Preston's Honor(31)

We were both adults now. What would happen if it were just the two of us here in Linmoor and Cole was off living his own life? If we had time . . . space . . . opportunity?

“I’ll give it some time. Nothing needs to be decided immediately.” He paused for a moment. “You’ve never questioned it, have you? Moving back here, running the farm.”

“No.”

We were both quiet for a few minutes before Cole pointed up at the ceiling. “Remember that time I convinced you those cracks in the corner were a family of spiders?”

I smiled. “Yeah. Mom and Dad were fighting and I didn’t want to go downstairs, but I didn’t want to fall asleep and have the spiders land on me either. I stayed up for hours after you’d fallen asleep watching them before it occurred to me that even spiders needed to stretch their legs now and again.”

Cole laughed softly. “That was mean. I’ve played a lot of tricks on you in my life. Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” But I smiled at the memory anyway. “Nothing that did lasting harm, I guess. Although I do still have a slight spider phobia.” Cole chuckled again and so did I.

My brother and I had lain awake together in this room telling stories since the time we could talk. Even when we’d turned thirteen and Cole had decided to move down the hall to his own room, most mornings I’d woken up to find him snoring in the bed that had always been his.

“How’s it gonna be living with Mom?”

I sighed. “I don’t know. Better maybe.” Now that she didn’t have Dad to fight with constantly didn’t need to be said. Cole would know what I meant.

“Yeah, maybe. We can only hope, right?”

I distantly heard my mom’s voice calling our names downstairs and looked over at Cole at the same time he looked over at me. “Duty calls,” he whispered.

I grinned as I sat up. I could have lain there for the rest of the day, enjoying the cool air and the peaceful quiet of our childhood bedroom, but Cole was right. Duty called.





CHAPTER EIGHT


Annalia



The Thursday morning breakfast crowd was just beginning to dwindle, and I was taking the few minutes I had between tables to wipe down and refill the syrup bottles. It’d been an unusually busy morning, and I was glad because any extra tip money was always welcomed.

I’d like to get rid of the cable bill we’d taken on, but my mama sat in front of that used TV watching the Spanish channel most of the day, and I felt guilty to think of her with absolutely nothing to do. I tried to encourage her to get out and do the grocery shopping, or even take a short walk, but she didn’t show any interest.

I worried about her. Although she’d never been a particularly happy person, I’d watched her slide slowly into deeper depression since she’d ceased working. But at the same time, I couldn’t allow her to live in a constant state of physical pain if I could prevent it. She rarely complained about her back anymore and I took a small measure of pride in that. We still weren’t close, but when we’d moved, she hadn’t set up her shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe. I’d hesitantly asked her why but she’d only shrugged. Although I knew it might mean she’d given up all hope of her prayers being answered, I still breathed a sigh of relief. After all, her “prayers” had done nothing but hurt me, and there was no way to turn back the clock and undo what had already been done—Our Lady of Guadalupe could probably create many miracles, but the reversal of time wasn’t one of them as far as I’d ever heard. And if she had an in with God, she hadn’t used it on my mama’s behalf.

I thought back to the days my mama had worked on the farms and remembered how much happier she’d seemed, despite the hard labor. And I, too, had loved being among people who spoke my mother tongue, who told jokes in Spanish and called me endearments their mothers might have called them: peque?a, little one, florecita, little flower, mu?equita, baby doll. And though we’d all been poor and desperate, living in such a limited world, I’d felt beloved among them. I’d felt a shared community and kinship that I’d never felt since. And I’d known my mama felt the same way. I’d loved watching her smile as she chatted with the other women who worked beside her.

I was so involved in my own thoughts, my mind lost in the fields of strawberries and lettuce and tomatoes, I didn’t see Preston and Cole walk in until they were standing in front of me where I was behind the front counter, a syrup bottle in one hand and a warm, wet cloth in the other.

“We heard you serve a mean stack of pancakes here,” I heard drawled in a familiar voice. My head rose quickly, my eyes widening, and a smile breaking out on my face to see Cole leaning on the counter in front of me. Preston was standing behind him, his hands in his pockets, and I let out a small gasp, putting the syrup bottle and rag down on the counter and rushing around it.

“There’s my girl,” Cole said as he scooped me up in his arms, laughing as he planted his lips on mine. I laughed against his mouth at the unexpected kiss, squeezing him back. Over his shoulder, Preston looked away. I didn’t miss the flash of hurt that moved over his face and I felt suddenly awkward. I had greeted Preston with a physical show of affection, too, but I hadn’t expressed it with such exuberance. Of course, the situation had been different—I’d just been made to feel like garbage by his grieving mother. Dirty. Less. And not only that, but my feelings for Preston had always been different: deeper, more intense, desperate even. My love for Cole was easier and less complicated. We’d always been able to pick right up where we left off. With Preston, that was more difficult because I felt as if every system inside of me was racing just at his nearness.