Island Affair (Keys to Love #1)(62)
A retired firefighter who used to work with Carlos stepped into their pew. The two men struck up a conversation and Luis’s papi joined. While Mami chatted with Gina and reminded Luis’s nephews to walk, not run, he moved to the open side door facing the Grotto. Hands deep in the pockets of his dress pants, he leaned a shoulder against the shutter door and waited.
Parishioners of all ages strolled by. Se?or and Se?ora Hernán-dez, longtime friends of his parents, waved hello. A friend from high school, his arms filled with a crying toddler, sent a chin jut greeting Luis’s way. Finally, Sara stepped into view.
She walked through the grass to the Grotto’s entrance, where she smiled a greeting to an older lady whose shoulders stooped with age. A black lace mantilla covered the woman’s curled bob of white hair and she clutched a string of rosary beads in her wrinkled hands. They exchanged words; then Sara grasped the other woman’s right elbow and helped her to one of the concrete benches, gently lowering the elderly woman to her seat.
“Isn’t that your blonde from Friday night?”
Luis ignored Enrique’s question.
Enrique didn’t take the hint or deliberately chose to be a pain in the ass, because he brushed past Luis to stand on the sidewalk outside. He followed Luis’s gaze to the Grotto, where Sara stood, head bowed as if in prayer.
“She seemed pretty friendly. Someone you might bring to familia dinner anytime soon, or is it not like that?”
“Drop it,” Luis grumbled.
He didn’t want to talk about Sara with his brother. Not when the last woman they’d discussed had ripped Luis’s heart out. With Enrique’s silent help.
“Oye, estúpido, I’m trying here,” Enrique groused. He swatted at Luis’s shoulder with a sharp punch. “Give me a damn break!”
“Ooooh, Tío Enrique said the word stuuu-pid!” seven-year-old José singsonged as he and Luis’s younger nephew burst through the opening.
“Don’t let Abuela hear you,” little Ramón cautioned. “She’ll give you the chancleta!”
The two boys howled with laughter at the thought of their abuela swatting their brawny uncle with her slipper.
“Hey, we’re gonna have a donut-eating contest before our mami shows up. Wanna join us?” José asked, hopping from one foot to the other like he was already hyped up on sugar.
“I’m in,” Enrique said. He shot Luis a whatever scowl, then trailed behind their nephews, who were already racing toward the sweets in the adjacent building.
So much for their abuela’s walk-don’t-run reminder.
Blowing off his brother’s sour disposition, Luis remained by the door. He scanned the open area between the church and school, his gaze continually drawn back to Sara. Eventually the rest of his familia scooped him up in their chattering midst, ushering him along to the Fellowship Hall.
By the time they arrived, five-year-old Ramón was complaining of a stomachache and Luis’s sister-in-law, Gina, rushed him to the bathroom.
Luis made the rounds among his relatives—some by blood, others by choice. Asking about grandkids, fist-bumping a teen cousin who had finally worked up the courage to ask a girl out, high-fiving others excited about end-of-the-school-year events, and commiserating with a high school buddy over a lost job. You name it, very little was kept secret when it came to their community. Including the news about his mandated time away from the station and the concerns for how he was handling the mental and emotional stress after the horrific car accident.
Some people promised to pray for him. Others doled out advice. Se?ora Gomez even offered to set him up with a niece from Tampa who was “perfect” for him. Like a blind date would solve the problems he’d been running from for the last few weeks. For the past six years if he was honest with himself.
By the time Luis made it back to the foldable gray picnic table where his parents, Carlos, Gina, and the boys sat, his jaw ached from the tight grip he kept on the mind-your-own-business response ready to spring from his mouth. His smile had grown forced. His usual patience with the nosiness of island life worn thin.
Feeling like a caged shark, he dragged a metal folding chair away from the table, noting that Enrique had already managed to give the place the slip. Smart move.
“Mijo, you haven’t been by the house since yesterday morning,” his mother complained. “?Estás bien?”
She sipped her café con leche, her dark brown eyes assessing him over the rim of her Styrofoam cup. Everyone at the table understood the prying subtext in her question. Luis should have been on shift today, like Anamaría. This type of departmental reprimand, a step shy of going on his record, had never been handed down to a Navarro. Not in all the decades one of them had served on the KWFD. Not even to Enrique, who craved the adrenaline high of pushing himself, along with his captain’s patience, to the limit.
“I’m good,” he grumbled, chafing at the question he’d fielded multiple times already this morning.
“How are you planning to fill your free time? You know there’s always help needed around St. Mary’s,” she noted.
“I told him to make himself useful and take the Fired Up out on the Atlantic. Catch us all some fresh mahi,” Carlos chimed in from the other end of the table. “Pero he hasn’t listened to me yet.”