After All These Years (22 page)

“Tony!”

“Best way to tell. Okay, woman, drain it!”

They bustled around the kitchen, setting the small table with seafood pasta, salad, and garlic bread. He lowered the volume of the music and pulled out a chair for her. “
Señorita
.”

“
Gracias
.” After he sat down, Isabel bowed her head.

“Izzy, you can pray out loud.”

In all their meals together, she hadn't done so yet. She peered at him.

“Research.” His tone didn't mock. He bowed his head. “Just pray like you always do, as if I'm not listening.”

O Lord!
“Jesus, thank You for the abundance of food that You've provided. Thank You for Tony's friendship. And like
I always pray,” she smiled, “let him see and hear You in me. Draw him into Your kingdom. Amen.”

“Amen. Smiling is allowed during prayer?”

She winked at him. “Peeking is, too. Thanks for grocery shopping and cooking.”

“It's the least I could do, considering how you're putting up with me.” His sincerity surprised her. “Nice salad.”

“Thanks.” She watched him eat for a moment. He was different tonight somehow. Distant. “Tony, what's wrong?”

“Why would you ask that? I'm working on a major story and hanging out with my old girlfriend. Life is good.”

“You're a big-city guy stuck in Valley Oaks. You love football, but you've brought a video to watch instead. You probably have a string of gorgeous women who would spend the entire night with you, but you're here with Miss Prude. Great pasta, by the way.”

“Thanks. Number one, the story is in Valley Oaks. Number two, I won't be here next Monday night. Football will be wherever I am. Number three…” He paused. “I don't and you're not Miss Prude. You're an adorable young woman with convictions. I don't agree with them, but I respect you for having them.”

She smiled. “Definite progress. What's the video?”

“It's called
American Dreamer,
and it's about writing fiction and winning contests and falling in love in Paris. Speaking of dreams, is this what you want?”

“What do you mean by ‘this'?”

“Doing what you're doing.”

“I love what I do.”

“But when you were younger, what did you dream about doing?”

Isabel set down her fork and glanced around her cozy kitchen. She did love this little place. She loved her job and her coworkers. But…her dream? “I forget.”

“My guess is it had to do with writing. You were in journalism. You wanted to…” He gestured for her to fill in the blank.

And it came to her. “Be a columnist. I wanted to invade people's lives with my wit and insight and
change
them.” She grinned.

“So why aren't you? What happened? Christianity get in the way?”

“No. You—” She pressed her lips together.

“I? I what?”

Oh, I'm going to regret this!
“You did.”

“
I
did? How's that?”

“What I mean is,” she slowed her speech, keeping her tone flippant, “life was never the same after you. You swept me off my feet. I don't know. When I picked myself up again, I wasn't thinking anymore about changing the world through writing a column. So what about you? Are you living your dream?”

“Soon as I win the Pulitzer. Back up, Izzy. What were you thinking when you picked yourself up again?”

No.
She
wasn't
going to tell him. It was none of his business. “That life was difficult and maybe I'd just take it one step at a time.”

“Did you become a Christian at that time?”

“A little later.”

“And is that when you tucked yourself away here, sheltered from the slings and arrows of the real world?”

“Tony, you're attacking now.”

“I apologize. Do you still want to write?”

“I…I don't know. More salad?”

Tony let the subject shift. The evening's mood lightened as they cleaned the kitchen together. Isabel tried not to notice how well they worked alongside each other, how quickly the task was finished.

He dried his hands, surveying the room. “All right, my dear. Put away that last pot and then close your eyes.”

“
Now
do I get dessert?”

“Only if you close your eyes.”

She leaned against the counter and shut her eyes. “It must be smaller than a bread box because you've carried it in your jacket pocket.”

“Clever girl. All right, open your eyes.”

He held a wrapped chocolate bar in front of her face. Caramel. Milk chocolate. Cadbury. “You remembered!” she blurted.

He grinned in his lopsided way. “Of course. I always remember insignificant details. It's your name I couldn't get right.”

She stared at it. His remembering pierced her heart, transfixing her.

“Iz, you can have the whole thing. I've got my own.”

She thought of the way he used to tuck chocolate into odd places, like her book bag or a kitchen drawer, little surprises for her to find. Long after they had gone their separate ways, she discovered one in the side pocket of a suitcase.

Tony lowered the candy. “I suppose it's a religious thing and you can't have any.”

“What?”

“You've probably given up videos and chocolate.” He looked like a little boy who had just lost the ball game on his third strike.

She grabbed the chocolate bar from his hand and slid her arms around his neck. “No, silly. Videos and chocolate are no problem. I told you loving Jesus isn't about keeping rules. It's just that you remembered my favorite, after all these years!” Her smile faded when their eyes met. When he placed his hands round her waist, she didn't budge.

His kiss was a feather touch on her lips. It was the most natural moment…but it shouldn't have been. It was as if she had traveled a great distance and just arrived home…but it shouldn't have felt like that.

Tony reached behind his neck and unhooked her hands. “Sorry,” he whispered, “didn't mean to do that. Forgive me?”

“I…I, mmm, I think you warned me once.”

“That's right, I did.” He held her hands against his chest, the candy bar clutched in her fist. “Izzy, when did you start feeling guilty about our living together? Did Christianity do that?”

Why was he talking about this? “The Bible says it's wrong.”

“So your answer is yes. But there's forgiveness, right? For the past, present, and future?”

She nodded.

“And when you tell God you're sorry, then you're forgiven and the guilt goes away?”

Again she nodded.

“Then why is it you still feel guilty about it?”

“I don't still—” Tears welled in her eyes and a sob choked off her words. In that instant, she knew what he said was true. She had confessed over and over, not just the living together, but all of it. Still the guilt hung like a necklace of millstones. She knew it, she just chose to ignore it. Most of the time she disguised it well from herself and others.

Then Tony had come, the investigative journalist searching and searching, digging for the real God, pressing her for answers, for authenticity. He had glimpsed behind her mask and now relentlessly peeled away its layers.

Tony held her until the sobs lessened.

Evidently he had hit a nerve. Again.

Dinner churned in his stomach. He hoped the antacids were still in his jacket.

“Izzy? I'm sorry.”

Pushing herself back from his chest, she shook her head. “Truth hurts. Not your fault.”

She was so beautiful, with her mussed hair, heart-shaped face damp with tears, and wide mouth. Half of her lower lip slipped inward. He knew she was biting it. He remembered the mannerism… whenever she was upset…

The memories bombarded him tonight. He remembered he had been consumed by her that last semester at school. The wild imaginings of a future together had terrified him then, sent him racing off to Australia and then Chicago with never even a cursory reading of alumni newsletters. She was history. He so meticulously buried her in his subconscious, he hadn't even remembered her name.

A new realization dawned on him. No other female had come near to captivating him in the way she had. And now she was a woman, more alluring than ever, in spite of her religion. Or maybe because of it.

“Izzy, I'm leaving.” He touched her cheek and kissed her forehead.

The raw sienna of her eyes glistened knowingly. She understood. If he stayed, he would more than likely regret his actions.

Tony returned to his tiny furnished apartment down the street and hurriedly packed a bag. It was still early. He could be in Chicago by 10:30.

He couldn't shake the pall that had settled over him after leaving Brady's place yesterday…after asking about Nicole. Whether it was a journalist's intuition or a simple need to put a hundred miles between himself and Isabel Mendoza, he didn't know. All he knew was that the story was on hold for the moment. Back, back burner.

He grabbed a novel from the nightstand, then paused, his hand in midair. Beneath the thriller lay Brady's books. He hadn't cracked one open yet. He really balked at the idea of reading historical fiction with Jesus Christ as the superhero.

It wasn't like him to disregard research for a story. Background was what gave his work depth. What was the problem here?

Izzy came to mind, as she too often did. Her lovely face, her musical voice.

“Tony, it's a supernatural thing. You can't explain it in strictly human terms or from a human perspective. No way can you understand it. God is here, right now. And evil is in this world, right now, fighting in unimaginable ways to undermine His love.”

To read or not to read. Was this a struggle between good and evil? That sounded ridiculous. He could make his own decisions. The intelligent thing to do was to read the silly books. He would even ask Brady for a peek at the fourth manuscript. He'd show God and the devil exactly who was in charge.

Now he was talking to them?

He picked up the top one. It slid from his grip and fell to the floor. He knelt to retrieve it, bumping the other two. They thudded against the carpet. He gathered them, then hit his head against the nightstand.

Tony tossed the books at his duffel bag, a rare curse flying with them.

Lia's hands shook uncontrollably. She gripped the steering wheel more tightly and stared at the parsonage, an old, pretty, two-story white frame with forest green shutters. Celeste Eaton was hosting tonight's book club meeting. Club NEDD…nurture, eat, dabble in book discussion. Lia had skipped dinner, but she did not want to eat. She had read the book, but she did not want to discuss it. What she wanted desperately was to be
nurtured
.

Well, she would just stay late again until she found a private moment with Celeste. That would mean paying more for the baby-sitter, another wanton expenditure of money budgeted for more important items.

No, this was a more important item. Chloe needed to stay home and get to bed at a decent hour. Chelsea Chandler, Addie's daughter, was 16 and had driven herself over. She needed the job, and Lia needed the time away.

Oh, Lord, what do I do?

Minutes before Chelsea's arrival, Nelson had called, this time on the apartment's private line.

“Lia, don't hang up.” The strong voice with its authoritative tone was easily recognizable.

“How did you get this number?”

“Chloe gave it to me.”

Chloe?!

“Lia, she called me yesterday. She's my daughter. I loved your sister.”

“And what does your
wife
think?”

“She's come to terms with it. We both want to see Chloe. And Chloe wants to see me.”

“Kathy wouldn't want it!”

“Kathy's not here.”

“No! I won't allow it!”

“Lia, biological fathers have rights. I'll go to court.”