Page 49 of Jude

‘We provide them with temporary housing, food, and connections to find a job,’ Jude went on. ‘We also work with migrants in crisis.’

In the expansive lounge area to our right, a woman stacked ceramic mugs by the industrial coffee maker.

To our left was a games space with comfortable sofas, and people huddled in groups chatting.

A bearded man in an army-surplus jacket sat on a folding chair. He was adjusting the pegs of an old acoustic guitar while a pair of women played the piano in a corner and sang a soft ballad.

A woman with short, purple-streaked hair, a red-and-lavender pantsuit, and ruby-and-black Doc Marten boots waved at us.

Her name tag read Misty, and her face lit up as she spotted the man standing beside me.

‘Judah, you gorgeous man,’ Misty said, tossing the notebook in her hand onto a nearby table and pulling him into a fierce hug. ‘The pantry shelves were empty and dismal till that wire transfer your business manager sent through yesterday saved our bacon.’

‘Good to hear, Misty,’ Jude rasped, gazing down at me. ‘This is Sofia. My wife. She’s the one I talked to you about. She’s willing to volunteer at The Sanctuary until her I-9 identity and work eligibility form comes through in a few weeks.’

Misty turned her attention to me, her brown eyes softening as she took my hand in a firm grip.

‘It’s an honor to meet you, Sofia. Your husband is far too modest ever to admit it. But half the staff salaries and three-quarters of the chow we feed a hundred people daily happens because of Six Sinners. They pour a good percentage of their earnings right back into this place.’

Is that right?’ I asked, still tingling from Jude’s public claiming of me as his wife.

‘They’re saints with guitars. They also volunteer on street teams and maintenance. In fact, Jude spent five weeks last winter rewiring our entire basement grid himself just so our residents wouldn’t freeze during the ice storm.’

I glanced up at my husband, my heart fluttering as a flush of crimson crept up his neck beneath his beard.

‘He keeps his good deeds quiet, signora.’

‘Please, call me Misty,’ she replied, gesturing for us to follow her past the bustling kitchen where two volunteers were chopping giant sacks of onions. ‘We don’t do titles here, and we don’t do stuffy protocols. We’re just a bunch of broken souls trying to extend a little unconditional love without tripping over our own feet. Now, let’s get you set up at your station.’

Misty led me into a bright, sunlit space at the back of the office block, where three desks sat, each piled high with intake folders and statutory compliance handbooks.

While Jude lounged in a stuffed chair nearby and scrolled through his phone, Misty took me through the role.

‘We’ll start you off volunteering as our new administrative assistant. Jude told me you’re qualified as a social worker?’

‘I have a degree from University of Milan, also referred to as La Statale. I speak Spanish as well as Italian.’

‘Excellent,’ she beamed. ‘Then you’ll focus on bridging the gap for the growing population of immigrant guests who arrived at the shelter seeking refuge, legal aid, or addiction recovery resources.’

I shot her a shy smile. ‘That’s fantastic, I think I’ll really understand their needs.’

‘I hope you do. Many of them have zero paperwork. They’re paralyzed by the fear of deportation, unable to advocate for themselves in a system that views them as statistics rather than human beings.’

We chatted until Jude surged from his seat with a jerk of his chin, with a rare wry smile.

‘Sounds like you two are right into it that you forgot all about me.’

‘Oh, you poor man,’ Misty teased. ‘How do you survive without attention?’

‘I’m a snowflake, I wither and die. Keep teasing me, and I’ll pull next month’s check,’ Jude faux-threatened.

The pair grinned as I studied them, awed at the prospect of starting a new job.

Also, at the handsome, tall, muscled man whom I still couldn’t believe I was married to.

He locked eyes with me, and I blushed at being caught staring.

‘I’ll love and leave you,’ Jude drawled. ‘Pick you at 5, babe?’