“There’s got to be something I can do.” He paced the living room, finally pausing to look at me. Snapping his fingers, he said, “I know!”
“What?” D.J. asked.
“It’s so obvious. I’ve met so many great people here on Galveston Island. And I can see that the island is still recovering after the storm. Maybe I could help.”
I grinned. “Great idea. It’s been quite a while, but some people are still not back in their homes.”
“I told Bella all about a guy I know on the west end,” D.J. said. “An older man whose home was almost destroyed. He’s a pastor, but his church building was completely obliterated. The congregation is meeting in a school right now.”
“Okay, that’s it.” Brock nodded. “I’ll build him a church. What kind of money are we talking here? One million? Two? I can make out a check today. Just let me know.”
D.J. laughed. “Brock, we’re talking about a small congregation here. Maybe a hundred people or so. And they already own the property. It just needs to be cleared and rebuilt. We’re probably talking two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and that would include cleanup. For that matter, if my company takes on the job, we can probably do it all for less than that. I’d like to contribute in some way too.”
Oh, my heart wanted to jump out of my chest. Now here was the man I loved! He would do just about anything to ensure that that pastor would get the thing he wanted most—a place to share the gospel.
“You’ve got it.” Brock nodded. “Who do I make the check out to?”
D.J. laughed again. “Before we get into all of that, why don’t I take you to meet Pastor Willy? I think you two are going to be great friends. He can fill you in. Sound good?”
Brock nodded. “Yes, and I guess we’d better take care of this today, since I fly out tomorrow.”
My heart twisted at his words. Brock Benson had become so much a part of our lives that I could hardly imagine him leaving, especially now.
We climbed into D.J.’s truck and headed to the west end of the island, where we found Willy Maddox sitting in the front room of his house, watching a televised sermon. He greeted us with a look of sheer delight, his smile bright against such beautiful dark skin. “Well, well … to what do I owe the honor, young man?”
“I’ve brought a friend who wants to meet you.”
“Have you now.” He turned to me, and I giggled.
“Technically, I’m not the one he brought to meet you, but I’m happy to be here, just the same.” Extending my hand, I made introductions. “I’m Bella, D.J.’s—”
“Oh, I know who you are, no doubt about that.” Willy laughed. “You’re the love of D.J.’s life.”
I felt my cheeks warm and snuggled against D.J.
“This boy can’t say enough about you, Bella.” Willy grinned. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. But who have we here?” He turned to Brock. “There’s something familiar about you.”
“The name is Brock Benson.” Brock grabbed the man’s hand and gave it an enthusiastic shake. “I’m from California.” “Well, hello, Brock Benson from California. What brings you out to the west end of Galveston Island today? And why are those people with the cameras following you?”
I turned back and looked through the open door, stunned to see that a news truck had pulled up in front of Willy’s house.
Brock groaned. “No way. Did either of you see them earlier?” “Nope.” I sighed. “But you know what? Let’s get them in on this. The more attention we can draw to the people in need on the island, the better, at least to my way of thinking.”
“But I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing.” Brock crossed his arms at his chest. “Does that sound dumb?”
“No. Not dumb at all. We don’t have to tell them you’re going to pay to rebuild the church.”
“W-what?” Willy stared at him, his eyes now very wide. “You’re going to pay to rebuild my church?”
“If you will let me, sir. It would be an honor.”
“Son, come and sit with me a minute. It’s important that we talk. I need to know why the Lord has laid this on your heart.”
The two of them sat on the sofa, and I took D.J. by the hand. “Ready to talk to the press?”
“I guess.” He sighed. “But I’m not very good at this.”
“Oh, you’ll do just fine.”
As we walked to the news van, a cameraman jumped out and began to film us. Strange, but in that moment I had the weirdest flashback of the night I’d been arrested. Was it really only two days ago? Thankfully, this guy looked pretty harmless, but the harried reporter who jumped out of the van behind him did not. He thrust a microphone in my face.
“So, what can you tell us about Brock Benson?” he asked. “What’s he doing out here on the west end of the island?”
I did my best to play it cool, hoping I could keep my voice steady. “Like so many of us, he is concerned about the welfare of those whose lives were touched by Hurricane Ike. Several of us are linking arms to do what we can.” I gestured to D.J. “But if you want to know about a real hero, you’ll have to talk to this guy right here.”
D.J.’s jaw grew tight, and I could read the fear in his eyes. Jabbing him in the ribs with my elbow, I added, “He really has a heart for people and is in the rebuilding business. So if you have any questions, he’s your guy.”
As those last words crossed my lips, I stared up at my cowboy, my knight in shining armor. He was indeed my guy. And I would love him no matter how many storms life threw our way.
36
These Foolish Things
On the morning after Brock Benson left for Hollywood, I slept in. I couldn’t recall ever being more exhausted. I ached from the top of my head to the bottom of my toes. Even my brain hurt.
The activities over the past couple weeks had finally caught up with me. The wedding. The storm. The Food Network gig. Jail. All of it. So when I finally awoke, I could barely talk myself into getting out of bed. Only when I received a call on my cell from a potential client—ironically, the judge’s daughter—did I garner the energy to sit up and think about the day ahead. We agreed to meet at 11:00 at the wedding facility, so I’d better get up and running. It was already after 9:00.
Looking around my room, I sighed. I usually prided myself on keeping things tidy, but I’d really let things go over the last two weeks. Well, my version of letting things go, anyway. The room never got really bad, even when life was completely out of control.
Determined to make the most of the morning, I peeked inside my closet, looking for something to wear. Some folks— my brothers, for instance—accused me of being anal. I didn’t consider myself anal. Of course, the hanging clothes in my closet were color coordinated, but weren’t everyone’s? And I did have all of my summer things and winter things clearly separated for ease of selection. That only made sense.
I gravitated toward the section of brown and bronze tops. With October fully upon us, I could get away with fall colors. And I always loved the darker colors. They seemed to work well with my skin tone and dark hair. Besides, the air had turned cool over the past couple of days, and I needed something a little warmer.
I yawned and stretched, then looked down at Precious, who still lay curled up on the bed. “Feeling lazy today, girl? What happened to our work ethic? Did it slide right out the window?”
For some reason, saying the words work ethic made me think of Brock Benson and the conversation we’d had about how hard Aunt Rosa worked. I wondered if he was back at work today, filming another movie. Getting his manicured nails dirty. He’d already called D.J. several times, laying out a plan for an after-school facility he wanted to open in Los Angeles. Yep, the man had an amazing work ethic. Maybe Rosa had rubbed off on him more than we knew.
I spent the next hour showering and dressing. Though I took my time, I was aware of the fact that the clock was ticking. A new client awaited. And a new client meant another themed wedding. Southern plantation, no less. How fun
would that be?
At 10:30, after double-checking my appearance in the mirror, I turned to Precious. “Time to go outside, little girl.”
She wagged her tail—the first sign of movement from her all day—and sprang from the bed. I carried her down the stairs and out onto the veranda, and she ran into the yard to take care of business. I stood on the front porch, looking across the street at Dakota Burton’s window. Last I’d heard, Phoebe had grounded him until the second coming. Not that I blamed her. The kid just didn’t know when to quit. Still, he had a lot of business sense. I had to give him that.
Walking back in the house, I noticed a rustling sound coming from the living room. I walked in there to find Mama looking through boxes of old photographs.
“Good morning.” I sat next to her. “What brought this on?”
“Oh, those people from the Food Network called, asking for some pictures of Rosa as a little girl. They wanted to know if we had any of her cooking as a youngster.” Mama held up a couple of black-and-white photos of Rosa as a child in their family restaurant.
I smiled as I looked at it. “Perfect.”
“Yes, but look what else I found while I was in here.” Mama held up a picture that had to have been taken when she— Mama—was just a little thing. Elementary age, probably. Rosa, who was probably in her late teens in this photograph, looked different back then. Much different. While she didn’t have Mama’s startling natural beauty, there was something in her eyes … a goodness. A kindness.
However, when I looked closer, I could even see a little pain there. Not that I wanted to see pain in my aunt’s eyes, but it was there all right. I had to wonder what—or who— had put it there.
“This picture brings back so many memories … and not all of them good,” Mama said with a sigh.
“When was it taken?” I asked.
“Oh, I can tell you exactly. I remember that day so clearly. My parents were throwing a little celebration for Rosa because she was leaving the next day to join the convent.”
“Ah.” I’d heard this story before—how she’d joined the convent, thinking it would quiet the ache in her heart over not fitting in with her peers. But how sad to see the pain in her eyes in this photograph, just one day before leaving.
“Looks like she knew even then that it wouldn’t work out.”
“Well, it wasn’t for lack of effort,” Mama said, staring at the picture. “I truly believe she wanted to give her life in service for the Lord.”
“Mama, she did give her life in service for the Lord.”
My mother looked at me with wrinkled brow.
“Rosa has the most wonderful servant’s heart in the world,” I said. “She takes care of all of us from morning till night. And I never hear her complain about working so hard.”
“True.” Mama sighed. “I’m ashamed to admit I’m not as good with cooking and housekeeping as Rosa. Before she came to live with us, I did all of the cooking. But from the day she walked in that door, she wouldn’t let me touch a thing in my own kitchen.”
“Did that hurt your feelings?” I asked, picking up another picture.
“Are you kidding?” Mama laughed. “Rosa had a natural talent for cooking. I did not. Every minute in the kitchen was a chore for me.”
“Oh, wow. I didn’t know that.”
“Yes. I was much more at home taking care of you kids and helping your father with the wedding facility.” She paused a moment and looked at the photograph. “But I think you’re right about Rosa serving the Lord. I’d never thought about it like that, but everything she’s done, she’s done for others. And she’s done it all out of a deep faith in God. So, in that respect, I guess you could say she’s lived her life in service for him.”
“Definitely. And you have to admit”—I pointed to her downcast eyes—“you never see her looking like this.”
“Unless Laz has hurt her feelings,” Mama said. “And to be honest, I’m pretty sure that’s what happened the day this photograph was taken. His family had come to our home for the celebration, and he made a snide remark to her about having to go to the convent because nobody wanted her.”
I gasped at that news. “Mama! That’s awful.”
“I know.” She sighed. “But sometimes we say things we don’t mean.”
“Who says things they don’t mean?”
I looked across the room at Laz, who had entered while we weren’t paying attention.
“Oh, well, we …” Mama quickly gathered up the photographs she wanted to send to the Food Network, then put the lid on the box. “We’re just talking about the old days.”
“Oh? Looking at pictures?” He drew near and extended his hand. Mama sighed as she put the photographs of Rosa into his outstretched palm.
Laz took a seat on the sofa, looking over the photos. He didn’t say a word, but I could practically see an entire novel running through his head. Something about those photographs was touching him, making him a little misty.
Mama and I eventually tiptoed out, leaving him to his own devices.
“He’s acting a little strange lately, don’t you think?” I whispered once we reached the foyer.
“Yes. I think he’s just torn. That kiss was the first sign we’ve seen that he has feelings for Rosa. But now he’s back to normal, acting like it never happened.”
“I will never understand the two of them.” I sighed. “But maybe it isn’t mine to understand. Maybe I’m just supposed to love them and pray for them.”
“Right.” Mama shrugged. “But I’m a firm believer that love can’t stay hidden for long. It’s got to come out in the open for all to see. Like a flower opening up.”
Talking about flowers made me think of Marian’s wedding. Thinking of Marian’s wedding made me think of my new client. Thinking of my new client made me glance at the clock: 10:45. Yikes! I’d better get back to doing what I did best—making people’s dreams come true!
37
Fly Me to the Moon
The week after the wedding, Rosa received a surprise call from someone at the Food Network offering her a weekly show. I had a feeling we had Brock to thank for this. The news both thrilled and horrified everyone in the Rossi household. While we wanted Aunt Rosa to become an international cooking sensation, we didn’t want to lose her. She was simply too much a part of the family.
Not to mention being our family chef! What would we do without her nightly meals? Surely everyone in the household would drop ten pounds the first month if Rosa went away!
Laz took the news especially hard. It was written all over his face. He was in anguish over potentially losing her, but as usual, he didn’t say a word.
On the day we got the news, D.J. and I watched Laz pace the living room, his jaw clenched tight. Though I could almost read his thoughts, he didn’t share them. With anyone. Why couldn’t he just come out and tell Rosa how he felt about her? That would fix everything. He’d managed to kiss her in front of the masses. Was he trying to convince himself, perhaps? Why couldn’t he say a simple “I love you” when she needed to hear it most?
I finally approached him, trying to work up the courage to broach the subject of Rosa’s leaving. “Laz?”
He exhaled sharply, then turned to me. “Not now, Bella.”
I drew near, determined not to give up. “Laz, it’s okay. You can talk to me about this. Your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell a living soul.”
He turned, and I saw tears in the man’s eyes. Crocodile tears, no less.
“Oh, Laz.” I gave him a hug. “I knew it!”
He drew in a deep breath, and I could hear the catch in his voice as he whispered, “What am I going to do without her, Bella Bambina?”
“Do without who?”
We both looked up as Rosa’s gentle voice caught us off guard. She stood in the doorway with a hopeful look on her face. “Did you say what I think you said, old man?”
For a minute, I thought Laz would clam up. Deny he’d said anything at all. It wasn’
t in his nature to soften, but that’s exactly what he did. What I witnessed next was a miracle of biblical proportions, ten thousand times better than the stunt he’d pulled in the kitchen when the Food Network guys were filming him.
Tears rushed down Laz’s cheeks. He opened his arms, and Rosa ran—well, if you could call it running—into his embrace.
He kissed her—not just once but a thousand times. On the lips. On the cheeks. On the eyelids. In her hair. He released all of the kisses he’d been holding inside all of those years. And Rosa didn’t fight it. Oh no. She was like a stick of butter that had been left sitting in the sun too long. She melted in his embrace, the happy recipient of all his affections.
I stepped back, mesmerized. My heart beat so fast, I thought it might explode. Turning to look at D.J., I mouthed, “Wow!” He nodded in response, and I was pretty sure I saw tears in his eyes. For that matter, I had tears in mine.
When the kissing finally stopped—and that took awhile— Rosa lingered in Laz’s embrace for a good minute. Or two. Or three. Finally, when I realized neither of them was going to make a move, I cleared my throat.
“Laz doesn’t want you to go, Rosa.”
She looked up at him, eyeball to eyeball. In the gentlest voice I’d ever heard her use, she whispered, “Is that true, Lazarro Rossi?”
He drew in a breath, then nodded. “N-nothing will be the same if you’re gone. The house won’t be the same. Meals won’t be the same. I … I won’t be the same.”
She laughed—a great icebreaker. “Are you sure you’re not just worried you’ll have to take over the cooking?”
Laz shook his head as he reached with a fingertip to brush a loose hair out of her face. “Trust me. I don’t mind cooking. It’s not that.”
“Well then, what?” She stepped back and put her hands on her hips. For a minute, the magic spell appeared to have been broken. Would this one defiant move on her part undo everything I’d just witnessed?
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