Preston's Honor(90)

“Yes. And the mother of my son. And, uh, I hope my wife. Someday very soon.”

She nodded. “Uh-huh. Sounds like you did things a bit backwards.” Understatement of the year.

“Umm, yes, ma’am.”

“Well, you go on home now. And don’t let me catch you up here again, unless all your clothes are on.” I grimaced and noticed another small quirk of her lip before her face became stern again.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turned and went back to the police cruiser parked a little ways away—the one I hadn’t even heard arrive—and got inside. I climbed back into the truck and started the ignition, staring ahead for a moment before glancing at Lia. She was looking straight ahead too, biting her lip, and obviously trying not to laugh.

A small chuckle escaped my throat, and she looked at me and we both cracked up. I leaned my head back on the seat, getting control of my hilarity and pulling my seatbelt on.

Lia did the same, and as we drove down the hill and out of the park, she turned to me, a smile on her lips. “Your girlfriend?”

I grabbed her hand. “Yes. Is that . . . I mean, will you?”

“Go steady with you?” She grinned.

“Yeah.”

She leaned her head back on the seat, too, looking so pretty, all I wanted to do was stare at her, but I was driving so I forced my eyes back on the road. “Yes, Preston. I’ll go steady with you.” She grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

I laughed. I’d loved starting over, but maybe we needed to speed things up just a little bit.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


Annalia



“It smells incredible in here already.”

“Oh, thank you, mi amor. Will you grab me another large spoon?” Rosa asked, shooting me a sweet smile.

The Sawyer kitchen was bustling with activity, the savory smell of grilled chicken and pork combined with the spicy richness of red chili sauce filling the air, even though the windows were wide open to provide a cooling breeze to the room.

Corn husks soaked in water in the two farmhouse sinks and several Dutch ovens with steamer baskets were on stove burners, awaiting the assembled tamales.

Rosa was at the helm, watching over the cooking meat and stirring the sauce, while her parents, Juan (Abuelo himself) and Lupe, sat in chairs near the window. They’d all arrived only an hour before and set up operation.

My mother had come with me, too, even though I’d had to practically drag her out by force. But I had taken Rosa’s advice to heart—my mother needed community. I couldn’t force it forever, but I could lead her to it and hope it would feel good enough, that she’d seek it out herself at some point. She wasn’t even forty years old.

My mother and I had never been close, but I didn’t want to see her withering away in depression. I’d experienced some of that myself and knew the hopeless misery of it. She sat alone at the far end of the table, but I watched her eyes move from one person to another as they spoke Spanish, and I thought I’d even seen a small smile twitch her lips once or twice.

How isolating it must be, not understanding the language spoken around you for years and years. Like being in your own lonely bubble. I’d always tried to bridge the gap, but it hadn’t been enough, and I had been ashamed of that. But I thought now that it had been too big a job for one person—one small girl—and one who felt unloved at that.

In a sense my mama was right. It had been a devil who had placed me in her womb. Such horrific trauma to experience a husband’s death and then to be raped—an unthinkable violation first of the soul and then of the body. She had been so alone, so bereft, so isolated. In her mind, I was the eyes, hands, and product of the devil. Maybe she had needed something to hold on to—anything, even enmity—in order to stay sane. Finally, it had come to define her. But it no longer defined me. Standing there in the middle of a bustling, fragrant kitchen, I realized that I, too, had experienced a tiny semblance of that vulnerable, aching loneliness and desperation and, though she had hurt me, I could forgive her. It may never bring reconciliation between us, but my heart could know peace.

Preston came downstairs and was introduced to everyone, and they all gave him warm welcomes, fawning over how handsome he was and how much Hudson looked like him in rapidly spoken Spanish that I knew he understood little, if any, of. They switched to English when I told them he didn’t speak Spanish, but they spoke just as quickly and with just as much enthusiasm in any language and Preston continued to look slightly unbalanced.

Rosa asked him to taste test a piece of pork to see if the seasoning tasted right and he did so, his eyes glazing over. I laughed at the look of pure pleasure on his face.

Abuela Lupe smiled prettily at him and told him if she was twenty years younger, she’d toss old Juan aside. Juan clicked his tongue and told her he was going to toss something of hers later when they were alone, and she giggled like a schoolgirl, putting her wrinkled hand over her mouth, pretending to hide her amusement as Juan grinned and nodded like a proud peacock.

Preston blushed, looking sort of awestruck and mildly panic-stricken by the loud, boisterous, affectionate crowd, and escaped through the back door to work.

Rosa and Alejandro’s boys had come along to help unload all the food and then help load it back up when needed. Now that the cooking was underway, they were in the backyard with water guns, apparently having some kind of war.