Love Finds You in Romeo, Colorado

by Gwen Ford Faulkenberry

  “I’m going to have to think of a way to get her back.”

  “Good luck with that. She’s pretty quick for an eighty-five-year-old.”

  “She’s pretty quick for any age, I’d say.”

  “She’s always been that way.”

  The crowd, including Graeme and Billy Sanford, stood to its feet and applauded, screaming madly.

  “What happened?” Claire asked Graeme as she and Stephen rose, too. He strained to hear what Graeme would answer.

  Graeme rolled his eyes at Claire. “Mom! Mickey just broke the record for tackles! Aren’t you paying attention?”

  “Not quite enough to the game, I guess.” She smiled back at him and then at Stephen. “But you can keep us posted.”

  Two hours later, they were on the field with the rest of the Grizzly fans, surrounding the tired but euphoric players as they knelt in a huddle. Bowing their heads for the Lord’s Prayer, many people mouthed the words led by Mickey. At “Amen” there was a loud roar, and the crowd pressed in as helmets rose high in the air. Everyone wanted to congratulate his or her favorite player.

  Graeme, from atop Stephen’s shoulders, shouted, “There he is! And there’s Gabbie and Aunt Martina!”

  Stephen and Claire followed Graeme’s points and yells through the labyrinth of people until they approached the members of the Rodriguez family, who were cheering and chatting with a bruised but exuberant Mickey.

  “Way to go, Manassa Mauler!” Graeme hollered. “You taught those Falcons a lesson!”

  Mickey turned a lopsided grin up at Graeme and roughed one of his knees, which shook Stephen’s shoulder.

  Claire hugged a frazzled Martina, who was completely hoarse, while Jesús, with Gabbie on his shoulders in full Grizzly cheerleader attire, shook Stephen’s hand.

  Not far away stood Joe with Frieda at his side. He was talking into a microphone, answering a news reporter’s questions about the game. When he finished, he waved at Stephen, who trotted over with Graeme still on his shoulders.

  “Way to go, bro!” Stephen said, slapping him on the back.

  “Who’s this little fella?”

  “This is Graeme MacGregor, a future Grizzly.”

  “Nice to meet you, Graeme,” Joe said, looking up at the boy.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Graeme said politely. Then, turning to Frieda, he said, “You’re pretty.”

  Frieda laughed at this, a deep belly laugh. “Thank you!”

  “He’s a smart kid, I see,” Joe said to Stephen.

  Stephen nodded. “That was an awesome game, man. I’m really happy for you.”

  “Yeah, me, too. I’m really proud of those guys. They worked hard.”

  Mickey and a couple of other players filed past, and Joe clapped one of them on the backside with his clipboard.

  “Hey, don’t let me keep you; I know you need to get into the locker room.”

  “Thanks for coming, man. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. I enjoyed it. Let’s try to get a run in next week.”

  Stephen and Graeme sauntered back over to where Claire was standing with Martina, Jesús, and Gabbie. Together, they all walked off the field, which was clear now except for a few other stragglers and some litter from the concession stand.

  On the way through the parking lot, Stephen could see that Gabbie was making some mysterious hand motions from her perch on her father’s shoulders, but he couldn’t see Graeme’s response. He could only feel him bouncing up and down at whatever question she had posed. They stopped at the Rodriguezes’ car.

  “Mommy, can Graeme spend the night?”

  “What, Gabriela?”

  “I said, can Graeme spend the night with us? It’s his turn. Last time I spent the night with him at his abuelita’s, and we went fishing for goldfish and took a bubble bath and watched Beauty and the Beast.”

  “Well, I don’t know. We need to see what Aunt Claire Claire thinks.”

  Claire looked at Graeme, who was nodding his head fiercely and bugging out his eyes from the top of Stephen’s shoulders. Then she looked at Martina and Jesús. “What about the restaurant?”

  “Oh, it’ll be fine. I’ve had more time at home since we’ve gotten our people up front trained. And Jesús does most of the cooking and bossing at Art and Sol, don’t you babe?”

  “Especially on weekends and in the evenings. She’s the art of the home and I’m the sol provider,” he joked.

  “Well, okay,” Claire said. “Martina, I may be gone all day.”

  “She will,” Stephen interjected, “if I have anything to say about it.”

  Martina and Jesús exchanged a knowing look.

  “That’s no problem. Graeme can stay all day if he wants. But if he gets tired of us, we’ll take him to Abuelita’s.”

  Graeme swung down from Stephen’s shoulders and hugged his mother.

  “I’m sorry I can’t go with you guys wherever you’re going,” he said to Stephen. “But I need to spend some time with my friend Gabbie.”

  “I understand, Graeme,” Stephen assured him. “We’ll catch you next time.”

  The ride back to Romeo was short and sweet. They drove through the Wendy’s near the exit in La Jara and ordered Frosties on Gene’s recommendation, which Claire said she thought was cute. They ate them on the way home. Stephen learned that she preferred chocolate to vanilla.

  When they arrived back at the Casa, Abuelita’s party appeared to still be in full swing. There were several cars in the driveway, and the place was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  At the door, Claire turned to him.

  “Would you like to come in?”

  Fully charged by her presence and excited about the prospects of tomorrow, Stephen was in no hurry for the night to end. However, he was going to have to get up early in the morning to get everything done. Did he have another hour or so to spare?

  He quickly went over the events of his morning in his head: Woolworth, his wounded lamb, had to be sheared and fed, and the dressing on his leg changed. Oreo’s pen was a pigsty—in the worst sense—and he couldn’t in good conscience leave her in it that way another day. Regina and Duchess needed attention, the cows all demanded to be checked, and he had to make a run into La Jara to check on a patient he was treating in the hospital. If he was going to make it to Claire’s house by ten, he needed to start by five thirty.

  “Claire, I would, but I have a few things to do before we go to Taos tomorrow. I don’t want to ruin our trip by falling asleep on you. I think I’d better call it a night.”

  She looked at him, pensive. Had he offended her?

  “That’s fine. It will be good for me to turn in a little early. Thanks for the fun evening—and especially for how you treated Graeme.”

  Her eyes concentrated on his face for a long moment, and then she reached up, tentatively. She ran the pads of her fingers over one of his eyebrows and then his cheekbone and jaw, just to the boundary of his hairline.

  Stephen raised his hand and caught hers in it as she brushed his chin. Then he lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them, one by one, on their velvety tips. So soft and delicate, he thought. And yet she’s as strong as steel. He really, really didn’t need to stay any longer.

  “Good night, Claire,” he said, backing away and smiling at her but still holding onto her hand.

  The light from the black iron chandelier on the porch danced in her eyes like moonlight on water. Something in their depths seemed to beckon to Stephen, but she blinked it away. It took a great deal of effort for him to let go.

  “See you in the morning, Stephen.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Claire was standing on the edge of a cliff. At least it seemed to be a cliff. She could hear the sound of moving water below her but was afraid to look over the edge—afraid she’d fall. In spite of the cool breeze blowing up from the water, sweat poured down her brow, stinging her eyes. Or were those tears?

  Claire didn’t know how she had gotten to that spo
t, only that she was dreadfully exhausted and her feet hurt. She looked down at them and saw raw gashes and cuts that oozed blood. Behind her, leading into the woods, was a grown-up path strewn with jagged rocks. No wonder her feet hurt. Is that where she’d been? Where were her shoes?

  Claire’s pants, rolled up at the ankles, were splotched all over with mud. Cockleburs wedged themselves through the fabric and prodded her tired legs like little pitchforks. She reached down to pick one off. That’s when she realized that her arms felt heavy, hanging from her shoulders like dead weights.

  Claire rubbed them up and down with the palms of her hands, hugging herself and trying to bring her muscles back to life. She found that the sleeves of her linen shirt had been ripped open in places by thorns. Some of the thorns were stuck in her hands. As she tried to pull them out, she noticed that her fingernails were dirty and broken.

  “Where am I?” Claire wondered aloud.

  At the sound of her voice a pair of doves took flight, and their sudden movement scared Claire. She wobbled on her sore feet for a moment by the edge, flinging out her arms and trying desperately to keep from falling.

  “Just jump,” a man’s voice said. “I’ll catch you.”

  “Who said that?” Claire asked, straining to see the water, where she thought the voice came from.

  In just that moment the alarm clock by her bed went off with several loud beeps. Seven o’clock. The alarm was loud and disorienting, but Claire was relieved to wake up. Peeling off covers like layers of consciousness, she slowly became aware that she was safe in her bed, her feet and fingernails intact. As frightening as it had been to stand on that cliff, when she fully realized it was only a dream, a part of Claire longed to go back to sleep and hear that voice again.

  “Claire? Hija?”

  There was a soft knock on her bedroom door. Claire rolled over in bed and saw Abuelita entering with a silver tray. She was fully dressed in black pants and a colorful silk poncho, and her hair was pulled back in an elegant chignon. Tucked into the chignon was a large, red flower, reminiscent of Evita Perón.

  “Good morning, Abuelita,” Claire said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “Wow—what is this?”

  Abuelita set the tray down by Claire on the bedside table. “Here are tea and oats, the paper, and there is the honey. I am leaving. I have to take Mrs. Jones to the hospital today. She is having tests run and cannot drive herself.”

  “Oh.”

  “I will be back in time to pick Graeme up at Martina’s. I want you to have a wonderful day and not worry about anything.”

  Claire rose up on her elbows. “You didn’t tell me last night about Mrs. Jones. If you’re too busy today—”

  “Of course not!”

  “I don’t ever want to put you out, you know.”

  Abuelita reached down and squeezed Claire’s hand. “You’re my bambino. And so is Graeme. It’s not ‘putting me out.’” She kissed both of Claire’s cheeks.

  “Thank you,” Claire said sincerely. “You spoil me.”

  “De nada.” Abuelita turned to exit the room.

  Claire called after her. “Abuelita, do you think it’s okay for me to leave him all day like this?”

  “I think it’s more than okay. I think he needs it—and so do you.”

  Listening to her grandmother’s shoes clicking down the hallway and then down the stairs, Claire felt pleasantly alone. After a quick trip to the bathroom, she settled back in bed with her tea and The New York Times. She’d enjoy just a few moments to herself, and then she needed to do some schoolwork before getting ready for her trip with Stephen. If she was going to spend a whole day away, she wanted to devote all of Sunday to Graeme without having to grade papers or prepare for class.

  As she sipped the tea Abuelita had prepared for her, one of the headlines in the Times caught Claire’s interest. The subject of the article was the fence built along the border of the United States and Mexico to keep illegal immigrants out. As she read, Claire was struck by an idea. She rummaged through the drawer of the bedside table to find a pen and paper and started taking notes. This would be a great launchpad for the discussion she planned to lead in one of her classes on Immigration Literature.

  Berlin Wall. Great Wall of China, Claire scrawled across the paper. Then, going a step further in her mind, she wrote, Why do people build walls? What are we keeping inside? What—and whom—do we want to keep out? She looked out the window and gazed for a few moments at the gates of the Casa. Walls can keep us safe, she wrote. But they can also close us off from life. Bringing them down may be necessary for our growth as a nation and as individuals.

  Claire shrugged as her writing turned to doodling. She’d have to develop this idea later. She had a section of essays to grade before she left with Stephen, and she needed a little time to get ready. Setting the tea back on the tray, she got up and walked over to her desk, paper-clipping her notes from the Times to the inside cover of her grade book to think about another day. Then she dug into the pile of essays on her desk.

  After all of the essays were graded, Claire hastily made her bed, showered, and dressed. She had chosen to be comfortable today in khaki jeans and a thin ivory sweater. Over the sweater she would wear a jacket she bought at an artsy, southwest-style boutique in Alamosa; it was a woven mixture of turquoise, hot pink, yellow, burnt orange, and green.

  Standing in front of her full-length mirror, Claire fastened her brown leather belt. Then she hurried into the bathroom to put on a little makeup. It was almost ten. Feeling like a teenager, she decided to wear just a hint of dark-green eye shadow along with her smoky black eyeliner. Her lipstick was the color of red wine.

  Makeup done, Claire pulled her hair back on the sides, plucked a few stray grays, and secured it with a tortoise-shell barrette. Gold highlights, from days on the patio, shimmered through the darkness of her widow’s peak, and Claire was satisfied with the face she saw in the mirror.

  She jumped almost a foot in the air, however, when she heard something hit her window. Was it a rock? There it was again. Claire darted into her room and pulled back the heavy Italian curtains.

  When she recovered from her shock, Claire laughed out loud at what she saw. Stephen Reyes was standing beneath her window. He was dressed in jeans and a starched Polo shirt the color of his eyes, with a white t-shirt underneath. A vibrant cluster of flowers, wrapped in tissue paper, was in his hand.

  But that was not the funny part. As soon as he saw her, he went down on one knee, holding the bouquet of flowers across his heart and grinning like a cat. She undid the latches to open the window.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, leaning out the window over an iron window box that had recently been winterized.

  “‘But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Claire is the sun.’”

  Claire stared at him in disbelief for a moment before she completely cracked up. Stephen looked so silly down there—so goofy. It was a side of him she hadn’t seen before.

  “What’s this?” he asked, feigning offense. “You’re laughing at me? I’m on my knee quoting Shakespeare to you and you’re laughing?”

  Claire laughed more, really cackling. She couldn’t help herself.

  “What’s a guy got to do to court an English professor?” He stood to his feet and held out his arms in mock confusion.

  “Sing!” she suggested.

  “I think I’ve got a better idea.” Stephen tossed the flowers up to her and then disappeared. It was a lovely arrangement of red gladiolus, fuchsia daisies, Asian lilies, and yellow roses. Claire removed the tissue and was arranging them in a vase on her desk when she heard him back at the window. Could he be climbing up the house?

  “Stephen?” she asked, looking out again and seeing him climbing a ladder toward her. “Where did you get that?”

  “From the toolshed.” He made it to the top and stood there, facing her through the window.

  “Hi.” Stephen’s face was beaming.


  Standing face-to-face over the window box, Claire found nothing in his eyes but boyish excitement, and yes—trust. Vulnerability. Instead of second-guessing it all, she did an instinctive, spontaneous thing.

  She kissed him on the lips.

  Then, whispering softly in his ear, Claire quoted, “‘All my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay, and follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.’” She could feel the muscles in his jaw stretch into a smile, and when she leaned back and looked him in the eyes, they were very wide. She grinned. “Or at least to Taos.”

  “That’s cruel. Very cruel,” Stephen said, but he didn’t seem to mean it. He looked past her into her bedroom. “Shall I just climb in thy window, m’lady?”

  Claire raised her eyebrows at him. “Why don’t you put that ladder away, Romeo, and I’ll meet you downstairs.” She smiled primly, dusting one of her hairs off his shoulder. “Thank you for the flowers.”

  They turned left out of the iron gates onto Highway 142, which took them through downtown Romeo, and made a left onto Highway 285. In less than ten minutes they had crossed the border into New Mexico, and the ten-thousand-feet-high Ute Peak passed behind them like a distant memory.

  “It must have been something to grow up in this area,” Stephen commented, “with all of the wide open spaces and the mountains. I love it.”

  Claire reflected. “I think I took it for granted,” she said. “I always liked it here, but I also liked the other places I’ve lived. I used to think I could be happy anywhere—and Arkansas is extremely beautiful. It wasn’t until my husband died that I began to feel stifled there.” She looked over at Stephen. “After that happened, I suddenly needed to come home to feel like I could breathe.”

  “Your home was with him,” Stephen said carefully. “That’s not something geographical.”

  “You’re right.” Claire nodded, appreciative of his understanding. “But the geography here is tied in with who I am—my culture and history—and my abuelita. It’s been good to rediscover those roots and realize that they are strong. Strong enough to survive.”