Love Finds You in Romeo, Colorado

by Gwen Ford Faulkenberry

  “There’s no good place to sleep.”

  “Well, I think I’ll go back home then, if you think she’s really okay.”

  “I do. She just needs rest.”

  “You’ll call me, hijo? If she needs anything?”

  “I’ll call you. I promise.”

  “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Claire didn’t know whether she was dreaming or awake. Her head pounded against her skull like a prisoner trying to escape, and her bottom lip felt tight. Her body ached, and her ankles, when she tried to move them, felt as if they each weighed one hundred pounds. Her eyes burned as they adjusted to the semi-dark, slowly revealing her surroundings.

  She was lying in a hospital bed with covers pulled up to her neck. The only light was a sickly, bluish fluorescent beam cast through a crack in the door. She looked around her. A man who appeared to be a doctor was sitting upright in a vinyl chair with his head resting against the wall. He was asleep.

  Stephen, she thought in a flash of recognition. What’s he doing in here?

  She flailed her arms a bit to get them loose from the covers. Then she pushed a button on the railing of her bed that would set her up a bit.

  At the sound of the inclining bed, Stephen roused.

  “Claire?” he asked, emerging from dead asleep to full consciousness faster than Claire could’ve imagined possible. He sprang to her side. “It’s me, Claire. I’m here. I’ve been here all night. You had an accident, but you’re okay. You’re going to be fine. Are you hurting anywhere?”

  “My head.”

  Stephen pushed the button to call the nurse. “Bring us some Advil.”

  “Okay, Dr. Reyes. Be right there.”

  “Stephen, I don’t understand.”

  “The accident? Do you remember anything?”

  Claire shook her head in disgust. “Yes, I remember the accident. I’m not talking about that. I don’t understand why you’re here.”

  The nurse came in with a pill and a drink. Claire swallowed it, and the water felt good on her parched throat.

  “Can I have a little more of that?” she asked the nurse.

  “Sure, hon, I’ll be right back.”

  When the nurse left them again, Stephen said, “I’m here because I want to be with you. To take care of you.”

  “I don’t need you to take care of me.” Claire spit the words at him through her busted lip. She was starting to feel agitated.

  “Claire, I—”

  The nurse came back in with a big glass of ice water and a package of cheese crackers. “You probably ought to try to eat these with that pain medicine, if you can.”

  “Thanks,” Claire said, taking them from her.

  “You guys just call if you need anything. I’ll be right outside at the station.” The nurse left the room.

  “Can I go home? Is my car here?” Claire asked Stephen.

  He looked at her like she was from Venus.

  “Claire, you have a concussion. We’re observing you overnight. If you’re fine in the morning, which it looks like you will be, I’ll take you home first thing.”

  “I don’t want you to take me home. Where’s my abuelita?”

  “She was here, but she left. She’ll be back in the morning. You can go home with her then if you want, as long as everything checks out.”

  The lines in Stephen’s face were deep. Claire could tell he was tired, and she thought she saw something else. He seemed wounded. But that only made her mad.

  “Stephen, the ruse is over. I heard you call Janet; I know you’re getting back with her. That’s fine and I wish you the best. I just wish you’d drop the act of pretending to care about Graeme and me. We don’t need you.” As she said these words, a sharp stab of pain in her head engulfed her, and she lurched forward, raising her hand to the spot where she’d been hit.

  Stephen’s tone became more professional. “Claire, I’m going to go out now. I think you need to rest. I’ll be just outside the room if you need anything.” He lingered over the bed for a moment, staring at her. Then his voice softened. “You’re wrong about Janet. And you’re wrong about me.” He tapped the side of the bed with his hand, and then he was gone.

  Claire leaned back against the pillow and closed her eyes. She could feel the Advil kicking in, and the throbbing in her head dulled to a more bearable level. Like muted bass drums, the pain seemed to beat out a cadence of Stephen’s last words. Wrong about Janet. Wrong about me. Wrong about Janet.

  “Lord, am I wrong?”

  Her words seem to fall and shatter to a million pieces on the cold tile floor.

  “Are You even listening? Do You even exist?”

  There was no answer but the low hum of a machine down the hall.

  Emboldened by the silence, Claire sat up. “I don’t think You do.” There, she’d said it. “You’re a figment of the imagination, something people make up to explain what they can’t understand. But You know what? Even that doesn’t work for me. Because You don’t make any logical sense.”

  Claire was crying now. She could feel something in her dying, something she’d held onto for all these years, and she imagined it was the last of her innocence—the last vestiges of her faith. But on some level, she realized, it felt good. Honest. Every question she’d shoved to the corners of her brain was suddenly swept out into the open. Claire was cleaning house—getting rid of a hand-me-down religion that never had fit.

  “My parents died a brutal death and so did my husband. Three of the most pure souls to ever walk the earth. And what did You do to prevent it? Nothing. My life—and Graeme’s—have been changed forever by what we’ve lost. And where were You?”

  Silence.

  “I thought so. You’re nowhere. We’re all on our own. I could have been killed tonight just getting the mail, for crying out loud. Then Graeme would be an orphan!”

  Claire thought about all of the conversations she’d had with Oscar about religion. He’d shown a tremendous amount of respect for her beliefs, though he never shared them. He’d abandoned his faith a long time ago.

  “Why didn’t I?” Claire thought. “What’s taken me so long? Have I just not had the guts to admit it’s outdated?” She rubbed a sore place on her side. “I’ve known for a long time, both personally and existentially, that Christianity doesn’t work. Even so-called Christians can’t get it right. Why have I hung on so long to the idea that it could?”

  I’m not an idea, a distinct but inaudible voice said.

  Claire stopped rubbing her side and sat very still. Had she really heard something? Her heart seemed to stop in her chest.

  I am a Person, and I am your Friend.

  Claire closed her eyes as fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. Her quivering chin dropped as she bent her head low, listening intently for one more sound of that voice. His voice.

  I am not a man that I would lie. I am not matter that you can contain me. I am not a question you can answer. I am your Lover, and I am your Friend.

  If anyone would have asked Claire, prior to that moment, if she had heard the voice of God, she would have given a pat answer. “No,” she would have said, “but I believe He speaks through the Bible.” She had said that to Oscar, in fact, many times, pointing out scriptures that she believed taught people how to live a moral life.

  Let go, Claire.

  “I can’t. I want to, but I can’t.”

  Let go, once and for all.

  “I’m not strong enough. Not brave enough. What if something else bad happens? I’m afraid.”

  I understand, my love. But let go.

  “I will not let go until You bless me! Until You promise that everything will be okay from here on out.”

  Let go and I will catch you. I promise I will always be here to catch you, no matter what.

  Claire woke the next morning to see Abuelita fussing about the room. She was unpacking an overnight bag with a fresh change of clothes for Claire, and on the
roller table there was a Styrofoam plate of breakfast tacos and fruit. A thermos was set beside it, and Claire could smell the welcome aroma of Ginger Peach tea.

  “Good morning, Abuelita,” she said, pressing the button to elevate her bed.

  “Buenos dias, hija.” Abuelita kissed her on the forehead. “How are you feeling?”

  “Sore, but fairly okay. I am ready to get out of here.”

  “Stephen gave the orders for you to be released, so after some breakfast, we’ll go.” Abuelita eased the table across the bed in front of Claire.

  “Is Stephen here?” Raising herself up, Claire found that her head had turned into a fishbowl. She closed her eyes to steady herself.

  “No, he left when I got here, just a few moments ago. I’m sure he’s gone home to rest.”

  “He stayed here all night?”

  “Sí.” Abuelita sat down on the edge of Claire’s bed.

  “Oh, Abuelita, I’m afraid I behaved very badly toward him. Again.”

  “Hmm,” Abuelita said. “Well, that makes two of us, then.”

  Claire looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”

  “I spoke harshly to him last night before giving him a chance to explain.”

  “Explain what?” Claire took a sip of her tea and let the warm, soothing liquid sink into her soul. “Please tell me everything.”

  “Well, first of all, Stephen is not getting back together with his ex-wife. She’s remarried and is living in another state. He called her to apologize after talking to you about forgiveness.” Abuelita cocked her head to one side and raised her eyebrows for effect as she stared at Claire. “He is very hurt that you would still doubt him after all the water under the bridge, but he loves you. He told me so himself.”

  Claire let out a big sigh.

  “Second of all, you could have died last night down at the mailbox.” Abuelita’s eyes suddenly welled up with tears. “There was a terrible wreck right in front of the gates of the Casa. A man died, in fact. And had you not jumped into the ditch, you would have been crushed. Thank the good Lord you used those brains He gave you and jumped out of the way.”

  Claire suddenly remembered something with startling clarity. “I didn’t jump,” she said. “Somebody pushed me.”

  Abuelita leaned forward, sable eyes shining. “What do you mean, hija? No one else was there at the scene. Graeme and I didn’t even know about it until the ambulance came.”

  “I don’t know,” Claire answered. She tried to piece together the fragments she remembered in her mind. “I was getting the mail and I saw the cars coming; there was a loud noise, and then I felt somebody push me out of the way. I don’t remember what he looked like. The next thing I knew, I was in the ditch.”

  “Well, glory be. It must have been an angel.”

  On the way home, Claire asked Abuelita to turn down County Road 10. “It’s where Stephen lives,” she explained. “I want to leave him a note.”

  She scrawled on a piece of a Sonic napkin she found in Abuelita’s glove box.

  Stephen,

  I’m desperately sorry. Please, please forgive me. I will never doubt you again.

  Love,

  Claire

  She saw Nell’s figure in the picture window as Abuelita’s Cadillac passed the Patricks’ house.

  Turning into Stephen’s drive, Abuelita said, “What a lovely place.”

  They drove up into the space between Stephen’s house and the outlying barn.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Claire said, slowly getting out of the car. Both of her ankles were wrapped, and she hobbled up to the door.

  When she finally got there, she tried to lodge the napkin between the door and its frame. Surprisingly, the door opened.

  “Stephen?” she called, poking her head into the mudroom. There was no answer.

  Claire looked absolutely awful, but she didn’t care. Crossing the space in front of Abuelita as fast as she could, she motioned with her arms. “I’m going to try the barn,” she mouthed.

  Abuelita, who was singing along with Andraé Crouch, simply nodded.

  By the time she reached the doorway of the barn, Claire was painfully exhausted. The fish in her head were swimming, and her ankles screamed in protest of that much activity. She heard a rustling down toward the sheep’s pen and dragged herself there.

  “If I didn’t find you here, I was going to lie down and die in the hay,” she said when she saw Stephen down on one knee, feeding Woolworth from his hand.

  “Claire?” He rose to his feet and looked at her, his eyes searching as from across a deep desert.

  “You take that sheep feeding thing rather seriously, don’t you?”

  He grinned and came to her, and Claire fell into his arms.

  Epilogue

  The March day was everything they could have hoped for. The clouds, like gossamer curtains, drew back to reveal a cerulean Colorado sky stretching out in every direction as far as the eye could see. Even the mountains seemed to notice, standing taller and seemingly more erect. In the sparkling sunlight, the sky seemed to Claire as pure and spotless as a wedding dress. The train of it billowed on forever, like a royal robe unfurling its jewel-like hues.

  They had chosen this place because it was sacred to them—this sky was the dome of their love’s cathedral. It was here in the San Luis Valley that they met and fell in love, here they courted, and here they planned to live their lives. So it only made sense that here, in this place, they would also be married.

  Many people had pitched in to make this day happen—and now they were all gathered under a bower of oaks on Stephen’s ranch in Romeo. Claire scanned the crowd of white chairs laced with pink tulle and ribbon and spotted Jesús sitting proudly beside Mickey. He beamed up at the bride’s only attendant, Martina, who was standing and holding a white rose near the natural stone altar.

  Martina looked lovely in a pale pink dress with a princess neckline. The bodice and skirt were satin with lace overlay. Its long, soft lines accentuated her graceful figure, and the color of the fabric seemed to make her skin glow. Her hair was up and held in place by a ring of faux pearls. Elegant curls framed her face, and the loose tendrils beside her ears fell like black filigree over pearl drop earrings. She smiled at Claire like one who had always known and loved her, and they shared a moment of secret delight.

  Near Jesús and Mickey were Dr. Banks, with his neat grey ponytail, and Jerry with his wife, Sue, who was very pregnant and radiant in a yellow linen dress. Across the aisle from them were Nell and Gene Patrick on a row with the Evanses. Nell was wearing her best Sunday dress, a flower print, and Gene and Stan were both in suits. Marsha looked like spring had come into her heart. She held Stan’s hand in one of hers and smiled thoughtfully as she patted it with the other.

  Stephen’s sister, Maria, in all her vibrant beauty, was on the front row ahead of them. She was wearing a silk turquoise tent dress that came to her knee with a pair of tiny silver ballerina slippers. Her hair was swept up in a loose French twist and adorned with a peacock feather. Manuel, her distinguished-looking husband, sat beside his wife with his arm around her, reading the program.

  In front of them, opposite the altar from Martina, was Joe. Claire thought she had never seen him look happier nor more alive. Not even the night his team won the big game.

  Joe was steady and strong in his black tux with tails. Though his eyes seemed to exude an energy barely contained, he didn’t fidget. He just stood there, sometimes looking to heaven and humming his own tune. Every once in a while he would glance over and smile at Stephen.

  Ah, Stephen. Claire’s pulse quickened at the sight of him. Who would have imagined they would be here together on this day? She remembered another ceremony and another groom she would always cherish. But today there were no comparisons. Everyone and everything—past, present and future—were bathed in the sunshine of grace.

  Claire watched Stephen from her hidden position in the back. He shifted his feet in the black dress sho
es that matched his tux. She noted the broad shoulders she’d learned to lean on, the strong set of his jaw. He had a white rosebud tucked into his lapel.

  Stephen’s eyes, looking towards the mountains, were tender and reverent. He held his hands loosely at his sides, and she could still see the gentleness in them, the gentleness that had caught her eye on the day they had met. He smiled warmly at Joe, and Claire could just barely make out the chip in his front tooth.

  At two o’clock sharp, Frieda’s brother, a recognized protégé of Wynton Marsalis, stood and played the “Bridal Chorus” on his horn. The small gathering of people rose to its feet in honor and anticipation. Gabriela Isabella Rodriguez strode down the aisle in multiple layers of satin and lace, tossing rose petals out of a satin basket.

  When the music’s energy heightened, Claire caught her breath. The moment had finally arrived. She smiled wholeheartedly at Frieda, who was as warm and sweet as Mexican chocolate underneath her veil.

  “It’s time,” Claire said and handed Frieda the bride’s bouquet of roses.

  As Frieda stepped forward on the arm of her father, who would also perform the ceremony, Claire ruffled the train out behind her friend. Then she took a seat on the back row, sliding in beside Abuelita and Graeme, who had saved her a place.

  When the ceremony was over and Joe and Frieda were pronounced man and wife, Frieda’s father turned to Joe and grinned. “Now, Joe,” he said, pausing for effect. “Finally, Joe—you may kiss your bride.”

  Joe released Frieda’s hand, returning it gingerly to her side like he was afraid it would break if he let it go. Then, using both of his hands, he carefully lifted the veil from Frieda’s face and kissed her ever so tenderly.

  The crowd broke into applause, standing to its feet.

  Frieda then reached up, grabbed Joe’s face in her hands, and planted another kiss—a bigger one—on his lips.

  The crowd went as wild as it had at the championship game.

  The Reverend Franklin yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Joe Riggins.”