Shelter

by Gilley, Lauren

  “Oh,” she said again. “Does that mean you want the milk?”

  “I’d love some.”

  Silence fell between them. With Carlos, silence was full of tender looks, light touches, questions that could wait until later, smiles, thoughtful frowns. But with her mother, the armor was in place, guarding the woman beneath, keeping Alma from a true understanding. Most of the time that frustrated her, pissed her off, but now, it saddened her. She had no idea if she could ever get to a good place with Diane. And she wanted to, she realized, her hand finding her stomach. She wanted little Sam to have a grandmother. She had no idea which move to make; an argumentative approach had never worked, but Alma was no saleswoman. She wasn’t that persuasive. So she did all she could think to do.

  “I’m naming it Sam. Samuel or Samantha. Whichever,” she said, keeping her hand on her belly.

  Diane’s eyes came back to hers.

  “And that’s about all I know.” Emotion welled up in her throat, and she let it bleed through, let her mom see how this new phase of her life was effecting her. “We looked at cribs and car seats and, holy shit, that stuff’s expensive.” She breathed a sad laugh. “And Carlos wants to help me, God bless him, though I have no idea why he’s not running the other direction.”

  “He, um, he…” Diane took a deep breath that jacked her shoulders up and down. The hand holding the milk carton slumped to her side. “He was always more thoughtful than his cousin. He always took his boots off when he came in the house.”

  It was the moment of concession Alma had been looking for. “Mom,” she took a step and was encouraged when Diane didn’t back away. So she took another step. The ultrasound photo was tucked in the pocket of her cardigan, and she pulled it out, smoothed the corner that was curling up. “I have no idea what I’m doing, or how I can afford any of this. But,” she extended the black and white picture. “I figure I’ve got no choice but to figure it all out.”

  Diane’s hand shook as she accepted the ultrasound. “Oh.” She blinked rapid-fire. “Oh wow.”

  Alma followed her as she moved toward the butcher block table in the corner of the kitchen and sat down across from her when she all but collapsed in the closest chair. The milk was set down on the floor at her feet.

  “My grandbaby.”

  Alma felt tears threatening at the backs of her eyes. “Yeah, your grandbaby.”

  “He’s beautiful. Or she,” she corrected. “It’s just…perfect, Alma.”

  Her eyes glittered with moisture and Alma swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I know you never liked Sam. He couldn’t give me much financially, but I loved him, Mom. So, so much.”

  Diane sighed, but nodded, wiped at her eyes.

  “And he gave me this.” She reached out and touched the edge of the photo. Diane set in on the table, equidistant from both of them in the very middle. “And I really want my baby to know its grandparents.”

  “We want to know it too.”

  “Then why are we fighting all the time?”

  “Because,” Diane’s shoulders sagged, utterly defeated. All former beauty queen pretenses left her, all her self-righteous bullshit got stowed away somewhere for the time being. Without her façade, she looked as exhausted as Alma felt. “Because,” she repeated, “your father and I worked our whole lives to create a home and a life and a future for you. And then we watched you put all your dreams on hold for Sam.”

  “We’ve been over this.”

  She shook her head in a regretful agreement. “But you’re so talented,” she said. “And smart. And whoever you married, I wanted him to appreciate that. To support your talents.”

  “He…” Alma started to defend her late husband, to say that he’d been just as supportive of her writing endeavors as her parents. But really, he’d never asked her about it. “Why would you wanna do that?” he’d asked once when she was sitting in front of her laptop, and his hands had slid over her shoulders and he’d groped her through her shirt, distracting her completely. She chewed at her lip, wishing she had something positive to say. She didn’t get the chance, however, as footfalls came into the kitchen from the dining room entrance.

  It was Carlos, and he lingered over by the center island, a hand resting on the granite countertop, a firm presence, but not threatening. “She has support,” he said, and Diane’s head swiveled in his direction. “She’s a fantastic writer and she should keep at it.”

  Alma wanted to launch herself out of her chair and hug the breath out of him, but remained seated, content with the warm and fuzzy feeling that bloomed inside her at his words.

  Diane blinked, seemingly dumbstruck. “You think that?” she asked him.

  “Yes, ma’am. Always have.”

  She put her hand in front of her mouth and put one perfectly French tipped nail between her teeth. Alma was a bit stunned; how many times had Diane scolded her for the same vice? “So…you two are just together together now?”

  It was question Alma had dreaded, and it was tinged with enough doubt to remind her that, though this might indeed be some sort of breakthrough for the two of them, this was still her mother they were dealing with.

  Carlos saved her again; she was going to owe him the sex of his freaking life when they got home that evening. “We’re figuring that out,” he said. “But we’re not going to pretend to be just friends while we do that.”

  Diane exhaled in a loud rush, flattening both palms over the table. Her eyes came back to Alma. “You could never just like a nice boy, could you?”

  “Mom, Carlos is a nice boy.” She withheld a grin thinking he probably didn’t approve of being called “boy.” “Nice has got nothing to do with what kind of car he drives or where he lives, how much money he makes.”

  “I know that,” Diane frowned. “But you don’t exactly have discerning taste when it comes to picking apart the nice boys from the bad boys.”

  It was an argument she couldn’t fight, because as she was slowly admitting to herself, Sam had been more bad than nice. And though his edge had never been what attracted her – okay, maybe physically – but it had been about a connection she hadn’t been able to describe. A magical sense of fitting together. And Diane had never believed in magic. Her mother was running scared now, and Carlos’s sweetness and outspoken dedication might not amount to much in her book.

  Carlos moved away from the island and came to the table, sat down at Alma’s side. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him so serious and focused save for the times lately when he’d made her promises. “Mrs. Harris,” apparently old habits died hard, “I promise you that I’m not my cousin.”

  It wasn’t much of a declaration, but Diane sat back in her chair, eyes clearly weighing him as they skipped across his face. It was a handsome face, though not by textbook definitions. An honest, open face. Alma knew it was hard to resist.

  “Well, it’s not like I can stop the two of you,” Diane said after a moment. She stood and went back to the sink, the way she set her shoulders a sure signal that the conversation was over.

  Alma felt Carlos’s hand close over hers. His big eyes were wide with apology. “I tried.”

  She twitched him a smile. “You were great,” and withdrew her hand. “We can go,” she whispered. “Meet you at the car.”

  He seemed relieved to slip away, but she was so proud of him. He’d come into her home, into enemy territory, and had put away all his weapons, using his words instead. Sam had never figured that out.

  Though she was scrubbing the pots again with gusto, Alma wasn’t nervous as she approached her mother from behind. She had felt, at the table, the ice between them thawing. Diane didn’t know how to handle the wet, melted remnants of their feud, but Alma did.

  “Thank you, Mom.” She rested her head against her mother’s shoulder and gave her a sideways hug.

  Diane didn’t speak, but her hands stilled, and then she lifted one from the water, droplets running down her arm and wetting her sweater, so she could stroke Alma’s ha
ir. She closed her eyes a moment, nodded.

  “I really would like to try some of that milk.”

  “I – I’ll bring it by.”

  Things were far from fixed, but it was a step in the right direction.

  16

  “I can’t believe that went so well,” Alma said as she clicked her seatbelt into place.

  Behind the wheel, Carlos had been thinking the exact opposite. Sure, things had gone okay with Diane there at the end, which was surprising, but while Alma had been working on her mother, he’d been left at the mercy of the men of the family. Tom may not have been frightening, but he could make Carlos’s life miserable if he wanted to, and he did want to.

  “Carlos is a landscaper,” he’d told his brother-in-law and nephew. “He used to work for us when he was in high school.”

  And none of the other guys, in their Ralph Lauren sweaters and pressed khakis, were landscapers. Or part-time bartenders. None of them drove 1999 Firebirds with brakes that squealed.

  “You’re into cigarettes, right? You don’t know anything about cigars,” Tom had said. And: “Have you thought about retirement yet? Or, wait, I guess Good & Green doesn’t offer a 401K plan, do they?”

  Carlos had taken the abuse without a fuss, puffing on his cigar and muttering responses to direct questions. And then, Greg – at least he thought it had been Greg, the douche in the turtleneck – had snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “I remember you! You were the garden boy. You and that other one.” He had to give Tom some credit; the guy may have hated him, but he at least acknowledged that he was a threat and didn’t just think of him as the garden boy.

  Tom had halted him with a look on his way back into the house. “I thought we had a conversation.”

  Carlos had shrugged. “’Fraid I don’t remember that.”

  Now, as he checked the street for traffic and backed out of the Harris drive, his palms felt clammy, and not because he was suddenly afraid of Alma’s former-football-playing dad.

  He was walking a line so thin, he couldn’t see it anymore. Trying to prove himself the loving, supportive, grown up garden boy at her family’s home would have been easier if he wasn’t already contemplating the next step in Sean’s manhunt for Sam’s killer. If anyone, Alma included, knew how Sam had truly died, or how Carlos was still neck-deep in the industry that had led to his demise…well, he didn’t like to consider the possibilities. He was in too deep with Alma now, was invested – head and heart – and he knew that somehow, he had to figure out how to settle things with Sean, lay Sam’s ghost to rest, and be there for the girl he’d loved since his senior year of high school.

  “Don’t you think so?” she asked, pulling him out of his mental quandary.

  He forced a smile and let his hand slide off the gearshift and onto her thigh to give her a quick squeeze. “Absolutely.”

  **

  Alma was a wordsmith – she had to be if she ever wanted to write professionally – but for some reason, the word pensive had always gotten under her skin. It seemed to have been grossly overused in Romantic poetry, all that self-reflection and deep soul searching. But the following week, she had no better way to explain her frame of mind. She was pensive.

  As she jotted orders, refilled coffee and passed out bagel sandwiches like they were going out of style, she reflected on the conversation she’d had with her mother. Dissected it and over-analyzed every single word, searched for any hidden meanings. What continued to dominate her thoughts was the question about her relationship status with Carlos. And then she’d remember the way he’d come into the kitchen, promising to support her. It had felt like a promise, partly because he’d said it was, but also because he’d been so intense and serious, there was no way to blame his sense of commitment on the moment or on her own wishful thinking.

  Well, he’d said he loved her, hadn’t he?

  She got warm and melty inside whenever her thoughts drifted toward him, which was often. And her job performance soared because of it. On Thursday, as she fetched the coffee carafe from its warmer and weaved her way between tables, she was overcome by the notion that things – her life, her pregnancy, her dreams – would work out for the best. She hadn’t felt so optimistic since…she didn’t know when, and it was exhilarating.

  “How are you today?” she greeted a familiar face as she came to his table. The young Latino man who’d offered her an encouraging line on her first day was coming fairly regularly, and Alma was making a point of learning the names and preferences of their frequent customers. Sharon had even, grudgingly, told her she was doing a good job.

  He offered her a wide, white grin over the car magazine he was flipping through. “Good. You?”

  “Awesome.” She fished out her order pad. “Coffee two sugars?”

  Sal – they’d traded names on his last visit – was in khakis and a plain blue button-up today, one shiny square-toed loafer protruding from beneath the table. Always a snappy dresser, she felt like a slob in her work-issue black pants and white shirt. Apron tied over her baby bump.

  “No,” he said. “I’m thinking more caramel latte and a turkey and Swiss Panini.”

  “Got it.” She scribbled the order and flashed her best on-the-job smile, already shifting her weight so she could make her way back to the kitchen and put in for his sandwich and mix up his coffee, but he cleared his throat in a polite request for her attention.

  “Are you doing okay?” Like Carlos, his English was flawless, no trace of an accent. He’d grown up in the States obviously. But unlike Carlos, there was no genuine warmth and concern in his eyes as he asked what was supposed to be a compassionate question. Carlos spoiled her with those puppy eyes of his: so easy to read and so adoring. Some might call him pathetic, she called him safe. She always had to guess and wonder if other guys had ulterior motives.

  It was getting hard to pretend she wasn’t pregnant, so she smoothed a hand over her belly. “Yeah, I’m doing well. Little tired, little queasy, but that’s to be expected.”

  He smiled, flashing two neat rows of bright white teeth. “Do you know what you’re having yet?”

  “No, not yet. It’s being stubborn about flashing us,” she said with a little chuckle. It really wasn’t the most appropriate thing to say to a customer, but she dealt with so many disgruntled frowns, it felt a shame to spurn a friendly guy who tipped well.

  He returned the chuckle. “What are you hoping for?”

  “Healthy.”

  His nod was a bit dismissive, so she excused herself, promising to return with his latte. After she’d put the oversized ceramic mug beneath the machine and waited for the amazing little fancy coffee robot contraption to work its magic, she pulled out her cell phone and checked to see if she had any messages. She didn’t, and she sighed, breath ruffling the loose hairs that had escaped her ponytail. She’d been texting Caroline since the day before. Talking with her mother had felt good, now she wanted to hash things out with her best friend – well, former best friend – but she was hoping they could take out the former and get back to just being best.

  When she returned to Sal’s table with his order, she saw a large group coming in and paused, the plated Panini held suspended above the table. All of the men entering were in Good & Green landscaping shirts, and Carlos was leading the way. Hurriedly, she set down the sandwich and felt a wide grin bloom across her face. This would be the first time he’d ever visited her at work.

  Carlos, though, didn’t look so happy to see her.

  **

  It was an unseasonably cold afternoon; the wind bent the sapling trees they’d been planting in two, making it impossible to get the stakes and guy wires driven into the ground. Carlos’s fingers had gone numb around the shovel and the cloud cover looked like a gray quilt thrown over the heavens. It even smelled cold – like snow and wood smoke. Alma had told him that once when she was younger, that cold had a smell, a particular odor that could only be described as, well, cold. He’d chuckled, thought she was cute,
but he’d come to find it true. And though it was early December and people had only just begun unfurling yards of garland and stringing icicle lights, it felt like a deep, dark January night.

  A hot lunch had sounded good to all the guys so he’d suggested they head over to the Silver Plate – Dolman Plantation was in the uppity part of town near the little wifi café anyway – and Alma had mentioned something that morning about tomato basil soup being the special.

  The shopping center in which the café resided was packed with Christmas shoppers: all the wealthy housewives with money to spend and time to kill. But they’d found spaces for the work trucks at the back of the parking lot and the whole trek across the asphalt, Carlos had held his Carhartt jacket closed and tried to drown out Salvador’s incessant chattering while imagining how nice it was going to be to see Alma in the middle of the day like this.

  The front windows of the little eatery were fogged up and when he pushed through the door at the head of the knot of landscapers, the scents of baked goods slapped him in the face. The guys murmured approval as they pooled into the shop, no doubt leaving muddy boot prints all over the cream and tan, meant-to-be-soothing tile.

  “Shit, I’m hungry,” he heard Salvador.

  “Smells good.” Mike.

  “Look, they’ve got those cinnamon things.” Alex.

  And there was his girl, standing in front of him, a tray balanced perfectly in one hand, looking hot as sin even in her work getup as she leaned over and set a giant mug of something steamy in front of a patron. She righted herself and moved her ponytail over her shoulder with an unconscious little toss of her head. He knew that she should be writing for a living – forget the publishing house sales position, people should be paying her mass amounts of money to entertain them with her stories. But he wished her parents could see that, even though she’d hit a rough patch and was recovering slowly, she was just as beautiful, just as sweet, just the same Alma, only a little banged up. And that once she got steady on her feet again, she’d go back to being the girl they were proud of. As it was, he was proud of her now, of the way she took pride in whatever she did, even if it was putting her degree to use by serving coffee to –