Strangely, her assertion didn’t sit well with him. Though he didn’t have the time to ask himself why that would be.
Then she had disappeared in the sea of parishioners heading into mass.
The clap of cushioned kneelers hitting the stone floor signaled the time for the consecration, and Luis knelt with everyone, his gaze straying to his right through the open shutter door leading to the grounds. Sara had mentioned visiting the well-known Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes while she waited for him after mass. Apparently, the Grotto reminded her of an outdoor rosary garden at Mamá Alicia’s old church. Sara planned to pray a decade of the rosary in honor of her beloved nanny. Forgoing donuts and fellowship with his familia to join Sara held more appeal than was wise.
He refused to ponder that truth. Instead, Luis closed his eyes in search of the peace he sought here.
With the wide doors spaced every few feet along both sides of the building open, the muted sound of passing cars and mopeds drifted in, occasionally mixing with the choir voices and organ music. Every so often the ocean breeze blew through, providing much-appreciated cross ventilation.
For someone like Luis, who often itched to be outside, the openness of St. Mary’s spoke to him. The nave and sanctuary’s neutral ivory and white walls, the round arches and thin columns separating the pews from the side aisles, and the natural light illuminating the stained-glass windows above each door generated an aura that blended the outdoors with the tranquility found within.
Carlos and his family sat in the pew in front of Luis, his parents, and Enrique. At ages seven and five, Carlos’s boys reminded Luis of when he and his brothers had snickered at each other’s silly antics during mass. Similar to Luis and his siblings, José and Ramón had both parents and their abuelos keeping them in line. With extra help from the occasional Spanish fan tap on the head from their abuela and mami if necessary.
This church had witnessed many rites of passage for Luis’s familia, starting with his parents’ wedding, then, years later, Carlos and Gina’s. Every Navarro kid in Luis’s and the younger generation had been baptized on that altar, by Father Miguel.
First Communions, confirmations, funerals.
Every spot Luis’s gaze fell upon in St. Mary’s and the lush grounds outside evoked one memory or another. Mostly good ones. Some that may have sucked at the time but made him smile when the Navarros reminisced.
Like the time some punk had teased Anamaría about the crooked bangs she’d cut herself that morning. Luis had found her out in the Grotto, crying. At age six, she’d had the bright idea to play beauty shop before Sunday mass, even though Mami had said she would give her a trim that afternoon.
To teach her impatient daughter a lesson, Mami had made Anamaría attend mass with her bangs sheared in a crooked line halfway up her forehead. She looked like one of the Three Stooges, which made Anamaría a prime target for teasing. After mass, Luis had found her in the Grotto, crying. Her face smeared with tears and powdered donut sugar. Needless to say, all three Navarro boys had taught the obnoxious brat who’d hurt their sister’s feelings a lesson of his own. Luis had drawn the line at anything physical—they were on church grounds—but when the Navarro brothers surrounded you, a kid tended to take the warning to heart.
Luis snickered at the memory, earning him another qué pasa? frown from his mami.
On the other side of their papi, Enrique leaned forward to catch Luis’s eye. Luis made a cutting motion with his pointer and middle fingers. His younger brother flashed the cocky grin that had always made young girls and grown women swoon and the Navarros’ mami make a swift sign of the cross because it meant Enrique was probably up to no good.
For a moment it felt like they were back to their old selves. His younger brother cooking up some scheme that Carlos perfected, with Anamaría and Luis playing devil’s advocate but ultimately agreeing to participate. The four of them had always been close. Until Enrique had broken Luis’s trust.
Their mami’s advice whispered through Luis’s head, imploring him to make peace with Enrique. But she wasn’t privy to everything Enrique had kept to himself.
Dark memories, the information Luis had learned after the fact, swooped in like fallen angels, dragging Luis away from the olive branch his brother’s grin extended.
How Enrique and Mirna had secretly messed around in high school, but Enrique had broken things off, preferring to play the field. How Mirna hadn’t gotten over him, inviting him to meet up with her and some friends one weekend during his last year of art school in Miami. The weekend when they wound up sleeping together. Even though Mirna and Luis had been dating for a couple months. Of course Enrique claimed he hadn’t known.
That had been Enrique’s first mistake. Keeping his tryst with Mirna a secret once he found out she was dating his brother.
Flash forward about a year and a half later. Enrique had finished art school and unexpectedly moved back home, giving up his artistic dreams for a reason he refused to elaborate on. Drunk at a beach party in Bahia Honda, Mirna propositioned him again. Ignore the fact that by then she wore Luis’s engagement ring.
That’s when Enrique threatened to rat her out if she didn’t come clean with Luis herself.
A threat that precipitated Mirna’s foolhardy decision to flee the party and drive back to Key West.
She never made it home.
Lying in her hospital bed, Luis by her side, she finally admitted her duplicity. The next afternoon she passed.
That day, Luis lost his fiancé and his brother. He hadn’t been the same since.
His mami nudged him, and he joined everyone moving into the center aisle. Lining up for communion in front of the altar, Luis did what he did every Sunday that he and his brother were both off shift; attending mass with the familia, he prayed for absolution. For his soul to heal, allowing him to find some way to breach this divide and make his mami happy.
So far, his prayers remained unanswered.
Back in their pew moments later, he knelt on the padded knee rest, the organ music and choral voices swelling with the notes and lyrics of “The Prayer of St. Francis.”
The irony of the hymn’s lyrics wasn’t lost on Luis. A prayer asking to be a channel of peace. Someone who consoles others, who brings hope and light to dispel despair and darkness. As a firefighter paramedic, he did his best to epitomize those words at the station and on every call. He took pride in excelling at his job, helping others.
And yet, with his own brother, he couldn’t let go of the past.
Staring blindly up at the large stained-glass rendition of Saint Mary centered high in the altar’s back wall, Luis steeled himself for the onslaught of remorse, pain, and disillusion he’d battled the past six years.
Battled, and continuously lost.
He looked at his younger brother, once the prankster who’d almost never failed to egg a laugh from Luis, the serious, follow-the-rules middle child.
A flash of color in the line of people along the front of the altar caught Luis’s attention.
Hands pressed together in prayer, Sara sang along with the choir. She turned the corner to proceed up the walkway between the rows of pews and the exterior wall with its tall shutter doors ajar. Her gaze met his, and her pink lips curved in the sweetest of smiles. For him.
Instantly, the warmth of peace filled his chest.
It felt right. Seeing her here, in this place that held deep meaning for his family’s traditions and values, a place he came to seeking solace.
In that moment, whatever had been off-kilter inside him shifted, falling back into place. With sudden clarity he knew what he wanted.
He wanted to spend the rest of the day with her as they’d done Friday afternoon when they first met. Just the two of them, swapping stories and laughing together.
He wanted to follow her to her own pew, let the church empty of everyone else, and share the tales of the antics that he, his siblings, and their cousins had pulled here. Like the time Carlos hid Luis’s blac
k dress shoes when they stayed over a friend’s house one Saturday night. To Mami’s horror, Sunday morning Luis had been stuck wearing his red Spider-Man sneakers with his altar boy frock.
Or the morning of Anamaría’s First Communion, when she decided to paint her nails pink, accidentally smearing some of the polish on her waist because the crinoline underneath was itchy. She’d burst into his and Carlos’s room, scrubbing at the stain but only spreading the bright pink blob bigger. Her big eyes had pooled with tears. Luis ran outside to cut one of Mami’s white roses from the bushes lining the sunny side of the yard. A couple strategic safety pins later, the rose hid the pink stain from view. Anamaría dubbed him her savior. Until the next time they butted heads and she challenged him to a wrestling match.
Now, eyes locked with Sara’s, Luis followed her until she reached the end of their pew, where his gaze collided with Enrique’s. Busted!
Tilting his head toward Sara, Enrique arched an inquisitive brow.
¡Coño! Too late, Luis remembered his brother meeting her Friday night at Mallory Square.
Ignoring Enrique’s unspoken but clear what’s-up-hermano smirk, Luis faced the front of the church without a word.
Moments later, Father Miguel trailed the end-of-mass procession down the center aisle. The rest of the congregation followed, some more anxious than others. Free donuts, coffee, and punch awaited in the Fellowship Hall.
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. Señor and Señora 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. Señora 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.”
Because he’d taken Carlos’s other advice. The one his older brother was smart enough not to mention in front of their conservative, worry-prone mother. No way she would approve her firstborn son’s “shake things up” mantra.
“Ohh! I wanna go fishing! Can we go today, Tío Luis?” José clambered off his chair, running to throw himself at Luis’s side. “¡Por favor!”
Luis ruffled the seven-year-old’s hair. “I’m sorry, papito. Not today. I’m busy.”
“¿Haciendo qué?”
Everyone at the table zeroed in on his answer to his mami’s sharp question. Luis shifted uncomfortably on the cold metal seat.
“I’m helping a friend who’s in town. Showing their family around a bit,” he hedged, anxious to punch his time card here, then clock out, like Enrique.
“That’s very nice of you,” his mami said, layering the word nice with enough innuendo it became a synonym for interesting. “Is she someone we know?”
Ha! He hadn’t said the friend was female.
Luis caught Carlos’s sly grin. They both knew their mami’s parental radar must be pinging. Alerting her that something was up with one of her kids. If only Carlos knew.
It was ironic. The one brother Luis normally confided in had no idea about Sara. Yet, the one he had lost faith in, had already met her.
&nb
sp; Luis’s skin itched with unease. He didn’t want to talk about the station or the accident. He was tired of unsolicited advice about his supposed lack of healthy coping skills, and no way was he interested in answering pointed questions about whomever he chose to spend time with.
What he needed was an excuse to split. If not, his mami’s probing questions would continue.
“Bueno, mijo, who is she?” His mami’s intuitive gaze still glued on Luis, she absently slid a glass of watered-down fruit punch out of the way before one of his nephews knocked it with his elbow.
“It’s not anyone you know—”
His cell phone vibrated in his pants pocket, interrupting him. Luis slid the device out to find a text from Enrique lighting up the screen: Warning, Blondie’s hanging out by your truck.
Surprised, Luis reread the message. After their squabble earlier, he wouldn’t have expected Enrique to give him a heads-up about what he probably thought might be potential female trouble.
Decent move on his brother’s part.
After sending a cryptic gracias in reply—a little more personal than the plain thumbs-up emoji; two could play the let’s-be-nice game—Luis pushed away from the table. The hard rubber grip on the bottom of the chair legs screeched against the linoleum floor.
“Perdóname, Mami, I need to get going.”
“Sorry? Pero you just sat down,” she complained, her round face crumpled with dismay. Under her dark floral blouse, his mami’s shoulders lowered with disappointment. “First Enrique. Now you. What is going on with mis hijos?”
“Your sons have busy lives. But we love you.” Luis bent to kiss her forehead, then quickly made his way around the table doling out cheek kisses and hugs good-bye, adding a shoulder punch for Carlos, who shot him a what’s-up glare. Circling back to his mom, Luis gave her another hug.
“Dios te bendiga, mi vida,” she called to him.
He sent her a wink in reply to her habitual blessing.
No amount of time with her beloved children was ever enough for Lydia Quintana de Navarro. When they were teens, anxious to spread their wings, her mother-henning used to drive them up the wall. By now he had learned to take it in stride. Most of the time he appeased her. Hung out a little longer. Stopped by the house a second time on his day off.
Island Affair Page 19
