“Marisol, you are a dark horse, you know that.”
“So long as you keep it between us.”
We finish our coffee then head back to the church. There is a lot of activity around the MC as we get nearer, it’s noisy and against my better judgment I look for him.
Stupid. He left a half hour ago. I watched him climbing on that bike and imagined him mounting something else. Namely me.
“Do you need anything else, honey? I’ve got to get the church opened up. Confession starts soon if you have anything you want to confess,” she grins.
“I don’t think so.”
She nods at the clubhouse. Something tells me Marisol misses nothing.
“Confessing my sins to my cousin would traumatize us both,” I laugh.
“Gosh, yes, I keep forgetting. He rarely has visits from family.”
She doesn’t mean anything by it, I’m sure Marisol doesn’t have a bad bone in her body, but it stings a little. I have stayed away far too long. Besides his father, we’re each other’s only close living relative.
One of my plans is to visit my uncle at some point. Colt has kept me updated on his decline. We were both heartbroken when he was first diagnosed with dementia. I lived in the delusion he wouldn’t lose his memory that fast.
Colt never pressured me, even though he kept me updated. It’s one more layer on the guilt cake. I never came. And now he doesn’t remember his son, but he has accepted him as a friend, once he gets over the initial confusion.
My discomfort can’t stop me from seeing him. I deserve it for not coming back in time to see the man who saved me from his own sister and raised me like I was his daughter.
“Patrick can help you with anything you need when he gets back.”
Marisol doesn’t notice the extra-fast blinking to stop tears forming. As ever, I hide my emotions and go into work mode.
“First thing I need to do is prep work. The wall needs to be cleaned and smoothed over, I can do that if you point me in the direction of your cleaning supplies.”
“He can help.”
“Marisol, I’ve been doing this for years, it’s part of my process, so I’m more than happy to do it. Every artist needs their canvas the way they want it.”
“Okay,” she says, still looking unsure.
Based on what she’s told me about how she takes care of her family, Marisol is of the generation that thinks I need a man to help me with this kind of work, but I’ve been looking after myself for years. It doesn’t take a lot to convince her, which makes me like her more.
“Thanks for coming with me for a coffee and the lowdown.”
“Any time. Dinner will be at five thirty if you’re interested in homemade meatloaf.”
“I’m very interested in homemade meatloaf, Marisol.”
“Good. Father Eastwood will be pleased to share his meal.”
My frown deepens. “You don’t eat with him?”
“I have a husband and two teenage boys, if I’m not home to look after them, all hell breaks loose,” she chuckles.
The utility room where Marisol takes me is a goldmine. It has everything I need. There is a small cart I stack everything on and drag outside, leaving it behind the fence as I hurry back to the annex to change. This is going to be messy work.
I pop in my earbuds and crank up the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but it doesn’t drown out the noise of the motorcycles as they come and go.
A little later, and out of curiosity, I step into the church and close the door, turning off my music so I can figure out why the bikes don’t seem to bother Colt.
As soon as I shut the door, the engines are mostly drowned out. To be fair, the doors are about six inches thick, the building is solid sandstone.
