Like Sweet Potato Pie (25 page)

Now the puffs of green on the tree Adam mulched had long since shriveled and vanished, leaving bare twigs. A few remnants of tattered leaves lingered, as if clinging to crumbly memories.

A tap on the window startled me, and I quickly fumbled with my keys and grabbed my purse.

Carlos hugged himself in the cold, raising an eyebrow in a look that—from the time I’d spent with him—meant annoyance. “What is this, princesa?” he asked, gesturing to the Best Western lobby, which glowed golden in the murky evening. “I thought … I mean, I thought you said you …”

I didn’t hear the rest of what he said. “Is that a
Yomiuri Shimbun?
” I stared at the newspaper under his arm with longing, my eyes following the news columns of Japanese kanji characters. Newsprint and words and Japanese phrases that used to roll in my head like music.

“This?” He shook it. “You want it? I was going to throw it away. I can’t read those kanji anyway.”

“Please.” I reached out greedily, and Carlos dropped it in my hands. The annoyed look increasing to a line between his brows. “Whatever. But can’t we go to your place?”

“I changed my mind,” I said, avoiding his eyes as I ran my gloved fingers over the thick folds of newsprint. “I think you’ll be more comfortable here. They’ve got … uh … coffeemakers in the room, and I only have instant. And they don’t have a dog.”

“But I could have found this place myself.” He put two hands on either side of my cheeks in what I guessed was supposed to be a tender gesture. “It’s you I want to see. To talk to. I miss you.”

“Then talk.” I broke away from his gaze and strode toward the lobby. “And let’s get you checked in while you say whatever it is you came to say.”

The first person I saw when I pushed open the doors, Carlos trailing behind me in a sort of feet-dragging defiance, was none other than Shane Pendergrass. Leaning against the counter in full uniform, toothpick in his teeth, laughing and flirting with one of the front-desk clerks.

He spun around when I marched up to the counter, glancing from me to Carlos and back again. Eyebrows lifting until they almost touched his buzz cut. Even the young blond desk clerk—whose name tag read J
UDY
—turned to stare at me.

“Hi, Shane,” I finally said, lifting a hand in a friendly wave to cut the silence. “How’s it going?”

He shifted his weight and pushed himself taller, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m good, Shiloh. You?” The corner of his mouth still turned up in a smug grin of either contempt or curiosity at my obvious discomfort, or both. “Haven’t seen ya since our last date.” He leaned forward, emphasizing the last word.

“Date?” Carlos and I said at the same time, spinning around.

“It wasn’t a date.” My face blazed. “I told you that! It was … You made me … You …”

Judy coughed, obviously holding back laughter, and disappeared into the back.

“What’s that, Shiloh? Can’t hear ya.” Shane froze me with a merciless smile then looked over me at Carlos. “Hey, man, is she always like this?”

“Her? Pretty much,” Carlos muttered, shaking his head.

“Well, good luck.” Shane raised an eyebrow. “She’s a tough one.”

“Tell me about it.”

My cheeks pulsed livid red, and I turned my back on Shane. “Excuse me. I’ll just … How many nights again, Carlos?” I crossed my arms, shaking with fury.

I felt like an idiot standing there while Carlos hemmed and hawed, obviously uncomfortable. “Come on, princesa. I don’t want to stay here. Let me go with you.” His voice hushed, touched with that unique Spanish slur that smacked of sultry Argentina, of tangos and kisses. He pulled off his gloves and draped his arm over my shoulder. “Please.” He stroked a warm hand through my hair. “It’s you I came to see.”

I tried to pull away, aware of whispers between Shane and Judy, and also aware that Judy’s stares had shifted from me to Carlos. Who, yes, smelled heavenly, like cologne, coffee, and fresh wind. I took a step back to make sure his scent didn’t cloud my faculties.

“No, Carlos. I’m sorry.” I stood my ground. “You can stay here, or there’s a Hampton Inn on the other side of town, and—”

“Hampton Inn’s already booked fer the night,” Judy interjected a little too helpfully, flushing slightly as she smoothed her curling-iron-puffed bangs. Gaze still fixed on Carlos. “Ain’t nothin’ at the Holiday Inn neither.”

“Look … all right. All right.” Carlos put his palms up. “One night. Okay?” He nodded at Judy. “No smoking, please. I can’t stand smoke.”

“You’re leaving tomorrow?” I whispered, keeping my back to Shane and pulling Carlos out of Judy’s nosy earshot.

“No. I … just want us to talk, and then we can decide where I stay. All right? It’s important to me, amor.” He gestured to his heart. “Just do this for me, please? It’ll be like old times. You’ll see.”

“Do what for you?”

Judy put her hand out for Carlos’s credit card, her fingers trembling slightly as she sneaked glances at him, color rising in her cheeks. Carlos sighed and fished it from his black leather wallet, his eyes piercing me with a pained, suffering gaze.

Shane’s shoulders shook as he turned away with poorly concealed laughter.

As soon as Carlos accepted his key, he put his hand on my shoulder and steered me gently toward the elevator. But for once in my life, even under Carlos’s spell, I didn’t move.

“Let’s go,
linda.
Aren’t you coming?” His dark brows flicked irritation. “What’s wrong? I thought …”

“It’s late, Carlos. I’ve been on the clock since eight this morning. I’m tired. I need to go home.” I rubbed my eyes, aware that Shane and Judy were still watching us, heads tipped toward each other at the front desk. “We can talk tomorrow.”

“Amor.” Carlos actually sounded angry, flinging down his arms. “I came all this way. I need to talk now.”

I sighed, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling. “Fine.” I crossed my arms, remembering—against my will—Adam standing there stubbornly on my front porch after nightfall, reminding me that Churchville was a small, small town. “Then we’ll do it in the lobby.”

“In the lobby?” Carlos’s eyes flashed dark-brown fire. “Why are you going all prudish on me? This isn’t the 1950s. You didn’t used to be so … stiff.” He waved his hands.

I flinched, aware that he’d slapped me with the exact same adjective Shane used to describe Adam.

“Yeah, well, things are different. I’m different. Don’t you get it?” I raised my voice just a touch, irritated. “I’ll wait for you over there at that table.” I started to stride past him, my precious
Yomiuri Shimbun
cradled under my arm.

Carlos’s lip curled in mild derision. “Amor. You are not so different as you think you are.” His words came staccato and soft, piercing through every single layer of hurt, anger, and defensiveness I’d wrapped around my heart. So powerful that I paused in midstep, purse still swinging.

I turned back, one glance at his familiar face taking me back months. Years. To a time when nothing mattered except my own life, my own dreams. No need for religion or rules or clipping coupons.

“But for you, I’ll do this.” Carlos didn’t smile. He put his hand on my shoulder and accompanied me over to the sofas gathered around a too-shiny coffee table, which the hotel staff had topped with ugly pink silk flowers and an advertisement for Doug’s Cable TV and Satellite Dishes.

My watch showed nearly three in the morning when I finally pulled out of the Best Western parking lot, Carlos’s muscular physique cutting an angular shape against the golden glow of the lobby window.

I switched between noisy music and talk-radio stations to keep myself awake then finally cut the sound altogether and drove in silence. Trying to push Carlos’s tears out of my mind. His apologies. His promises to love me, if only I would let him.

And my promise to meet him again tomorrow when I got off work.

My eyes shifted over to the folded
Yomiuri Shimbun
on my passenger’s seat, its black-and-white lines barely visible in the passing streetlights. Each kanji character crying out mystery. Adventure. Life beyond deer hunting and NASCAR and processed Cheez Whiz in a spray can.

I thought of my stained Green Tree apron and felt exhaustion tugging at my already strained back.

I stopped at a red light, mind wandering to the Greek-style fish tile Adam had given me. Reminding me of multiplied miracles and a miraculous catch. Jesus’ promise not to give a snake if I asked for a fish.

Could Carlos really have come all the way here just for me?

My brow wrinkled, uneasy, and I leaned the side of my head against my hand, my elbow resting on the window ledge. Recalling fragments from Sunday school and sermons:
“Do not be unequally yoked with unbelievers… . Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not unto your own understanding… . Wait for the Lord, and He will deliver you… .”

Wait … wait … wait …

I was sick of waiting.

Why in the world did Jesus make things so hard? If you read some of the gospel tracts out there, you’d think utopia dawned the moment you said yes—and everything after that swirled in butterflies and roses.

Ha! I got nettles and wasps.

The light turned green. I whispered another prayer, feeling as empty as the darkened Staunton streets around me.

A
s it turned out, that gas station check was the last I’d write in a long, long time. When I dug in my mailbox back at home, eyes bleary from too-little sleep and mind racing into frantic dreams, there it lay: the warning letter from the IRS, giving me ten days before slapping a lien on my bank account. Since I had no stocks, no investments, and none of the thousands they wanted in back taxes.

Well, help yourselves
, I thought, sucking back tears.
There might be enough in there to buy a cup of coffee.

I thought of calling Tim the accountant and begging him for help, but he and Becky’d helped me already—both financially and with advice. I was sick of whining, sick of people’s pity.

As I tossed and turned and tried unsuccessfully to sleep, I peeked out my bedroom curtains to find snow falling—an unexpected snow that surprised all the local weather commentators. Flakes sifting down over the brown and rust-colored land, gathering in hollows on tree trunks and in the curves of fallen leaves like my silent thoughts. Covering my front lawn with a thin coverlet of white, grass blades poking through.

But nothing felt calm in my heart as I prepared myself for tomorrow’s talk with Carlos. I could see my car turning into the Best Western parking lot, the tall lights dimmed by flickering dots of snow shadows, and my heart stuck in my throat.

“Where have you been, amor?” Carlos demanded, standing up from the sofa, tossing the magazine back on the coffee table. “You’re late. You said you’d be here at seven. I … Hold on.” His cell phone jingled in his pocket, and he turned his back to me, waving his arms as he spoke in Spanish. Work stuff, I figured.

I cradled my injured hand in my other gloved one, still too tender to try to stuff it even into a mitten, and eased into the sofa. Grateful to rest my tired toes, which really hurt. Especially after I dropped a heavy serving bowl on my left foot.