Preston's Honor(57)

I sat down in a chair, and she pulled one up right next to me. I turned toward her and she took my hands in hers, squeezing them as she offered a smile. “Oh, Lia. Tell me what’s going on.”

I sucked in a huge gulp of air, trying hard not to cry. I couldn’t help the wave of emotion her gentleness brought on after I’d been so afraid she was going to be angry and tell me to leave.

I was already on shaky ground after Preston being in the restaurant on a date—a date with the woman who took care of my son, which somehow made it all the worse. Not only did she have Preston, but she spent each day with my baby, too, and the jealousy and pain I felt had wrenched my heart and made it difficult to draw a full breath.

And then Alicia had shown up and asked for another server. I’d overheard one of the busboys telling another the reason why and wanted to die of humiliation. And then she’d tripped me. For a minute I was the same insecure, shame-filled girl I’d been in high school, and I’d just wanted to lie on the floor and cry.

Before I could answer, Rosa frowned at my shirt. I glanced down, seeing the smears and stains and feeling embarrassment all over again.

“Isn’t your name spelled with two n’s?”

“What?”

“Your nametag. Your name is spelled incorrectly.”

“Oh. I . . . yes. It’s not a big deal. I didn’t want to make a fuss,” I murmured.

“Oh, Annalia.” Rosa stared at me for a moment, an intensity growing in her eyes that I wasn’t sure I understood. She let go of my hands and grabbed my upper arms, shaking me slightly. “Make a fuss, mi amor,” she said with such conviction I could only stare back. “Make a fuss. Okay?” She suddenly stood, startling me again. “Come on. I’m going home for dinner with my boys and you’re coming with me.”

“I . . . dinner? Oh, you don’t—”

“Meet me at the back door. We’ll take my car and I’ll drop you back off at yours later.”

It seemed as if she wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and the truth was, I didn’t want to be alone tonight, not when the anguish of seeing that Preston had moved on had been right in front of me. Even now, it felt like a weeping wound. It had been six months since I’d been held by Preston. I shouldn’t feel so raw. He’d moved on. He’d. Moved. On. But it did. Oh, it did. And so I stood and nodded, thankful for a listening, sympathetic ear that had somehow softened the desolate pain in my heart. And thankful I wouldn’t have to face Preston and Tracie again tonight.

She scooted me out of her office, and I went to get my sweater and purse from my locker and met her at the back door a few minutes later. As Raul was passing by, I called to him. “Raul, thank you. For what you did. Thank you for that.”

Raul winked at me. “We’ve got each other’s backs around here, Annalia. Next time I slip and fall, I know you’ll be there for me.”

I let out a relieved breath. “Yes. I hope I don’t have to be.” I smiled. “But, yes.”

He smiled back and walked away, off to deliver a tray of food to a table.

Fifteen minutes later we were pulling into the driveway of a tidy-looking house in a residential neighborhood in Linmoor. The house itself was small and relatively modest, but the paint was fresh and new and the front yard was beautifully landscaped with a gorgeous, vining, deep-pink flower arched over the doorway. It was clearly a home that was well loved. Something I’d only ever dreamed of.

The sun was only a glimmer on the horizon, but I was glad we’d arrived here when we had and I was able to see the yard in the last vestiges of evening light. It charmed me and made me feel just a bit lighter somehow.

“Your yard is so beautiful,” I said as we walked up the flagstone path. I admired the vibrant colors, leaning toward the lilac bush that was heavy with purple blooms and inhaling its sweet perfume.

“Oh, thank you. It broke my heart when I couldn’t water them last year. But . . . so many lost their farms, their businesses, I can hardly complain. And luckily, many of my plants came back.” She smiled. “We still collect our shower water and use it in the watering cans. Good habits, I suppose, even now that the drought is over.”

“Yes,” I agreed as she opened the door. We’d all learned habits that would be hard to break—and maybe shouldn’t anyway.

I pictured Sawyer Farm and how ravaged it had once looked, envisioned Preston’s drawn, weary face as he came through the back kitchen door day after day, looking exhausted and half dead. Most evenings he’d eaten and gone straight to bed. In the beginning I’d been glad for it, glad he was sleeping, glad he could shut out his grief for a little while. And even after the baby had come, I’d tried so hard to understand . . . tried to be patient . . . tried to put my own needs aside, hoping, hoping that despite everything he’d grow to love me . . .

He’d wanted me once, and I’d clung to that small hope.

“Joaquín, Alonso, Diego,” Rosa called as I followed her inside and she shut the door behind us. A big, black dog appeared, and Rosa made a clicking sound. “You’ve been on the sofa, haven’t you, you big, naughty beast.” If dogs could smile, this one did. Grin might be a better descriptor.

A boy who looked to be about twelve came down the stairs and greeted Rosa. Following closely behind him were two handsome older teenagers who both gave me shy smiles and kissed Rosa on her cheek. Rosa introduced them to me. Diego was the youngest and Joaquín, who looked about eighteen, the oldest.