. “Grew up a few blocks away from St. Mike’s.”
He nodded, beckoning Santiago over to take his empty juice glass to the sink. The little boy did, and Padre snuck him a few coins. Santiago’s eyes brightened, and he kissed both shiny medallions before shoving them into his pocket and speeding down the hallway and into the room he shared with one of his siblings.
“Bastien and I met at St. Mike’s,” Tressa offered.
Padre Juan nodded, toothpick snagged between his teeth. “Met there, huh? You spend much time there as a kid?”
Tressa shuffled minutely in her chair, bare knee brushing my clothed one, sending a spark of awareness. That was just how we were, attuned to each other. We couldn’t help it, didn’t have any sort of control over it. It just was.
“Spent a few Sundays there.” Tressa eyed him warily.
“What’s your mama’s name, sweetheart?”
Tressa’s hand tensed at my side. I’d never heard anyone call her sweetheart other than me, and even then, only when I was buried deep inside her. But I had a feeling she wasn’t taking too well to the endearment in this instance.
And I didn’t blame her.
Something about Padre Juan had shifted when Tressa entered the room. He was his typical, bold self, but this time…this time, something deeper simmered away, eating up my insides because I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
“Did you ever serve at St. Michael’s, Padre Juan?” The way her words came out, staccatoed, as if she already knew the answer, took me more than a little by surprise.
I moved closer to her as subtly as I could, but I still saw Juan’s eyes flick down to the tiny space that separated her and me. We were so close that the likelihood that my hand was on her knee under the table was high.
If he’d had laser vision, that would have been confirmed, because at this point, Tressa’s knee was all but trembling under my palm.
I swallowed, something deep telling me I needed to remove her from whatever situation was making her this uncomfortable, no matter the reason.
“I was at St. Michael’s for a few seasons,” Padre Juan finally uttered, his attention diverted to the flickering TV in the living room. He grunted once, gesturing with a finger to show Carmelita that he intended to move to the couch. He stood, balance wobbly, as Carmelita helped settle him across the room on the faded couch cushions.
She patted his knee once, whispering something softly before tucking a small hand-knit afghan around his shoulders, tiny glimmering gold cross at his neck.
The old guy coughed for a series of minutes. The longer he went on, the louder it became. Carmelita’s eyes stayed on him before she murmured she’d be right back with some tea and honey to clear that cough.
