He meant the kids, and despite the fact that Rory’s life had just been steamrollered, she was more than willing to take care of these sweet souls. “I am. I’ll leave you guys to the legalese.” She looked down and smiled at two confused preschoolers. “It’s almost time for bed.”
“Good night, guys. Sweet dreams.” Uncle Steve waved as the other men dove deep into discussion of the whys and hows of the situation.
These kids didn’t need to hear conversations about themselves. It wasn’t until she’d gotten both kids through the town hall entrance that they were blessed with quiet, the strong male voices muted by distance.
“Come on, guys. Let’s call it a day, shall we?”
Javier looked around, confused.
Lily tried to look brave, but her lower lip quivered as the five-year-old fought tears.
Rory led the kids to her car, tucked them into the seats she’d borrowed from the fire hall and drove home because there really wasn’t any other choice.
Cruz took the right-hand turn along the lake’s western shore, determined to ferret out the facts of the situation from his mother.
She wouldn’t want to see him. She’d made that abundantly clear in the past. They’d fought after his father’s death, and Rosa had ordered him out of the house and out of her life, then spent years ignoring his attempts at reconciliation. Funny how a woman who professed faith in the Bible shrugged off forgiveness in favor of old-world pride.
He pulled into the curved drive leading into Casa Blanca and hit the brakes hard in disbelief.
Flaking, peeling paint marred the front of the house. Weeds and grass had infiltrated the once pristine gardens, while twining roses fought a losing battle with invasive weeds, climbing and choking the once beautiful trellises.
Beyond the curving drive and parking lot, both in need of repair and sealing, his father’s previously impeccable vineyard stood ragged. Overgrown vines stuck out at odd angles, choking and shading the growing fruit below. The barns didn’t look too bad, their paint appeared more recent, but the once prestigious event center had fallen into grave disrepair.
He’d only been gone eight years. How could things have gone this bad in eight short years?
The front door opened.
His mother emerged.
She stared at him as he pulled the car into the drive. Arms folded tight around her middle, she stood straight, solid and self-protective as he exited the car and walked her way. “Hello, Mother. Long time, no see.”
She glared at him, then the upscale car, then him again. “You’ve come to brag, no doubt. To laugh in the face of my ruination. Well, have your say and get out. There’s nothing for you here.”
Was there ever?
Yes, when his father was alive. His father loved to spend time with his only son, seeing and doing things together, learning “the grape” as he called it. He’d spent long hours working side by side with his father, a master vineyard manager, an immigrant success story. And while they’d worked the grape, his mother had managed the sprawling event center she’d inherited from her parents.
He longed to sass her back in kind. If asked, he would have sworn he’d gotten over all of this years ago, but he was mistaken because the urge to argue with his mother was on the tip of his tongue.
Then he remembered Reverend Gallagher’s words that morning. Your mother is sick. Her heart is bad and she’s diabetic, and there are two illegal immigrant children living with her. She needs you, Cruz. And Elina’s children need you, too.
He hadn’t even known Elina had children. If pressed, he wouldn’t have been able to say what his cousin had done once she’d left for Mexico...but what were her children doing here, and what happened to Elina? “How are you?”
The simple question took her by surprise, but not for long. “I am fine. The children and I are fine.”
A lie. Again, no surprise. “Reverend Gallagher says you’ve been ill.”
“I have my days. Some good, some bad. Why are you here? Did he call you?”
Cruz nodded.
“He shouldn’t have done that. He should have left things be.”
“Well, the thought of you serving a jail sentence for harboring illegal immigrants weighed on his conscience. He is, after all, a minister.”
She scowled. “He’s a neighbor first, a man who knows you have no respect for the mother who gave you life and raised you. Steve knows this, and yet he still makes the call.” She raised her chin, a classic move. “I can’t imagine what he was thinking.”
She needed help in more ways than one. Her Italian skin tones were usually deeply tanned by this time of summer. Today she looked pale, and the threadbare pants and loose shirt she wore had seen a lot of use. Always stocky, she’d put on weight since the funeral. The changes in her appearance reflected the ones on the estate. “I told Steve I would help.”
She scowled. Her face darkened. “And as I have said before, I don’t need your help, Crusberto.”
The cold anger in her face used to break his heart.
No more.
He’d moved beyond her reach, and her tirades meant nothing now. “You’re wrong. You do need my help. The place is a mess, and my guess is you tried to overmanage everything like you usually do, your workers quit and you got yourself into debt trying to recover. But now you’re in too deep and there’s no way out, and you’ve got two kids to watch. How am I doing so far?”
She unwound her arms and fisted her hands. “You checked up on me.”
“No.” When she almost relaxed, he added, “I had my office assistant check up on you while I drove here, so the fact that you are bordering on bankruptcy and your business is uncared for tells me you’re on the brink of disaster. If we throw a double federal offense onto the table for willfully harboring two illegal aliens and passing them off as your grandchildren...” He set one foot on the lowest step of what had been a gracious, columned porch, leaned in and said, “You’re wrong, Mother. You do need me, like it or not.” He straightened and shoved his hands into his pockets as memories surged. “Honestly, if it was just you, I’d walk away, like you did to me so many times, but it’s not just you. There are two little kids involved, who deserve a better chance than they’ve gotten so far, and who’ve done nothing to deserve being raised by you.”
He expected her to lash out. He was prepared for that. What he wasn’t prepared for were the tears.
Her hands lost their tension.
Tears streamed down her cheeks in silent succession.
Rosa Maria Maldonado didn’t cry. Ever. To see her come undone messed him up.
He took a step back, then forward, but what could he do? They hadn’t comforted one another for a very long time.
He stood absolutely still as her tears flowed. Somewhere deep inside, a tiny longing to help ignited.
He extinguished it quickly. He’d learned how to protect himself decades ago. He’d steeled himself to pretend her indifference didn’t matter. He pretended he didn’t care.
She swiped the back of her hand to her face, turned around and walked back inside. The door closed behind her, and the click of the lock slipped into place.
So be it. She didn’t need him. He didn’t need her. But those two children needed something more than to be made wards of the court and deported.
He strode back to his car, got in and drove