Love Finds You in Romeo, Colorado

by Gwen Ford Faulkenberry

  “Abuelita, this is Stephen Reyes,” Claire introduced him. “And this is my abuelita.”

  Stephen smiled and reached out his hand.

  Abuelita allowed him to take hers, bowing her head regally.

  “It is nice to meet you, Dr. Reyes,” she said.

  Suddenly all of the stories he had heard about this interesting character—from Claire and others—converged, made sense. Stephen suppressed a nervous laugh.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” he said soberly. “Claire has told me so much about you.”

  “Well, she’s not told me much about you,” Abuelita said. “But I can see she was right about your being handsome.”

  Stephen, rarely at a loss for words, was taken completely aback by this older woman. He didn’t know what to say next, but the nervous laughter found its way out.

  Abuelita threw back her head then and laughed, too.

  Claire just shook her head, turning a light shade of pink underneath her darkened skin, which Stephen found enchanting.

  “Graeme, come help me get a tray of snacks.” Abuelita raised her eyebrows significantly before turning to Claire and Stephen. “Why don’t you two just sit down out here? Graeme and I will be back.”

  They obeyed like two teenagers who were not yet allowed to formally date, pulling up ornate iron chairs with green cushions to a matching ironwork table. They plopped down in the chairs. Each had lots to say, but neither said a word.

  Claire fiddled with the nail polish on her left thumb while Stephen looked around, taking in more of the surroundings.

  “Is that a goldfish pond?” he finally asked her, pointing across the patio.

  “It is,” she answered.

  “Does it have fish in it?”

  “It does. Graeme and his friend caught one just the other day.”

  “Caught one? They went fishing for goldfish?” Stephen was amused.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. And were very disappointed when I made them throw it back.”

  “That’s funny,” Stephen said.

  “Not so funny for the goldfish.”

  “I suppose not.”

  There was an awkward silence, a stillness interrupted only by Claire’s leg vibrating under the table.

  Stephen reached over to stop it, and she jumped like a frog in the air. He instantly removed his hand from her knee.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “That’s okay. It’s a bad habit.”

  He thought he saw the tremor of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

  “Scaring you?” He grinned.

  “No, shaking my leg.”

  “I’ve noticed you do something else when you’re nervous,” Stephen ventured.

  “What’s that?” she asked, rubbing the place she’d just peeled on her thumb.

  “You scratch off your fingernail polish, and you always start with that thumb.”

  Claire, self-conscious, dropped her hands into her lap. “Wow, I didn’t even realize I did that. Okay, Mr. Observant. What else have you noticed about me?”

  “Well, sometimes you twist sections of your hair. But not when you’re nervous—usually when you’re just thinking.”

  “I see. What is this, ‘Claire’s Quirks 101’?”

  “No, just ‘Claire 101.’ I’m learning lots of things about you. I’m a scientist, remember?”

  “That’s kind of scary.” She leaned back against the back of the chair and put her feet up on its base.

  “The goal is not to scare you. It’s to know you. You said that was okay, remember?”

  Claire folded her hands and smiled mischievously at him. “Well, I’ve noticed a few things about you, too.”

  “Like what?” He ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Like that. You put your fingers through your hair when you’re on the spot.”

  “I do?”

  “Yep. And you’ve got a chipped front tooth, and when you smile you get these little crinkles around the edges of your eyes.”

  Stephen couldn’t help but laugh at that. When he did, he reached up to feel the crinkles. “I think that’s what women call crow’s feet.”

  “Well, whatever they are, I like them.”

  It was Stephen’s opportunity to turn pink.

  “And I like it when you blush.”

  He had looked away toward the goldfish pond, but now he looked right at her. “Good, because it seems like I do it a lot around you.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of the glass door sliding open.

  “Snacks are served!” Graeme called.

  He was carrying lemonade in a pitcher of glass with a cobalt-blue rim, the kind that can be found in any Mexican border town. Stephen hoped he wouldn’t drop it. Abuelita followed behind Graeme with a tray. When Stephen stood to close the door behind her, she nodded her thanks, proceeding onward.

  “I got these for you,” Graeme declared, heaping a handful of bright orange baby carrots on Stephen’s plate.

  “Ah. Thank you, Mr. MacGregor.” Stephen played along. He took a bite of one. “Delectably sweet.”

  “You know, lettuces are soporific,” Graeme informed him. “At least the ones from Mr. MacGregor’s garden.”

  “I did not know that. But perhaps that’s why I am feeling sleepy. I had salad for lunch.”

  Graeme looked at him shrewdly.

  Abuelita, who had poured four tumblers full of fresh lemonade, said, “Graeme helped me make this. He’s very good at squeezing the lemons.”

  “See my muscle?” Graeme flexed his skinny arm for Stephen to feel.

  “Wow. That’s impressive. Where’d you get biceps like that?”

  “My dad had big muscles,” Graeme explained.

  Abuelita and Claire exchanged a look that was not lost on Stephen.

  “He must have been really strong.”

  “He was,” said Graeme. “Superstrong.”

  “Thank you for the tapas, Mrs.—” Stephen realized he didn’t know Abuelita’s last name.

  “It’s Romero. And you are very welcome,” Abuelita said. “I am glad you could come here and join us, Dr. Reyes.”

  “Please, call me Stephen—or Steve.”

  “Okay, Steve.” Abuelita flashed him the smile of an old beauty queen, and Stephen recognized where Claire got some of her looks.

  “This is a fascinating place. I’ve admired it from the road for years.”

  “Thank you. My father built it. It is the only home I have known here in the States.”

  “I see. Well, it—and you—have quite a reputation for hospitality. I have heard from many people about your family’s generosity in this community. I am glad to finally be meeting the legend.”

  Abuelita acknowledged the compliment with the least bit of a nod. Then she changed the subject. “I also have friends who think very highly of you. They have said so.”

  “Really? Who is that?” Stephen was genuinely surprised and curious.

  “Louisa and Pablo Ortíz.”

  That eccentric old couple who were patients of his. Of course. “Well, they are too kind. I enjoy their stories.”

  “They have many stories to tell, many that are lost to this generation. I have tried to get Claire to write some of them down.”

  “I plan on it—in fact, I plan on making it a project for a class next semester. The comparative lit seminar.” Claire interjected.

  “Oh! You hadn’t told me. I am so glad!” Abuelita beamed at her granddaughter.

  “I submitted a proposal this week to the administration, asking permission to create the class.”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  Claire explained to Abuelita and Stephen, “If it works out, I’ll partner with a professor in the history department, and we’ll team-teach it next semester. If it goes well, we may be able to add it to the regular curriculum.”

  “Wow,” Stephen said. “That really sounds cool.”

  Graeme, in his mother’s lap, was clearly bored with the con
versation. “Do you take naps?” he asked Stephen, hearkening back to their earlier exchange.

  Stephen grinned at him, switching gears. “Whenever I get the chance, which is not very often.”

  “You’re lucky, then. I hate naps.”

  Stephen noted that Graeme’s eyelids were getting heavy. “Oh—I bet you’ll like them one day.”

  “I bet I won’t!”

  Claire patted Graeme’s back. “Speaking of naps, it’s almost time for yours,” she reminded him.

  “And mine,” Abuelita said, rising. “Why don’t you read me the book about the flopsy bunnies?”

  Graeme started to whine but must have thought better of it when Claire looked at him sternly. She gave him a big kiss and hug before he slid out of her lap. Abuelita took Graeme by the hand, and he followed her reluctantly, looking back at Stephen with a wave and the expression of one who might have been on his way to the guillotine.

  When they were out of earshot, Stephen raised his eyebrows. “Do all five-year-olds know what ‘soporific’ means?”

  She smiled. “He loves Beatrix Potter.”

  “Well, that boy is sure cute—and smart.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure I’m just like any other mother, but I’m crazy about him. The sun rises and sets by Graeme as far as I’m concerned.” Claire looked toward the house and then added, “He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “I don’t think all mothers are like that,” Stephen remarked. “At least mine isn’t.”

  Claire looked back toward him, surprised. “What about when you were a little kid?”

  “When I was a kid, my mother worked even though she didn’t have to. And when she wasn’t working, she was playing golf. My sister and I had a nanny who was good to us—genuinely loved us—but I don’t think we were much fun for my mom. She had other fish to fry.”

  Claire crossed her arms in front of her somewhat defensively. “Well, maybe she needed to work for herself. Women—mothers—are not one-dimensional, no matter how much they love their kids.”

  Stephen saw he’d been misunderstood.

  “I know that, Claire, and I’m not judging her for working or anything else. In many ways I’m sure she did the best she could. But I’d be lying if I said my mother was crazy about me—never in my recollection has that been true. She’s crazier about her dogs and golf and going on trips. That’s just who she is. Dad, too. They really didn’t have the emotional space in their lives—and still don’t—for me and Maria.”

  “I can’t imagine that. Why have kids?”

  Stephen laughed. “I don’t know. I think it was just the thing to do. Or maybe we were an accident.”

  “Well, lucky for me and for lots of other people,” Claire said, settling back down in her chair.

  Stephen grinned at her.

  “I’m glad I’m not flunking ‘Claire 101’—at least not yet.”

  “Sorry I got my fur up at you. I guess I’m just touchy sometimes about women and work and, probably more so, even, about motherhood. It’s the toughest job I’ve ever done. And I want so badly to get it right—for Graeme to see someday how hard I tried. If he ever felt like you do, well, I don’t know what I’d do. It would break my heart.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Stephen said softly. “Anybody can see what your priorities are.”

  “Is that okay, I mean, with you? Because if it’s not, well—”

  “It’s more than okay. It’s what attracted me to you in the first place.”

  “Really?” Claire asked.

  Stephen had to be honest. “Well, that and your big green eyes.”

  She batted her eyelashes at him, and Stephen remembered the first time he met her in the ER. He had been so glad when he saw that she wasn’t wearing a ring. He couldn’t say that, though, not now that he knew her story. So he just smiled at her and reached for her hand. Tracing the small veins that rippled across the top of it, he whispered, “And other things.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Joe didn’t like to use the expression, but there was really no other way to describe it. At least not in his current mental state. This had been the week from hell.

  This Friday would be the biggest game of the football season so far. They were playing the La Jara Falcons—the school that had threatened to annex Manassa High, should the lawmakers choose consolidation for the smaller districts. No Manassa Grizzly wanted to become a Falcon, and it was well-known that some wealthier Falcons considered themselves superior to the “farm boys” of Manassa. The result was a bitter rivalry. Joe’s house had been egged the night before, and all of the local newspapers were predicting an upset for his team, which was positioned for the play-offs, unless they lost on Friday. The game would be played at La Jara.

  To make matters worse, Frieda was still mad at him for what she called his “abuse of power” as a coach. She didn’t get the whole thing with Mickey Rodriguez—how important it was to discipline him for drinking—even though she said she did. She claimed she just disagreed with Joe’s choice of consequences, or at least the length of them.

  Joe was still pretty sure his choices were right on, but even if he had his doubts, he could never turn back now. He had pushed Mickey every day like a slave driver, and he had to hand it to the kid. He had taken it. He was almost finished serving his punishment; it was day eight of the ten days Mickey had to run sleds.

  It was also Tuesday. Home group night. Martina and Jesús probably wouldn’t be there since they had the restaurant to run—the group was going to need to talk about changing nights to accommodate them. Joe didn’t know what other night he could do it with his crazy schedule. He’d have to figure out something.

  As he sat at his desk, fiddling with the playbook before practice, Joe kind of wished he could just miss the group tonight. He dreaded seeing Frieda there. But he had already invited Stephen. He knew Stephen might not come, but what if he showed up and Joe wasn’t there? No, he had to go. He was committed to it. At least tonight he didn’t have to prepare anything. Jerry and Sue were hosting.

  After the end-of-practice huddle and the customary “Go Grizzlies!” chant, the team trooped into the locker room. Joe noticed Mickey’s shoulders sagging as he walked toward the end zone to pick up the sled.

  “Hustle up, Rodriguez!” he hollered.

  Mickey picked up the pace, running the rest of the way, and then he grabbed a hold of the sled, fitting his shoulders in front of the red vinyl pad like a harness. Joe met him on the forty and jumped on, using the sound of his whistle like a whip cracking. Up and down the field Mickey ran, with Joe riding the sled. He whistled whenever Mickey slowed down and also to signal each turn.

  From where he stood on the painted metal bar, Joe could see the bulging muscles across Mickey’s back, taut with the strain of pushing. Sweat beads glistened on his arms and ran in rivulets through the deep outlines around his biceps and triceps. His dark hair was matted to the sides of his face and the back of his neck. More sweat shook off, like rain, with every pounding footfall.

  About halfway through the seventh round, Mickey just stopped. He dropped the sled. Then he wiped the sweat from his brow with a hooked finger and slung it to the ground.

  “I quit, Coach,” he said. Simply, impossibly.

  “What did you say?” Joe demanded from his perch atop the sled. He thought his ears had failed him.

  “I just can’t do it anymore.”

  Mickey’s eyes were not defiant; they were very matter-of-fact. The kid was done. He stood there with one hand on his hip, catching enough breath to be able to walk away.

  Joe stared at him. His brain was searching every nook and cranny for an answer. In a matter of those few seconds, Joe’s mind ran down every play he’d ever studied, every drill he’d ever run, and even thought of every coach he’d ever known. But he came up empty. There was nothing in the vault of his experience to prepare him for how to handle this moment.

  Mickey took his first step toward the fiel
d house.

  Joe closed his eyes. God, help. This can’t be how this ends.

  Suddenly, Joe got a message. But it wasn’t from his mind—it came from deep within his heart.

  “Mickey.”

  The kid turned and saw Joe strapping on the sled. He blinked his eyes like someone in the desert, trying to discern if he was seeing a mirage.

  Joe felt more vulnerable than he ever had as a coach. Scary as that feeling was, Joe knew in his gut that it was something good. Something right. He said softly, “Will you run it beside me?”

  Mickey hesitated. Then he nodded and Joe saw a flicker of fire come into his eyes for the first time in days. He climbed back into the harness, this time with Joe beside him. They finished the appointed ten together.

  That night at the home group, Joe shared the story of his day as a prayer of thanksgiving. Frieda looked at him from across the room, and the warm glow in her eyes and in her smile felt like a hug.

  “It’s interesting how that happened today, Joe,” Jerry said, “because it goes right along with what I wanted to talk about tonight.”

  Jerry stood to his feet beside the small marker board he had set up in his living room.

  “As Sue and I were preparing to have you guys over here, I felt led to talk about what it means to us that Jesus is our Good Shepherd.” He opened his Bible, taking out his notes, and said, “I have a few verses here; Sue, will you read John chapter ten, verses eleven and fourteen? And Stephen, will you read verse twenty-seven? Dr. Banks, will you read Psalm Twenty-three, verses one through three? That will be good to start us off.”

  Sue opened her Bible and read reverently, “‘I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep…I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me.’” She smiled sweetly, savoring the words.

  Stephen, who was next, read from the King James Version, “My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.”