Alberto followed. “Take my truck. It’s not fancy, and will smoke the entire way. But it’ll get you there.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out keys and a ten dollar bill. “You may need gas.”
“Thank you for the truck, but I have money and will buy gas. It’s the least I can do.”
Outside, the wind stirred, sweeping dark clouds across the sky. The air felt heavy, swollen with the threat of rain.
Alberto’s truck sat in the alley behind the orphanage. Most of the orange paint had peeled off, revealing patches of rusted and corroded metal. Ubaldo knew from experience the air conditioning didn’t work, and the interior smelled of curdled milk. But he was thankful for it just the same.
He helped his mother in then slid behind the steering wheel. As the engine roared to life, she grabbed onto the edge of her seat with one hand and the door handle with the other.
He patted her knee. “Don’t worry. I’m a safe driver.”
He drove slowly and took the turns with ease. By the time they reached the hospital, she’d relaxed some. Her hands moved to her lap.
He parked. “Let’s see how Papa’s doing.”
She nodded and fiddled with the door handle.
“Un momento. I’ll get that. It sticks.”
He came to her side and yanked her door open. They made their way across the parking lot and into the hospital lobby. According to the receptionist, Ubaldo’s father had been moved from ICU to general care. A good sign. A real good sign.
Still shouldering a fair amount of his mother’s weight, he followed the receptionist’s directions to his father’s room. They found him alert and sitting up.
Ubaldo’s mother rushed to her husband’s side and took his hand in hers. “Mi esposo! Como estas?”
“Bien. Much better. The doctor is surprised by how well I’m doing. He says I’m responding well to the antibiotics, although he wants me to stay for a few more days.”
“Bien!”
His father’s face clouded as he looked at his wife. “I’m sorry for all this. I have not cared for you as I should.”
“De nada. I have enjoyed my time at the orphanage, with the children.”
Her face lit up as she talked about her day, from the stories she told to the songs the girls taught her, describing the children’s reactions to each event. His father watched her with tenderness in his eyes.
Ubaldo slipped from the room to give his parents privacy, but he watched through the window. His mother’s hands rose and fell as she talked, and his father’s smile widened. At one point, he even laughed.
Nursing staff passed by in the hallway, and a few stopped to ask Ubaldo if he needed anything.
“I’m fine, but thank you.” What he needed—for his father to get well, for their relationship to heal—nurses couldn’t provide. And yet, God could, and Ubaldo was beginning to think his prayers just might get answered.
His mother rose, kissed his father’s cheek, then walked out, meeting Ubaldo in the hall.
“Is everything okay?” he asked. “Are you ready to go?”
“Your father wishes to speak with you. In private.”
“Okay.” He inhaled and guided his mother to a chair in the hall. Slipped into the room and closed the door.
He sat in the chair beside the bed. “You’re feeling better?”
“Yes.” His gaze wavered. “You were right, my son. Perhaps if I had listened to your medical advice, I wouldn’t be here. I almost …”
“That doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re doing well.”
“My pride caused a great deal of pain. And expense. I appreciate how you’ve taken care of your mother.”
“I think she enjoys staying at the orphanage.”
He paused. Studied his hands and then released a sigh. “I believe you’re right. Matteos came to see me today. He wants to buy the farm.”
“I heard.”
His father frowned and dropped his gaze. “The doctor says it may take me a while to regain my strength.”
The machines near Padre’s bed hummed.
Footsteps approached in the hall, then receded. His father’s breathing sounded heavy.
“Mother is needed at the orphanage,” Ubaldo said. “The children love her.” Lord, help him hear me. Understand. Soften his heart. “You are needed as well.”
“For what? To change diapers.”
“They’re trying to farm but aren’t very good at it. They need someone to show them how. Alberto asked me—”
His father laughed. “What do you know of farming?”
“Exactly.”
Silence stretched between them, and again, Ubaldo glanced back at his mother. She peered through the window with a furrowed brow.
“Perhaps while you recover you could teach them how to prepare the soil for planting. And Mother could teach the girls to cook.”
His father looked Ubaldo in the eye, held his gaze, as if ushering forth strength, or perhaps fighting against it. Which would win out, his love for his wife or his fierce Latin pride? If only the choice didn’t come at such a high price.
Chapter Forty-six
Brooke flipped through various home photos and research notes. She checked her watch. 2:52.
Caleb had done his homework and had quite a lineup planned for their next season, assuming Mr. Echo agreed. On each page, handwritten notes filled the margins, suggesting what he termed “potential laugh out loud questions” to ask homeowners during an upcoming show.
2:53.
Holly, an intern assigned to one of their star reporters, meandered over carrying a package. “Have you seen Caleb? This is addressed to him. Somehow it ended up on Mr. Williams’s desk.”
“Try the break room?”
“Yeah, okay.”
2:54.
Holly lingered, scanning Brooke’s desk. “Heard about your potential promotion. What’s your secret?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re climbing up that ladder mighty fast, considering we both hired on at the same time, graduated from the same college, with near identical GPAs. Only I’m still interning, and if all those rumors circulating the office are correct, you’re about to be offered a co-host position.”
“Lucked out, I guess.” 2:57. “Listen, I’m expecting … I need to … Can you excuse me?”
“Yeah, sure. No biggie.”
She stood, exited the office into the corridor, and headed toward the elevators. They chimed every time the doors opened. People streamed in and out, talking. Too loud. She turned down another hall and stood against the wall.
Her phone rang, and jitters shot through her. She took a deep breath, gave herself a moment to gather her thoughts. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon, Ms. Endress. This is Mr. Patrov, from NBC. How are you?”
“Well. I’m good. Thank you. How are you?” Way to dazzle the man with your speaking skills, Brooke. But as the interview continued, she began to relax, aided by Mr. Patrov’s probing questions. She talked about her varied roles as an intern, her on-camera experience, and her goals and dreams for the future.
She started to tell him about her El Salvador proposal then clamped her mouth shut. This door had barely inched open. She didn’t need to slam it with an absurd plan for a television series set in a developing country. Even if her heart ached for the area. The people. But this was a first step. A few years at a major network would give her idea more traction.
Mr. Patrov asked a few more questions, explained the interview process and the job expectations should she be hired. Then he ended the call. Brooke stood in the hall, still clutching her phone in a clammy hand. She inhaled, counted to three then exhaled slowly.
That had gone well. But well enough to gain her an in person interview?
Squaring her shoulders, she strolled through the newsroom and back to her cubicle.
Mr. Echo stood in his office doorway. He called out to Brooke. “Endress, come in here for a minute.”
Uh, oh.
“Yes, sir.”
She strode into his office and sat across from him with her knees pressed together, back straight. “Is everything all right, sir?”
He swiveled in his chair and pulled a file out of an adjacent cabinet.
“I’m sure you’ve heard, Home Haven will run for another season, and we’d like to hire you on as co-host.” He pulled a pen from a silver holder and plopped it in front of her. “Read and sign.”
Terrible timing. She scanned the document. Two years? And if she got the job with NBC? But what if she didn’t and lost this cohost position? “When do you need an answer by?”
“The contract is pretty standard, but if you’d feel more comfortable, we can get someone in here to explain it to you.”
“That’s not necessary. What are my other options?”
“It’s this or go back to doing grunt work.”
In other words, not signing could lead to career suicide. She focused on the document again, skimming it page by page.
“I’m confused by your lack of enthusiasm.” Mr. Echo crossed his arms. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you ask for a promotion a month ago?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t mean any disrespect, but I’d like some time to think about this.”
“You’ve got a week.”
***
Fatima sat beside Carmela on the couch while Dinora and two other girls colored on sheets of paper spread on the floor. Ubaldo’s mother occupied the couch across from them. She held a child under her arm and hummed softly. Laughter drifted through the open doorway as others kicked a fùtbol around.
Carmela flipped a flash card over and nudged Fatima. “What does this say?”
She scraped her teeth across her bottom lip, trying to remember the sounds each letter made. “Gato?”
“Si!” She flipped another card over. “And this one?”
Fatima laughed. “Y.”
“Very good. What about this one?”
“Perro?”
“Yes, and if we put them together.” She laid the cards on her lap end to end. “Cat and dog. See? You can read already.”
Fatima smiled, laughter bubbling in her throat.
“And soon,” Carmela grabbed a leather-bound book from the coffee table in front of her. “Soon you will read this, and about the God who loves you and brought you to La Casa de Niñas.” She gave Fatima a sideways hug.
Fatima closed her eyes, her heart so full it felt ready to burst.
The God who loves her—her!—a poor girl from a small, San Miguel village.
Chapter Forty-seven
Brooke rolled her suitcase into the kitchen where her aunt, uncle, and sister stood waiting.
Aunt Isadora gave her a lingering hug then pulled away. She held Brooke by the shoulders. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I already bought the ticket. Besides, everything will be fine. I’m a grown woman, and I’ve gone before.” Though this time she’d be by herself. Her stomach clenched.
“Be careful, you hear?” Uncle Lester pulled a slip of paper from his back pocket and handed it over. And if you have any problems … This here’s got the address and phone number of the US Embassy.”
“I’ll be fine, promise.”
His forehead creased. “And call us when you get in.”
“I won’t get cell phone service, remember? But I’ll send you an email.”
Aubrey came closer and fingered the luggage tag attached to Brooke’s handle. “You can always Skype us.”
“I’ll be back in two and a half days. Come on, you guys. This is no big deal.”
Aunt Isadora crossed her arms. “It is so. You’re going out of the country and through customs all by yourself. What if—”
“Izzy.” Uncle Lester shot her a warning glare. “No sense getting the child all worked up over mighta-couldas.”
“She’s the biggest child I’ve ever seen.” Aubrey smirked. “Twenty-six going on fifty-nine.”
Brooke snatched her sister in a hug. “Okay, Miss Smarty-pants. So, you want me to bring you back a Capirucho?” She’d grown fond of the simple wooden toy on their trip. Probably more for the memories.
“That’d be awesome.”
A knock sounded at the door, and Mrs. Roper peered through the glass panels.
“I got it.” Brooke greeted the woman with a smile. “Good morning.”
“Morning, dear. Dora, I came to—” She looked at the suitcase propped against a kitchen chair. “One of you going on a trip? Can’t be you girls, ’cause y’all just got back.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Which leaves you two. So where are you love birds going?”
Aunt Isadora shook her head. “Not us. Brooke’s going back to El Salvador.”
“What?” Mrs. Roper whirled around and stared at Brooke.
She laughed. “Just for a few days. To check on a friend and drop off a donation from the church.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Roper gave a brisk nod and started gabbing about some function she needed a bunch of pies for, which meant she wanted Aunt Isadora to bake them.
Brooke poured a cup of coffee and settled on a stool at the kitchen counter to wait for a ride. She didn’t want to rush off without giving her aunt a proper goodbye. Besides, she still had plenty of time.
Aubrey sat beside her. “So, I’m guessing you’ll want to go back next summer.”
“No telling what’ll happen between now and then.” Her cell phone rang. “Hold on.” She pulled it from her pocket, recognized the area code at once. Shushed everyone. “Hello, Brooke Endress.”
“Good morning. This is Salena Wilkinson from NBC news.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She held her breath.
“Mr. Patrov would like to schedule a second interview. Can you come here to our offices?”
“Yes, certainly. When?”
“How about August twelfth at eleven o’clock?”
In three weeks. This could really happen—her big break. “That would be perfect. I look forward to it.”
“I’ll email you further information and directions to our head office. Have a nice day.”
Brooke let her cell drop onto the table. Her family gathered around her.
“Who was that?” Aubrey asked.
Brooke looked from one face to the next. “NBC news. I’ve got a second interview.”
Her aunt squealed and clapped.
“Up and up.” Her uncle pounded Brooke on the back hard enough to make her wince. “That’s my girl. Too bad you got to catch a plane or we’d celebrate, Uncle Lester style.”
Brooke feigned a frown. “With fried food, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
She checked the time on the microwave. “I hate to jet, but I’ve got to go.” She turned to her uncle. “You still up for driving me?”
“So long’s we can grab some of those celebratory fries on the way.”
“Don’t get too excited. It’s just an interview.” With her dream station.
***
On Friday, Ubaldo returned to his apartment to gather some clothes and check his Facebook message box—he and Brooke’s mode of communication—for any last minute change of plans. No new messages. He was about to turn his computer off when a status update appeared on his feed. Someone had tagged Brooke.
“Brooke Endress, you rock! When you’re famous, I want your autograph!!!! ;-)”
What was that about? He clicked to her page. Nothing he saw offered any information. Though a photo halfway down felt like a punch to the gut. In it, Brooke stood under the arm of a blond man wearing a suit and tie. With styled hair and pressed clothes, he looked like one of those men in business magazines. The guy’s suit probably cost more than Ubaldo made in a month.
And Brooke—she looked radiant. Her shimmery silver gown made her skin glow and turned her eyes a deeper blue. Beneath the image it read, Photo Album of Caleb Silves, Summer News Gala.
Who was this guy? Her boyfriend? He clicked on his profile. Numerous professional images
and video clips pulled up.
He eyed his own shirt and jeans, the colors faded from years of wear. His tennis shoes, purchased three years ago, were scuffed and stained.
What did he have to offer this beautiful, successful woman from Southern California?
***
Brooke gasped as the plane dropped. Please don’t let me die. Please don’t let me—Another dip. Clutching the armrests on either side of her, she stared through her window at the dark cloud cover stretched beneath her. The fasten seatbelt signs dinged on, and the plane continued to rock and jolt as it made its decent.
She closed her eyes. God is in control. He is mighty to save. He won’t leave me or forsake me.
Someone touched her arm. “You okay?”
Her eyes snapped open, and she glanced to the redheaded woman beside her. “Yes, thank you.” The plane entered the clouds, and a gray haze obscured Brooke’s view. Lightning flashed.
“Let me guess, you’re not a frequent flyer?”
“I’ve probably watched too much television.” As the turbulence increased, every news story about a crash, hijacking, or engine malfunction flashed through her mind.
“You know, they say planes are safer than automobiles.”
“True.” But at least when a car crashed, the occupants stood some chance of survival.
“Want one?” Her seatmate offered a piece of gum.
The plane took another dip, enough to make Brooke dizzy. She pressed her mouth shut to keep from yelping. “Thank you.”
“You got family in El Salvador?”
“No.” She kept an eye on the stewardess. Saw no signs of panic. Then again, weren’t they trained to remain calm?
“I’m going to see my sister and my new niece. Born last week. Seven pounds, eight ounces. Can’t remember what my kids weighed—got seven. Three girls, four boys.” The woman went on to talk about each of her children, “according to her best recollection.” Perhaps Brooke should have found the mindless chatter a pleasant diversion, but the woman’s high-pitched voice was far from soothing.
“You got kids?”
“Nope.” She held up her hand to show her naked ring finger.
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