Chapter 9
T omas reached blindly for his ringing phone as early morning sun peeked around the blinds of his bedroom window.
Locating the phone among the detritus from his pockets on the nightstand, he pressed it to his ear.
“Mom, you have a husband and two other children, why do you always call me?” He rolled to his back, pressing fingers against his forehead, trying to push away the headache making its presence known.
“Because I’ve loved you the longest,” Louisa Santiago chirped in his ear.
He never got tired of hearing that response. For years it had been Tomas and his mother, after his father left. Then she’d met and married Carlos and had two daughters, Sylvie, twenty-five, and Cara, twenty-eight.
Clearly with an agenda, she carried on, “Carlos left for the market and my car won’t start. I need you to drive me to church. After that, I’ll take you out for breakfast.”
Groaning inwardly, Tomas threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. “It’s Wednesday. Who goes to church on Wednesday mornings?”
“We have a new pastor. He started the weekday worship a few months ago.”
“Fine. What time does it start?” He shuffled out of the bedroom, wincing at the sight of the empty tequila bottle on the coffee table. Ignoring it, he proceeded to the bathroom in search of ibuprofen.
“In forty-five minutes.”
He pressed his forehead against the cool mirror of the medicine cabinet. “K. While you’re there, I’ll take a look at your car.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
Grunting, he turned off the phone and turned on the shower.
Forty minutes later, he pulled up in front of Keeney United Methodist, idled at the curb, and looked at his mother over the top of his sunglasses. “Why are you bringing tamales?” She had chattered the whole time she’d been in his truck, and this was his first opportunity to get a word in edgewise.
“For Pastor Tran. He’s thin, doesn’t eat enough.” Louisa pulled the visor down to check her makeup in the mirror.
He searched his memory for the pastor’s name when he’d attended Sunday School, pretty sure it was something different.
“Pastor Tran? You have a Vietnamese pastor?”
Louisa thinned her lips. “Yes, you have a problem with that?”
“Not at all.” Tomas raised his hands, palms up. “I didn’t know there were Methodists in Vietnam.”
“Seven percent of the population is Christian. You would know that if you attended church once in a while.”
Church was a big part of his mother’s life. She rarely missed a Sunday and served on multiple committees. It didn’t surprise Tomas that she’d taken on feeding the pastor.
Leaning over, he kissed his mother’s cheek.
About to speak, his attention was caught by two women meeting on the sidewalk in front of the church.
Both impeccably dressed, with dark hair arranged in tight hairstyles at the back of the head, the younger woman greeted the older woman by bowing her head. “Who’s that?”
Louisa sniffed. “Linh Han.”
“You don’t like her?”
“She’s just…” Lousia waved a hand toward the well-groomed woman.
“What, Mom?” In addition to being opinionated, his mother was a good judge of character. His heart sank at the thought of her not thinking well of Fiona.
“I told the Bible study group that Sylvie was starting a new job, and Linh Han gave me that simpering smile of hers and asked how many jobs Sylvie had had since finishing college. Then she said how sad it was that she couldn’t hold on to one.
Sylvie’s never been fired. It’s just that she’s a dabbler.
Likes to try new things.” Louisa stuck her jaw out pugnaciously.
“So I asked how Eddie was doing in jail and if we should put him on the prayer chain.”
Tomas whipped his head around to gape at her. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“That’s not exactly,” he searched for the word, “Christian.” If the woman was as proud and condescending as his mother implied, being reminded of her connection to Keeney’s most notorious criminal mustn’t have gone over well.
“I know,” she huffed out. “She just—irritates me. Like her family is perfect. Like her shit doesn’t stink.”
A snort of laughter slipped out, and Tomas grinned. “Then what happened?”
“Pastor Tran—and he did this so well I wasn’t aware of it at the time—led us in prayer, reminding us to treat each other the way we’d like to be treated and that we are all equals. And I said five Hail Marys on the way home.”
“Is that something Methodists are doing these days?”
“No,” she said with a smile. “But the Catholics have some great rituals. It’s a shame not to use them.”
“Anyway,” she went on, pointing out the windshield. “Unlike her mother, Fiona is lovely. She’s just started coming to the Wednesday service in the last few weeks so I don’t know her well. I thought you worked with her?”
He kept his face neutral, not wanting Louisa to know that he had a Fiona-induced hangover. “I’ve been in meetings with her a couple times.” And dream about her every night .
“Well, from what I understand, she’s very hardworking and a dutiful daughter.” She turned and smiled slyly at her son. “She would make a wonderful daughter-in-law. I could teach her to make tamales.”
Glaring at his mother, he exited his truck, went round the hood, and opened the door for Louisa. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.” She gathered up her purse and the tamales and walked toward the church.
Tomas’s gaze followed her, noting the morning sun highlighting the blue-black glossiness of Fiona’s hair as she stood outside the church door, talking to an older woman.
As Louisa approached, Fiona turned and smiled her way, leaning forward for her kiss.
He relaxed. The two women he cared about the most… liked each other.
“ T hat’s awfully kind, Mrs. Santiago, I’m sure Pastor Tran will enjoy the tamales.” Fiona smiled politely while inwardly rolling her eyes. What was it with the older women of the church bringing food to the new pastor? So far, she’d seen him receive three Tupperware containers.
“Do you like to cook, dear?” While much darker and rounder than her mother, Mrs. Santiago had the same shrewd focus carefully hidden behind good manners. Her children probably got away with nothing, either that or had learned subterfuge at an early age.
“I do.” Fiona nodded, then inclined her head toward her mother. “But not nearly as well as my mother. Her banh bao are to die for.”
For some reason, Mrs. Santiago’s lips thinned. Then, looking over Fiona’s shoulder, she smiled broadly and waved her hand in a come here motion. “My car wouldn’t start this morning, and my husband wasn’t around to fix it, so my son is here to pick me up.”
“Is your husband a mechanic?” Fiona asked politely while wondering when she’d be able to escape. Joining her mother for church in the middle of the week put her behind at work. She’d be working late again this evening to make up for it.
Pride oozed out of Mrs. Santiago. “Carlos rebuilds and customizes old cars and is looking to buy the Woodbine automotive shop. That’s got to be cheaper than all the supplies he buys. Now, let me introduce you to my son.”
Ignoring her mother’s quiet, disapproving sniff, Fiona twisted around to meet the new arrival, and froze.
Her reaction didn’t go unnoticed. Striding toward her on long legs encased in tight jeans, Tomas removed his sunglasses as he approached.
Reaching his mother, he bent down to kiss her cheek before turning to Fiona with the sweetest smile she’d ever seen.
In his deep, rough voice, he said, “Good morning.”
Unable to move, she stared up at his warm, dark eyes. Eyes that had glared at her less than twenty-four hours ago. They crinkled at the corners as his smile turned into a grin. “I see you’ve met my mother.”
Unaware that a crowd of curious parishioners were watching, Fiona stepped toward him as if hypnotized, and shifted her gaze from Tomas’s face to Louisa’s. “You have the same eyes,” she spoke as if to herself.
Louisa wrapped an arm around Tomas’s waist. “He’s my oldest. Tomas is a contractor at KBS and an instructor at the college,” she said loudly to Fiona and the women gathered around. “We’re going out for breakfast. Would you like to join us?” This was aimed specifically at Fiona.
Seeing Tomas’s surprise and remembering their last interaction, she demurred, “Perhaps another time. I’m expected at work shortly.” She stepped back to join her mother, ready to accompany her to the parking lot.
“Are you free for coffee this afternoon?”
Feeling a jolt, Fiona looked down to see a big hand resting on her forearm. Her gaze moved across scarred knuckles, up a thick forearm to the tattoo peeking from beneath the white T-shirt stretched across a bulging bicep.
“Please,” he added. His grin had altered into a soft smile, and his eyes reflected the entreaty.
Looking the other way, she caught her mother’s narrow-eyed glare, curled lip, and flaring nostrils. Her silent “no” all but dripped with disdain.
Stiffening her spine, Fiona turned to Tomas and said, “I can make that happen.”