Yours to Keep: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance

by Bell, Serena

  “I bought a car.” Ricky strode out of the bedroom and into the living room, went to the window. Ana and Ernie followed. “Look.” He pointed down at the street. There was an unfamiliar car parked down there, a small maroon sedan, rusted in places, dented in others. “That’s mine. I was thinking maybe I could do it without taking your money, Ana.” He groaned and buried his face in his hands. “But I still owe the guy a couple hundred, and there’s none left for anything else. And rent’s due on the first. I was figuring, we’ve been so good about it, he’d cut me some slack this month, but—”

  She put her hand up. “Ricky. You can have the money. Of course you can have the money. The money was always yours.”

  “It’s your money.” All the heat, even the pain, had gone out of his voice. It was flat.

  “It’s the family’s.” She heard the same flatness in her voice.

  Ernie had begun backing toward the door. He backed right out, his belly the last thing to disappear. “I’ll be outside.”

  Ricky was shaking all over.

  She went to him, put her arms around him. He was so big that her fingers didn’t meet around him, and he was still the smell of safety, of childhood. He shook in her arms. “I should have made Mama renew!” he cried. “I knew it was time.”

  In all these years since their mother had died, she’d never known that. Never known that he held himself responsible. “You didn’t make this happen,” she said fiercely. “This is not your fault.”

  She brushed his hair tenderly off his forehead, thinking, as she did, that Ricky was so hell-bent on taking care of all of them—even when they didn’t really want him to—that no one ever took care of Ricky. No one had, not since he was Theo’s age. And that was too young to be in charge. Too young altogether. “You did the best you could.”

  She guided Ricky back to bed and tucked him in as if he were a child. He didn’t resist. He turned over and buried his face in the pillow, and she closed the door behind her and went down the stairs to where Ernie sat on the stoop. She didn’t want to sit next to him, so she stood on the curb.

  “I can’t take this anymore,” she said, more to herself than to him. Though she was grateful that he was there. Listening. A car went by behind her, thudding bass, and she stepped away from the edge. “There’s nothing we can take for granted.”

  Ernie ducked his head. “It’s the way it is.”

  “I know. We broke the law. And I haven’t done a good job of trying to get back on the right side of the law. The price seemed too high. The idea of getting sent back—” She shook her head. “But now I don’t know. I don’t think I can do this. Keep getting sent back to the starting line. One step forward, two back. I’m still young, but I’ll wake up and I won’t be young and it’s not going to get any easier.”

  She looked at Ernie, but he was looking at his feet. “I was going to get married. To get legal. But it—it didn’t work out. It got complicated, my fiancé had second thoughts. I love him, but I don’t think he felt the same way.”

  Ernie made a sound, as if he was going to interrupt, but Ana barreled right past him. “And the high school won’t match me with students who need tutors anymore. Because some lawyer told them not to. And there’s Ricky’s job, and the money—God!”

  Ernie lifted his head, but he still didn’t look at her. “Maybe your fiancé had a good reason. I’m sure—” He stopped, gazed at her contemplatively. “I’m sure he must have had a good reason.”

  “Ah, whatever. Maybe he’s just an asshole who didn’t know a good thing when he saw one. The point is—”

  She paused.

  “The point is I’ve had enough.”

  And she took her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed the phone number for the Law Offices of Harold Abrams. When the receptionist answered, she said, “I need to make an appointment with Mr. Abrams.”

  It took awhile the next morning for her to explain to Harry Abrams that, no, she wasn’t getting married and, yes, she did want to pursue the status change anyway.

  “Without the marriage, you won’t be able to get cancellation of removal. You’re almost guaranteed to get barred from returning for ten years,” Abrams told her. She sat in the worn chair with the wooden arms and the ugly plaid seat across from his desk. “You don’t have a spouse or a child who’s eligible to petition for you. Your ability to self-petition is almost nonexistent. I can try, but—your chances of success are slim. And, even if you beat the odds, you have to be prepared for ten years of exile. The possibility of never coming back.”

  Ten years. Her entire adult life so far. Without her brother, without her sister. Without her niece and nephews. Away from the place she’d come to love as home.

  To a place where whatever she built would be hers. Whoever she loved would belong to her and she to him.

  There were worse things than exile.

  “I used to feel like I couldn’t go back there because everything I cared about and everything I’d worked for was here,” she said. “But I realize I’ve been living in an illusion that the things I think of as mine are really mine. They can all be taken away, anytime.”

  Abrams listened patiently, nodding. She didn’t know what time the appointment was supposed to be over, but he didn’t rush her. She wondered if he had a wife and kids of his own.

  If she went back to D.R., she’d find her father and tell him what she thought of his failing to come for them. She’d let him know what they all thought of a man who would desert his wife and children. She’d tell him what he’d set in motion with his lies.

  The thought brought back the reality of her family here. “Could they send my sister and brother away?”

  “There are no guarantees in this business,” Abrams said. “But I think we can probably keep them out of this.”

  “Then I want to try it.”

  “Ana. Isn’t it … can’t you still …? Marriage is still your best option.”

  She thought of Ed Branch. No way would she tie herself to someone like him, trading away one form of freedom for the faint hope of another. “That ship has sailed.”

  “Could you find someone else? You’re beautiful, you’re young. I’m sure there is no shortage of men—”

  She cut him off. “No.” Maybe she was the last of the romantics, but she knew now that she didn’t want to marry someone for the wrong reasons. Not even Ethan. She wanted to marry for love.

  Abrams sighed. “At least think about it. Go home, take a few days. You don’t want to make this a reality unless you can see yourself making a life in D.R. Because—I won’t lie to you—that’s probably what’s going to happen.”

  She got up, smoothed her long skirt, tugged her blouse down. “I’ll think about it. But I’m not going to change my mind.”

  His smile was pained. “I don’t imagine you are. But I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

  Chapter 28

  The next few days felt like a held breath, but no immigration officers arrived at their apartment. Ana went to work on Tuesday afternoon and taught her classes Tuesday night. She taught on Wednesday morning, too—her last classes before her few days off for Thanksgiving. While she was gone, Ricky went to see Eduardo’s girlfriend, Giselle. Eduardo was being held nearby, at the Federal Medical Center in Devens. That was good news. They could have sent him anywhere in the country, but he was still close. And Giselle’s family, which had some money, had helped her hire a lawyer.

  The lawyer had been pessimistic, though, Giselle had told Ricky. Eduardo was pretty likely to be sent back to D.R. And—Ricky shook his head as he told Ana—Giselle was pregnant.

  They’d exchanged stricken glances but, as if by unspoken agreement, hadn’t talked any more about the situation. As sad as Ana was for Giselle, for the unborn baby who might never meet his father, she knew Giselle would survive, like all the other single mothers in their neighborhood. There were so many other women doing that, and somehow they put one foot in front of the other—just as Cara had done. She figured Ricky
probably hadn’t spared it much more thought, either. He was already busy looking for a new job, banging his head against a bad time of year and a bad economy.

  “I can’t support us by myself,” Ana had told him, and he’d nodded.

  All the rage and grief seemed to have gone out of him. “I was so close,” he said mechanically.

  Her heart ached for him. She knew that he meant he’d been so close to starting the business. And now he’d spent all his savings, and all of hers, on rent and groceries. He might get some of it back if he could sell the car, but it would be years before he’d have enough cash to start over. She wanted to comfort him, but there was nothing to say.

  On Thanksgiving Day, Ethan got up early to start cooking. The kitchen was too cold and too big and too empty, but he made himself do what needed to be done. He baked two boxes of brownies from a mix then used canned pumpkin and frozen crust to whip up a pumpkin pie. Ever since his parents moved to their retirement community, hosting Thanksgiving had been his and Theo’s job. When he told Ana he never cooked, he’d forgotten about Thanksgiving, whose component parts he had slowly mastered after studying his mother’s recipes. Peeling potatoes. Stuffing and roasting the turkey. Steaming green beans. Making gravy. There had been a few culinary disasters, but he had a handle on the basics now. And Theo liked to help.

  At least Theo liked to help in the past. This year, Ethan wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to get his son’s attention. Theo had soared off into la-la land, in the throes of total infatuation with Leah Abrams. He was asleep now, but Ethan was sure that when he woke up he’d start composing yet another rock ballad to her.

  It was therapeutic, scraping pumpkin out of a can with a rubber spatula. It was the first time he’d felt semi-human in days. Not good—nowhere near good—but functional, at least. In a rhythm.

  In a few hours James and his parents would be here, fighting with one another, griping about the food, and embarrassing Theo.

  He had wanted Ana to come to Thanksgiving. He’d wanted to introduce her to his parents, to hear her banter with James. He’d wanted to see her and Theo sitting side by side, to watch that strange and easy camaraderie between them. As if she’d always been in their lives.

  He’d meant to bring it up with her on Friday night, before Ricky and his big friend showed up in the parking lot, before everything went to hell.

  He broke the eggs and began whisking the pumpkin and the eggs and evaporated milk to a uniform texture and color.

  If he’d invited her to Thanksgiving, would she have said yes? He realized that he didn’t even know if her family celebrated Thanksgiving.

  He hung his head and tried to ease the tension out of his neck with his thumb.

  The truth was, if they’d gotten married Ricky would never have allowed Ethan at his place for Thanksgiving—or any other holiday. Instead, Ana would have come to Ethan’s house. And the less welcome Ricky made Ethan the more she’d have withdrawn, thus fulfilling Ricky’s prophecy that Ethan would steal her away from her family.

  He didn’t want to be that man.

  And yet if he were given a second chance and that was the bargain he had to strike, he’d steal her. What did that say about him?

  The metal bleachers were freezing cold, and Ana wished she’d worn long underwear. Her nine-year-old niece had climbed, all bony knees and elbows, into her lap and perched there, nearly obscuring Ana’s view of the field. Her younger nephew huddled close for warmth. Cara sat on her other side, and Ricky beyond. The marching-band musicians stood in the stands, blaring out the school anthem as the players took the field.

  Ethan should be here, Ana thought. He’d love it.

  Hawthorne, in royal purple, had won the toss and opted to kick. The kick was high, and the wind tugged it to the right. It came down slowly, and Ana was sure Mercer would fair-catch it, but no—the receiver pulled it out of the air near the thirty, made a yard or two of progress, and was leveled by Hawthorne’s special teams coverage.

  The crowd was rowdy, almost angry. Hawthorne and Mercer had one of the oldest and ugliest Thanksgiving Day rivalries in the state. There were more injuries, and the injuries were more serious, in Hawthorne vs. Mercer games than in any other football games in Massachusetts. It was a point of pride. Two years ago, players from both teams converged in a bench-clearing brawl over a late hit. It took the refs almost five minutes to pry all the players off one another and restore order.

  Marco’s coach had made them promise to play clean and not fight this year, Marco had told his aunt earlier that morning. “It takes all the fun out,” he complained.

  She wondered if Marco and Theo would have gotten along. Marco was a sweet boy, despite his complaints about having to play nice. He stayed out of trouble and got his homework done—and having an adult around the house who tutored and spoke fluent English had helped. Marco wasn’t an outstanding student, but, then, neither was Theo. You wouldn’t guess, by looking at their grades, that Theo was the son of a doctor and Marco the son of an undocumented immigrant who hadn’t finished high school.

  Mercer was driving steadily downfield. Two running plays of a couple of yards each, and a twelve-yard pass. Two more runs. A long, beautiful spiral …

  Hawthorne’s No. 85—Ana thought it was Marco’s friend Andre, but she wasn’t sure—intercepted it and ran it back almost twenty yards before he was demolished. The crack of the helmets made Ana jump. What had Ethan said about that? “There shouldn’t be helmets cracking in high-school football.” She couldn’t agree more. The audible impacts nauseated her, probably because it was her nephew out there—his neck, his skull, his knees. In fact, he was trotting out on the field now, taking his position. He was a wide receiver, good enough to have started nearly every game since the middle of his freshman year. He might be able to get a college-football scholarship.

  How different it was to be born here. You had that sense of a backstop behind you, instead of always feeling on the brink of an infinitely long drop into disaster. She envied her niece and nephews.

  She watched the quarterback throw a short but perfect pass into Marco’s big, sure hands and rose to her feet with the rest of her family, cheering.

  She wondered if Ethan secretly wished that Theo played football.

  She wondered when the hell she’d stop thinking about them all the time.

  “Where’s Ana?” Theo demanded.

  Ethan had been waiting for that question since Friday, but it still caught him off guard. The knife hiccupped out of the turkey’s flesh and bit a chip out of the ceramic platter.

  “Who’s Ana?” Ethan’s mother asked.

  The elder Hansens, Sheila and Ted, had arrived twenty minutes ago with James. Ethan had set out a cheese plate, and Ted was eating cheese as fast as he could slice it. Sheila nibbled delicately at a piece of Brie draped over a cracker.

  Ethan examined the knife’s edge, which appeared to be unscathed, to give himself time to think. “She’s having Thanksgiving with her family.” He knew he’d have to level with Theo soon, maybe even later today, but at least he could ease himself into it.

  “Who’s Ana?” Sheila asked again, her eyes bright. She was almost as tall as Ethan, skinny, white-haired. She’d been a professional modern dancer and still had that dancer’s upright posture and nervous energy.

  Oh, hell, thought Ethan. There were only two ways this could go, and he didn’t like his chances either way. He knew his mother, and he knew how hard it was to get an idea out of her head once it was in there.

  “Ana is my Spanish tutor,” Theo said happily. “And she and Dad are—”

  “Theo, can we talk about this later?” He tried to warn Theo with his eyes.

  Sheila crossed her arms. “What’s going on?”

  “She’s Dad’s girlfr—”

  “No, she’s not,” Ethan said.

  Theo’s face twisted. “You’re joking, right?”

  “What the heck …?” Sheila tried again.

  Ethan shook his head.
He watched the expression on Theo’s face shift, from suspicion to realization to rage. “Did you break up with her?” Theo demanded, stomping his foot.

  Ethan could feel his parents’ gazes, the heft of their confusion and disapproval. And they were right to disapprove. He’d failed his son. He could have told Theo any day this week that he and Ana were kaput, let him throw his fit and blow off steam and recover in time for Thanksgiving. But he’d been too clobbered, and now they were all going to witness the fallout. “Theo—” he began.

  “I can’t believe you. I can’t fucking believe you.”

  “Theo!” said Sheila.

  Theo flushed and raised his hands. “I’m outta here.”

  “Theo!” Ethan, James, and Sheila all said simultaneously. Ted had a mouthful of Brie.

  But they were talking to the back of his head.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” he called.

  Ethan chased him to the front hall. Theo threw open the coat closet, grabbed a jacket, and shrugged into it.

  “Where are you going?” Ethan tried to keep his voice semi-steady. Things were bad enough without him losing his cool.

  “To Leah’s.”

  “You can’t barge in on her Thanksgiving!”

  “She invited us to her Thanksgiving.” Theo wrenched open the front door and pushed past the screen.

  “You can’t—”

  “Her mom said I was welcome if I wanted to drop by.”

  “Theo!” he yelled out the front door as Theo receded across the front lawn, trotting toward the street.

  Oh, God. He was yelling up the street at his teenage son, and it was Thanksgiving, and he’d totally lost control of his life.

  As far as Ethan was concerned, there was nothing happy about this Thanksgiving.

  He went back into the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” he said to his parents and James.

  “Not your fault.” Sheila’s tone implied the opposite. “But start explaining.”

  When Theo came back, everyone had gone home and Ethan was watching his TiVo’d football on TV. Ethan turned the television off. Theo didn’t look angry anymore, although Ethan knew that he still had a lot of explaining to do before his son forgave him—if that ever happened. “How was Leah’s?”