Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(52)

I lift my arm, so I can talk into the crook of my elbow. “I think so. My body aches and I'm so cold. I had a fever during the night.”

Lucia leans closer, and I shrink back. I do not want to be responsible for getting Isaac's mother sick. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really. I'm OK. I just need to rest.” She frowns, so I decide to try again. “I’ll eat some crackers after I take another nap. I promise.” I feel bad. Lucia doesn't need to waste her time here. I can get myself crackers, for goodness sake.

She stands. “You rest. I'll just clean up a little, and, when you wake up, I will bring you crackers.” She scoots from the room before I can tell her I can make do on my own.

Suddenly I'm very tired. Even that short conversation has exhausted me.

I hear the TV go on in the living room, but the sound doesn't bother me. I like knowing that beyond these walls, someone is out there who cares.



My second nap of the day is interrupted by something less gentle than Lucia's knock on my bedroom door.

A loud, tinny sound barges through my sleep and continues while I pull myself from my groggy state. It stops, and a few moments later, my door opens. Lucia's eyes open wide when she sees me awake.

“I hope my cooking didn't wake you.” She's wearing a green apron with flowers embroidered on the waist, just above the pockets.

“No, not at all.” I smile weakly through my fib.

“I made you something I always make Isaac and Lauren when they're sick. I'll be right back with it.”

She cooked for me. Something she makes for her own children. There's an odd feeling in my chest right now, and it's not related to my illness. It's heavy, but it's...happy.

Lucia comes back with a tray. I sit up, and she puts the tray across my lap. It has little legs that fold out so I don't have to balance it.

“Albondigas.” Lucia grins proudly.

“Excuse me?” I say, confused.

She laughs, the sound musical. “The soup. It's called albondigas. Mexican meatball soup, basically.”

The steam swirls up from the bowl, and I lean in, sniffing. “It smells like heaven.”

“Tastes like it too.”

Lucia's unabashed opinion of her own cooking makes me chuckle.

“What?” she asks, smiling, her hands lifting while her elbows stay at her waist. “I know how good it is.”

I take my first bite and oh, oh, oh it's what heaven must taste like. I look at Lucia and nod my approval, then spoon more into my mouth.

Like a proud mama bird, she sits carefully on the end of my bed and watches me eat. The bowl is half empty when she leans back on her hands and opens her mouth. She closes it, opens it again.

“How are you, Aubrey? Aside from this temporary sickness.”

I set my spoon on the tray and pick up the sparkling water. I take a long sip before I set it back down.

“I’m fine.” I'm always fine. Always.

Lucia eyes me. “Are you sure? You've been through a lot in the past month. If I were in your position, I don't think I'd be fine.”

I pick up the spoon and dip it into the bowl, picking up only the broth. I taste tomatoes, garlic, and onions, plus bits from the meatballs. I was wrong last night. This is the best thing I've ever had. The ice water doesn’t even come close.

I swallow and pick up more. Lucia watches me intently, waiting for me to answer her question. She's not like my dad. She won't accept my I'm fine.

With a full spoon suspended over the bowl, I say “Technically, I'm OK. I have Claire, her arm is healing, we have a beautiful place to live, and she's happy. There isn't much more to it than that.” I shrug, offering a small smile. I’m proud I can speak in long sentences again.

Lucia surveys me with shrewd eyes. “But what about you?”

“What about me? My job is to take care of Claire. And I'm doing that.”

She shakes her head. “Who takes care of you?”

“I don't need taking care of.” I learned that a very long time ago.

Lucia's face tells me just how much she disagrees with me. Her eyebrows rise and the corners of her mouth turn down.

I finish my soup and drink the water. The bubbles tickle my throat.

Lucia stands and takes the tray off my lap. She sets it on the nightstand and looks back at me. Her eyes are kind, but they're also concerned.

“Get some sleep.” She leans down and kisses my forehead. My stomach tenses when her lips brush my skin. The heavy and happy feeling is back.

She retrieves the tray, looking back at me. “You know, everyone needs taking care of.”

“Thank you for the soup.” I've just realized I hadn't yet thanked her.

But Lucia shakes her head slowly, like I didn't understand her. “People need more than soup.”

She leaves, and I lie down. I'm beat but my head is alive. Swirling and churning, conflicted feelings from a day spent being cared for by Isaac's mother. I'm a grown woman. I haven't needed anybody in a long time. I don't ask for help. I don't want it, and I've never thought I needed it.

Lucia came here today and didn't ask me what I needed. She knew. And it's clear she thinks I need more than soup.



I’m sick for three more days. Lucia comes every day to take care of me. She brings magazines to read with me and saltine crackers to munch on. I request her albondigas one more time. Isaac and Claire love the epicurean perks of living with an ill person. On the last day, when it’s clear I’m almost back to normal, I go for a walk with Lucia. The coffee shop a few streets over is our goal. They have homemade red velvet whoopie pies that are so delicious, I swear my taste buds cry when I eat one.