Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

8. Lena

Impatience plus eighty-five percent humidity equals me not at my best.

“Ay , so he cannot talk to us right now? How insistent were you? Does the Rico Charm not work on Catholic padres?” I quiz him.

Rico grins. “Bah, I’m yet to find anyone immune to my charms . . . present company excluded.” He eyes me as if I were some undiscovered creature from the ocean’s depths. The kind that doesn’t have eyes because it has adapted to fathoms of darkness and has never seen his level of blinding light.

“Oh, you noticed?” Fine, even without eyes to admire him, Rico’s magnetism would be undeniable. Totally beside the point.

I am not surprised he is immune to sarcasm. “Oh, I noticed,” he acknowledges. “Pero mira, since I wasn’t able to reach him to schedule anything yesterday, there’s nothing we can do but wait. I’d rather the waiting not include your scolding with interludes of huffing and icy stares.”

I huff before I can stop myself, which makes me glare. Which of course makes him grin-smirk.

Using the obvious fact that I am melting—correction— glowing on these cathedral front steps as evidence, Rico offers, “Look, this is Puerto Rico in August, Lena. Let’s get something to cool off just down this street. Studies show there’s no way one can stay annoyed while having a limber.”

“That is not my name.” He raises his eyebrows as if to say, “That’s what you’re focusing on?”

A bead of glow/sweat trails down my back as I look down the long, cobblestoned street he points at. Whatever exclusively Puerto Rican concoction a limber is—if it’s refreshing, I will take it. “Alright, lead the way.”

“ Fantástico,” he deadpans. “Heat exhaustion crisis averted.” He does not comment on how it might be the only time he will ever hear me say those words and walks with a smile toward Caleta Las Monjas (Nuns Street).

It is an aptly named lane because it houses the El Convento Hotel. As I recall from my brief Puerto Rico travel research, the strikingly yellow luxury boutique hotel was once a three-hundred-year-old Carmelite nun convent. My devoted Catholic ancestors are cringing in their saintly mausoleums.

In front of the cathedral and the hotel is a small, tree-canopied plaza with benches. The cluster of ancient trees casts some welcome shade, and the breeze that joins it instantly makes this walk a very good idea. Not that I would ever tell this to Mr. Yet-To-Find-Anyone-Immune.

As I follow him down the street toward the bay, we’re surrounded by long-standing, cheerily painted narrow homes with their arched wooden double doors and second-floor iron-railed balconies. I can’t help but enjoy the stroll. The back view of Rico’s confident, languid strut is neither here nor there—just as ever, an unavoidable, distracting presence.

When he hands me an unnaturally red, cherry liquid frozen solid in a disposable cup, I do as the sweltering do and directly suck into the tart, icy goodness. We sit in front of the literal hole-in-the-wall where these refreshments were acquired, near what seems to be a favorite stray cat hang-out, and stare out toward the blue-green San Juan Bay.

The refreshing moment is pleasant, and, after a little while, the surprisingly companionable silence has me confessing. “It seems ‘studies’ were correct. I do feel better.”

He doesn’t look at me but replies, “I’m glad. Studies also show that that cherry color on your mouth will take three whole business days to come off.”

I aggressively try to wipe off the shocking cherry tint to no avail. His chuckle betrays his intent to get a reaction out of me. My eyes narrow, and I notice he is looking at me now. Right at my red-stained lips. And he is not chuckling anymore.

I direct a full glare at him. His knee-jerk reaction to getting caught staring too long is to switch into tour guide mode—rhetorical question tour guide mode, to be exact.

Rico clears his throat and points at the twelve-foot bronze figures standing almost right in front of us, all holding torches. “Do you see that group of statues there?”

“Eh, yes. How can I not?” Did he somehow expect me to make it easy on him?

Tour guide mode soldiers on and recovers well with his usual deep, melodic tone. “That’s La Rogativa. It was placed in the early seventies to commemorate a very special victory for the people of San Juan. In 1797, the British navy had a blockade on the city and was ready to attack. Desperate, the townswomen joined the bishop and marched in a procession along the streets near the bay.”

“What good would that do?” Fine—he got me.

Smiling at his successful pivot and my obvious interest, Rico explains, “A rogativa is a prayer procession; they were marching and clamoring to God for the city’s deliverance.”

He pauses for effect like a Puerto Rican peacock who never wastes an opportunity to preen.

I huff. “You are going to make me ask what happened?”

His grin is so self-satisfied. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Rico switches into an old-soul storyteller in a blink and continues, “Pues, that night, as the naval fleet viewed from the bay, the sight of all those torch lights marching looked like Spanish military reinforcements. Legend claims that—even with eight thousand troops and fifty ships ready to siege—the British feared being outnumbered. They retreated, freeing the city. Only the people, some torches, and their faith, and they had the most powerful navy in the world sailing away.”

Silence settles again, this time more pensive. Rico stands and walks closer to the monument, leaning his strong arms against the fortress walls that surround the city.

Wanting an even better view of the bay’s shining waters, I join him at the wall and gaze out.

And sneak glances of his striking profile.

Because we were supposed to be meeting in a church today, he doesn’t have his usual baseball cap. His shaved head lets sharp features stand out for a very confident “it is what it is” effect, much like Rico himself.

He lets the silence drag on with the faraway whispering of the waves. I don’t know where the usually chatty man-child went.

I finally push back on the quiet and admit, “I do not know what to do with Quiet Rico.”

After a moment he sighs out, “This statue always gets me thinking.” I take a minute to consider it more closely as he continues, “ La Rogativa legend stands for so much of why I now do what I do—or at least for what I want to be my why . History is history, but it’s the simple stories of community that are a true heritage. Staying and belonging, no matter the odds. That means a lot to me.”

Now I don’t know what to do with Deep, Existential Rico. Especially because he stops gazing forward and turns to look right at me, seeking and assessing, always that glint in his brown, crinkly eyes.

My turn to clear-throat scramble. Plus babbling. Add babbling. “I mean, it is a nice story. Oye pero , you can’t set aside history as a social science. Legends and heritage, those fluctuate. Evidence, sources, verifiable data—that is what lasts. How can you have a legacy if it is not well founded?”

Assessing eyes are still assessing me as he replies, “To me it doesn’t get more ‘founded’ than having such a faith to hold your ground that it’s still told about centuries later.”

I don’t know how to argue that, so I shift opposite him, lean my back against the fortress wall and try some deflecting. I gesture at the huge patinated statues and ask, “Staying. Belonging. Standing your ground. That is what you get from this?”

“Yep, it’s a lot harder than it sounds. Finding and keeping something worth fighting for and having the strength and faith to actually fight for it however you can—torches and all.”

You could knock me over with a palm frond. Where did all this yearning insight come from?

And how can I completely not relate?

The last thing I have wanted is anything or anyone to tie me down and hold me back. My research, my career, are my life and future legacy. I have made sure that is all I need.

Rico would have been marching with a torch held high, while I know I would have been negotiating a dinghy to the next un-blockaded island.

“Torches and all?” So many thoughts, but that is all that comes out.

Rico goes on, “Easier said than done, verdad ? I’m definitely still working on it. It’s why I’m here on the island—to see if I could grow some real roots—since I know what it feels like to wish someone would stay.”

Now that I can relate to a little too much.

But the assessment/confessional is over.

I barely mumble out an awkward, “Wow, that’s heavy,” when Rico pushes off the wall and declares, “The padre should be available to meet with us now.”