by Judy Duarte
Everett had no more than picked up the case of wine, when Esteban entered the office.
“Before you leave,” Carlo’s father said, “I’d like to have a word with you.”
She couldn’t imagine what he had to say to her, but he’d always been kind. She couldn’t refuse him. “All right.”
Esteban made an after-you gesture with his hand, pointing to the door. “Let’s go outside where we can talk privately.”
She agreed, and they stepped out into the yard.
“I heard that you were leaving today,” he said.
“Yes, I’m going back to Houston.”
“That seems like a pretty sudden decision.”
“Not really. But I’ve always been a little impulsive.”
He nodded, as if giving that some thought. “Did you know that Carlo is leaving, too?”
“Yes, he told me.”
“My son has never been impulsive.”
Schuyler’s eyes filled again. “Maybe not, but I think he’s trying to distance himself from me.”
“That’s probably true. But your red, swollen eyes suggest you’re not happy about that.”
She blew out a sigh. “I guess it’s not a big secret. We started flirting with each other, and we both were determined to keep things simple. But then I went and ruined it all by falling in love with him.”
“Have you told him?”
“I was going to, but he wasn’t at all happy to see me and practically threw me out of his apartment.”
“He told you to leave?”
“No, but he was pretty cold. He told me to have a good life.”
Esteban reached out and placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Carlo didn’t mean to hurt you, mija.”
Schuyler rolled her eyes. “So you say. But you weren’t standing in his doorway, wondering if he’d invite you inside and realizing that he couldn’t send you away fast enough.”
“All of my boys are headstrong and love-shy. After growing up in a house with two unhappy parents who fought more often than not, they’ve all pretty much vowed to be single. Especially Carlo, who gave marriage a try, only to see it end within a year.”
“Yes, I know about that. He told me.”
“But what he didn’t tell you is that, in spite of himself, he loves you.”
“That’s not the vibe I got twenty minutes ago.”
“That’s because Carlo’s afraid to tell you how he really feels.”
She wanted to believe that, but she couldn’t risk finding out that Esteban was wrong. That if Carlo had any feelings for her, they weren’t strong enough to last. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to face him again. Not after the words he said and the tone he used today.”
Still, she didn’t rush back into the office and tell Everett her chat with Carlo’s father was over, that she was ready to go now.
“Carlo has my number,” she finally said. “If he changes his mind, he can call me in Houston.”
Before Esteban could respond, she heard a car engine. Schuyler suspected the people who were coming to this afternoon’s tasting had begun to arrive. But when she glanced into the parking lot, she spotted Carlo.
She watched as he strode forward, clearly approaching her. But this time, when they were face-to-face, she was the one to ask, “What are you doing here?” And not very nicely.
“I came to apologize.”
“For what?” she asked, not about to make it easy on him. “For being a jerk?”
He nodded. “After the party, we got off on the wrong foot. And things got progressively worse.”
“Actually, it wasn’t until I woke up in your bed that things went downhill.”
Esteban folded his arms across his chest and looked at Carlo sternly. “Since you refused to admit it, I told Schuyler how you really feel about her.”
Schuyler studied Carlo, wondering if what his father had said was true. If so, would Carlo actually admit it?
* * *
Carlo wasn’t happy that his father interfered with his love life, but his dad was right. And just looking at Schuyler’s splotchy, tear-stained face told him that she might care more for him than she’d let on.
“I do love you,” he told her. “I know it’s not what either of us planned. But I couldn’t help it. And I was afraid to tell you because I thought you’d retreat and move back to Houston.”
“Seriously?”
There was no point denying it now. Thanks to his dad, the romantic cat was out of the bag. “You’re all I think about, Schuyler, and once I realized all I stood to lose...well, I started to withdraw.”
“But you’re here,” she said.
“After you left, I realized that I’d just shot myself in the foot. So I figured I’d better try to make things right. I’ll do whatever I can to convince you to stay.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay, as in you’ll give me a chance to prove myself and make things better between us?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head while a smile danced on her lips. “Okay as in I’ll stay. I’m not leaving. And if you would have given me a minute to explain, I would have told you that I love you, too. It’s clear to me that we belong together.”
Any apprehension, any fears Carlo once had, dissipated in the air, replaced by hope. “You’ve got that right, honey.”
Esteban, who’d been eavesdropping and clearly enjoying it way too much, laughed. “Then what are you waiting for, mijo? Don’t let me stop you. Go ahead and kiss her!”
Carlo couldn’t think of anything he’d like to do more—other than taking her home with him and making love until dawn. But that could wait.
For now, he wrapped his arms around Schuyler and kissed her with all the love in his heart, all the hope he had for a future together. By the time they came up for air, Alejandro and a guy who had to be Schuyler’s brother had joined them outside.
“I believe I hear wedding bells,” Esteban said.
“I hope you do,” Carlo told his father. “Because I’m going to propose as soon as I buy a ring. And hopefully, she’ll say yes.”
Schuyler laughed. “I don’t need a ring. So if you’re proposing—and I have witnesses—I’ll tell you right now my answer is yes.” Then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly and with assurance that she’d heard those bells, too.
This time, when the kiss ended, Schuyler was crying.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you? Was a proposal too much, too soon?”
“My mind is set, Carlo. These are happy tears. I can’t wait to be your bride.”
Carlo turned to his cousin. “I still plan to take some time off, but now Schuyler will be with me. Can you get by without us for the next week or so?”
“Are you going someplace?” Alejandro asked.
“We’ll see how we feel after all the fairy dust settles, but I’d be content to hole up at my place.”
Schuyler laughed. “That sounds like an amazing plan to me.”
Esteban elbowed Alejandro. “Well, what do you know? The two people who never wanted to tie the knot realize they can’t live without each other.”
That was the truth.
“Schuyler,” her brother said. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your future husband?”
“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.” She turned to Carlo. “This is my brother, Dr. Everett Fortunado.”
The good doctor reached out his hand, but Carlo embraced him instead. “It’s nice to meet you, Doctor.”
“Call me Everett. And the pleasure is all mine. I’m glad to see my little sister so happy.” He turned to Esteban and Alejandro. “It was nice meeting you both. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”
Esteban wore a proud, father-of-the-groom grin. “No doubt at
the wedding, if not sooner.”
Everett reached out his hand to Schuyler. “Let me have your car keys.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“It looks like you have another ride, so I thought I’d take your car back to your place, exchange it for mine and hit the road.”
Schuyler went inside for her purse, then handed the keys to her brother. “Thanks for coming.”
“You’re more than welcome. I’ll see you soon.” Then he turned and walked away.
Carlo glanced at his watch. “You know, since we both have some time off, why don’t we go to my apartment. I still have those tickets to Jersey Boys.”
“That sounds like a great idea. We can go...if we don’t get sidetracked.”
Carlo liked the sound of that. “Let’s see how the afternoon unfolds.” Then he took Schuyler’s hand and led her to his car.
“I can’t wait to see what life has in store for us,” she said.
Neither could he. But right now, he was looking forward to spending the afternoon in bed with her.
* * *
The sun had just begun to set, darkening the bedroom, as Carlo and Schuyler snuggled in bed, enjoying the afterglow of another heart-stirring, star-spinning climax.
“We can still make the show,” he said, as he rolled to the side, bracing himself with his elbow. “That is, if you want to go.”
“I’d like that, if you don’t mind.” Still, neither of them moved.
“I was thinking,” he said. “Maybe we should find another place to live. Since I’m going to marry you, that’ll make me a dog owner. So we’ll need a house, one that’s pet friendly and has a big, fenced yard.”
“That’s sweet of you. Just so you know, I talked to Dottie earlier, and she agreed to keep the puppies for a while. I have a feeling it’ll be hard for her to give them up. We might have to take one and let her keep the other.”
Carlo laughed. “Let’s take Fluff. She won’t be as expensive to feed. Stuff eats a ton.”
“Good idea.” Schuyler brightened, then rolled to her side, facing him. And loving the sight of him, naked and stretched out beside her.
“I have a question for you,” he said, as he trailed his fingers along the slope of her hip. “What do you plan to do about the Fortunes? You’ve met quite a few, and you’ve told me you liked them. Are you going to announce that you’re related to them?”
“Maybe, but not right away.” She brushed a fallen hank of hair from his brow and smiled. “Now that I’m going to be a Mendoza, there’s no rush. I have a feeling there’ll be plenty of Fortunes in my future.”
And if Carlo had anything to say about it, there’d be some little Mendozas in her future, too.
* * * * *
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A Soldier in Conard County
by Rachel Lee
Prologue
Followed by a smaller car, the hearse backed up behind Watkins Funeral Home on Poplar Street in Conard City, Wyoming. The old Victorian-style mansion looked fresh in every detail, although buildings around it appeared a little shabby.
As the hearse stopped, the driver climbed out of the following car. Wearing the ASU blue army uniform—dark blue coat and lighter blue slacks with a gold stripe running up the side of them—he stood staring at the nondescript white double doors bearing the discreetly lettered sign Arrivals. His many ribbons gleamed on his chest, and his uniform sported the insignia of the special forces and paratrooper. His upper arm patch ranked him as a sergeant first class; five golden hash marks on the lower sleeve recorded at least fifteen years of service. A brass nameplate identified him as “York.” He stood tall and straight, every line of him like a fresh crease.
Then he settled his green beret on his head, squaring it exactly from long experience. The driver exited the hearse and went to knock on the door. Sgt. York had brought home the body of his best buddy, Al Baker, and he intended to ensure that everything was done right.
The funeral director was waiting. Gil York watched as the flag-draped coffin was rolled indoors on a table, then followed when it was moved to a viewing room and placed on a blue-skirted catafalque. There would be no open coffin. If anyone in the family wanted to see, Gil would prevent it. Some things should not be seen.
“I’ll notify the family he’s here,” the funeral director said in a quiet voice.
Sgt. Gil York nodded. “You arranged the honor guard?”
“We have a group of vets in the area who do the honors,” the director said.
“The bugler?”
“Sgt. Baker’s cousin wants to play ‘Taps,’” the director said. “She teaches music at the high school.”
From gray eyes that resembled the hard Western mountains, Gil looked at him. “It’ll be difficult. It’s tough even when it’s not your own family.”
The director nodded. “I warned her. She insists.”
* * *
An hour later, the viewing room began to slowly fill with quiet, sad life. Sgt. York, now wearing white gloves, stood at the foot of the coffin, still at attention, his beret tucked under his arm, surrounded by the flowers the funeral director had arranged. Quiet voices murmured, as if afraid of disturbing the dead.
Gil stared straight ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing the room or the people. Instead he was seeing the years he had known Al Baker, filled with dangerous, tense, funny and good memories. His brother-in-arms. His friend through it all.
The flowers reached through his memories, si
ckeningly sweet. Al wouldn’t have liked them. He’d have understood the need for people to send them, but he still wouldn’t have liked them.
What he would have liked was the battlefield cross: the empty boots, the nose-down M-16, his green beret resting on the butt. His buddies had planted one for him in the Middle East at their base camp, and Gil had constructed one here, with a variation: he’d covered the rifle butt not with a helmet but with Al’s green beret, a symbol they had worked so hard to win and of which they had both been very proud.
One more day, Al, he thought. Just one more day and you’ll be at rest. No more traveling, no more being shunted all over the world. Peace at last, the peace they had both believed they’d been fighting for all along. Not the right kind of peace, but peace anyway. Gil wasn’t sure if there was a heaven. He’d seen too much of hell in his life, but if there was a heaven, he was certain Al was standing post already, free of fear and threats.
His eyes closed for a moment, and Al seemed to stand before him in full dress uniform. Straight and squared away and...smiling.
Godspeed.
The murmuring voices suddenly fell silent. Instantly alert, he turned his head a little and saw a man and woman walking toward the coffin. The woman wore black and leaned heavily on the man’s arm.
Al’s parents. He recognized them from photos. At once he pivoted so he faced the room and the approaching couple. Al’s mother made no attempt to conceal the tears that rolled down her face. His father looked grim, and his jaw worked as he clung to self-control.
The couple approached the flag-covered coffin, and Betsy Baker reached out a hand to touch it. “I want to see him.”
Gil tensed, wondering if he would have to warn her off.
The funeral director hurried over and took her hand gently, sparing Gil the necessity. “Please, Betsy.”
“I want to see him,” she repeated brokenly.
Gil nearly stepped forward. The funeral director spoke first. “No. You don’t.”
Then Betsy startled Gil. She turned her head, and her brown eyes, so like Al’s, locked with his. “You’re Gil, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
