THIRTY-FIVE
Bastien
I did for Tressa what I promised I would.
I submitted the report that very night and even went to the extra lengths of carbon-copying the cardinal and bishop from St. Michael’s and those from my local diocese now. A paper trail might incite them to action.
Once I hit send on the emails, that was it.
Just like that, the tension seemed to work itself out of our lives.
Until the following Monday.
Tressa had already decided she wouldn’t be doing my rounds with me this week, and I’d thought it was better that way anyway. While those in my flock were all respectful and hadn’t even asked a thing about her last week, I also didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to her and me.
I wasn’t even sure what our future held, exactly.
I knew only two things.
I loved being with her.
I hated myself without her.
Surely, church or no church, that accounted for something.
And it was with those thoughts in my head that I set off down the dusty road a week later, walking the short distance to Carmelita’s house.
By the time I’d arrived a few minutes later, I knew something was amiss.
Santiago sat on the brightly painted porch, head in his hands, puppy between his knees.
“Padre Juan is sick,” he said dejectedly upon my approach.
“Is he inside?”
Santiago shook his head, tears welling. “Mamá took him to the hospital this morning. She says it’s not so good if Padre Juan has to go to the hospital.”
I frowned, setting the basket of items on the porch and then taking Santiago by the hand. “What do you say we pay the hospital a visit and see what we can find out?”
His dark chestnut eyes rounded as he popped up, tucking his hand in mine with a smile. “And can we stop for ice cream too? The last time Mamá took me to the hospital was when Abuela was there. She got me an ice cream cone after to cheer me up.”
I nodded, chest aching. I thought of this little boy living the rest of his life without his father, even if he hadn’t known it was him to begin with.
With the scent of bougainvillea surrounding us, I replied, “Sure thing, kiddo.”
* * *
Two mornings later, we were walking the same route. Only this time, Carmelita was on my arm, sniffling into a tissue as she mourned the death of her companion, Padre Juan Martin.
Tressa walked just behind us, tiny Santiago’s hand wrapped in hers, head bent as she silently mourned the passing of her father. I hadn’t even expected to tackle this hurdle, most especially not in quite this way, but here we were. Within weeks of her arrival to my island, Tressa had both found her father and lost him to this life.
All of his secrets, destined to die with him.
