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.
The thing she wasn’t saying and that even I, in my weekly visits, had been noticing—the old man was getting sicker. There was no denying that. Carmelita had mentioned many times that he’d been refusing the doctor for years, insisting that life under the Caribbean sun was enough to heal him.
For her sake, I hoped it was true.
From the sounds of things, I didn’t think it was.
“Santi and his brother are making fried plantains tonight. Can I convince you two to stay for dinner?” Carmelita was back and fluttering around the small round table.
Tressa shook her head quickly, standing swiftly until the empty glass of juice went tumbling. It rolled straight off the table, shattering into tiny pieces.
In a rush, Tressa apologized and fell to her knees, gathering the sharp pieces, the delicate petals of bougainvillea I’d tucked behind her ear falling to the floor so quietly I was the only one who noticed.
Carmelita dropped down beside her, small broom and pan in hand and shushed Tressa, one hand on her shoulder before she glanced up at me, eyes concerned.
“Sí, sí, mi amor.”Carmelita ushered Tressa to standing before she turned, and although Tressa shielded her face from my vision with her palms, I could see by the way her shoulders trembled that she was crying.
“Take her home, Padre.And thank you for everything.” She nodded to the basket of things I’d gathered for her family this week, fruit and vegetables a local farmer had dropped off at Santa Maria’s this morning, along with some pantry items and a new set of crayons and a coloring book for Santi from Tressa.
I pulled Tressa into my arms, guiding her out of the sunshine-yellow door and down the front steps.
“Are you all right? What can I do?”
She only shook her head, face turning a lighter shade of white than it already was, sobs carrying her home to our tiny chapel in the mountains.
TWENTY-SEVEN
