by Dianne Miley
“You’re not dancing?” he asked.
“Nah.” Brett set his full beer on the bar.
“I’ll dance,” Roxanne eyed Grant.
“Do you mind?” He raised his eyebrows at Brett.
“No. Go ahead.” The two left arm in arm. Brett pushed aside Grant’s eight-dollar drink and took his stool. He couldn’t imagine Laura in a place like this, pushing herself on any hot guy who walked in the door. She wouldn’t bare her chest and shove it in a stranger’s face, either.
He brought a hand to his mouth and hid his smile lest he looked like a lunatic. That hot night at Rachel’s house, Laura had worn a skimpy tank top. She’d driven him crazy and he’d nearly lost his self-control. Even now, desire swelled as he pictured her. Lying on that sofa, hair mussed, tank top pulled low, she breathed hot and heavy, reaching for him and only him.
He glanced at the women pawning their goods for a drink or a dance. How many just wanted a good time for tonight, then would move on to some other guy tomorrow?
Every woman in the room paled in comparison to Laura. She’d never fit in at a place like this. He knew her, believed in her. They could have gotten past their differences.
But the real problem was trust. She didn’t believe in him. Not enough to trust him. Not enough to leave her family and create a life together. She trusted herself, her family, and even her business more than Brett. He wondered if she trusted in her own abilities more than she trusted in God.
Several songs later, Grant returned and Roxanne sashayed toward the restrooms. “She’s some woman!”
“Oh, yeah?”
“What’s with you, man?” Grant asked, incredulous. “You’re still nursing that beer? You got a girl back home or something?”
“Nah. She’s just not my type.”
“Whoa. She’s anyone’s type.” He crooned, “Rooox-anne...” He was no Sting. “You don’t have to turn on the red light...”
“That’s for sure,” Brett muttered. “Because she wears two green lights on her chest.”
Grant laughed. “Hey, so you won’t mind if I take her home?”
“She’s all yours. I’ll call a cab.” Brett left his beer and gratefully headed for the door. Regretting ever coming, he should have known better than to go where he didn’t belong.
Once at home, he walked across his empty kitchen and took a Coke from the refrigerator. His stomach growled, but only a bottle of ketchup nestled in the door. No homemade potato salad, no chocolate cupcakes, not even cold chicken.
He let the fridge close and grabbed a bag of chips from a barren cupboard. No spice racks or canisters littered the counter. No potted violets grew on the windowsill. No English teapots decorated shelves. He didn’t even have shelves!
It wasn’t really home without a woman. He hated to admit he missed the antique buffet filled with fancy dishes. And candlelight and flowers and a cozy table. More than that, he missed warm skin that smelled like purple flowers. He snapped off the light and left the soul-less room.
Flopped onto the cold, sterile leather sofa, he clicked the remote. Between two black, curtain-less windows, his brand-new wide screen TV blinked on. But late night comedy couldn’t help him ignore the heartache that wouldn’t go away.
****
Saturday afternoon, Laura arranged three roses in a bud vase—yellow for friendship. Rachel knew the symbolism. After work, she drove south of town in misty drizzle.
Today she’d get answers. She turned down Honeysuckle Lane. Rachel’s old yellow Toyota gathered rust in her puddled gravel drive. Roses still wilted at the doorstep. Water dripped from the gutter above the door. Just like the day Rachel slapped her.
That was six days ago, and they hadn’t spoken since. Despite her determination, Laura feared another rejection. She inched toward the driveway. Her inner conflicts debated—need for answers, fear of rejection. As the nose of her car edged toward the drive, fear won. Rachel would reject her again.
Laura sped past, feeling like a failure.
She couldn’t go home. It was too wet to go horse-back riding, and she couldn’t bear sitting in the house with her brooding father. He’d become increasingly agitated, and his remarks haunted her.
‘You might not like what Calvin has to say.’
He acted as if someone in the family was guilty. He’d mentioned the possibility that her shots really had killed Jake, but what worried her most was what he hadn’t said. He suspected Rachel. Laura felt it in her bones.
Her father wanted her to leave well enough alone, and he didn’t even know about the wire cutters. But sitting around feeling sorry for herself was getting her nowhere. If she had a shred of self-respect left, she had to do something.
Desperate for answers, she wouldn’t get them from her sister. She turned onto Route 4.
Almost automatically, Laura headed toward the Riverside address she’d looked up in the phone book. Prospect Avenue was the main thoroughfare through the red light district.
Sarita lived in a place she’d never been, and had no intention of going until now. Unbelievably, Jake’s sister was the safest person to ask questions about Jake. Laura glanced at the vase of roses in her cup holder. A gesture of sympathy would help break the ice.
Sarita probably blamed her for Jake’s death. Laura would have to tread lightly, but her gut told her the woman was good-hearted. Sincerity showed in her demeanor at Jake’s funeral, the one before he actually died.
No one had even suggested a second funeral. It had been a week since his body was found, almost two weeks since his funeral. Hopefully Sarita wouldn’t be overly upset. But surely she wanted to find his killer.
Laura hated to use that to her advantage, but she was desperate. She’d ask about Jake’s friends, enemies, and his activities the last time Sarita had seen him. That would shed light on what happened at the bar the day of the accident.
Everything started at that bar. Stirring up the hornet’s nest was a calculated risk. The challenge was to carefully downplay anything that might implicate Rachel.
She reached Prospect and stopped at a red light. Hispanic teenaged boys stood on the corner in sleeveless white undershirts and loose, low-riding jeans. Rap music boomed from a chromed-out car parked on the street. Vibrating speakers filled the open trunk.
Although the boys did nothing suspicious, she fought the urge to lock her doors. They were just kids. Kids with goosebumps on their tattoos, trying to act cool and pretend they weren’t freezing in the cold wind.
Behind the boys, a dilapidated building had the house number 15234. Sarita’s address was 15256—same side of the street, not much farther. The light turned green and she drove slowly, watching the numbers. An historic brick building, the nicest on the block, had the number she was looking for, engraved in a cement square above paneled double doors.
She parked at the curb, grabbed the vase and her purse, and this time she locked her doors. This wasn’t Crystal Falls, after all. She climbed the massive brick steps and entered the apartment building. According to the mailboxes in the foyer, S. Santos lived in apartment 303.
The ancient stairs were worn but clean. By the time she reached the third floor, she’d almost lost her nerve, hesitating at the green door with bronze numbers 303. She drew a deep breath and willed her heart to stop racing. She was tempted to run back down those stairs.
Holding the roses, yellow for friendship, she wondered if Sarita would see her as a friend. Or as her brother’s killer. She’d never know if she turned back.
Finally she knocked on the door.
Shuffling sounds came from inside, then footsteps coming close. Last chance to make a run for it...
She swallowed a groan as the door inched open.
Powerful dread punched her in the gut as she stared into the incredible sadness of Sarita’s dark, nearly black eyes. A touch of mascara and faded lip gloss didn’t mask evidence of tears on her beautiful face. Shiny black hair swept over her shoulders and fell to her elbows in thick waves. A deeply
cut, fuchsia-colored sweater revealed bronze cleavage. A jeweled belly button ring showed above very low, painted-on jeans that flattered her shapely curves and long legs. Only a somber expression tainted her super model looks.
Laura’s stomach twisted. Sarita looked like Jake. And exuded the same sexual chemistry as well.
Sarita let out a shaky breath. “You are Rachel’s sister?” she asked in a thick Puerto Rican accent.
“Yes, I’m Laura.” The accent surprised her because Jake had thrown his off. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Si,” Sarita nodded nervously. “Yes. Come in.”
Laura felt drawn to her, like she’d been at the funeral. Something good, something genuine lay beneath those sexy clothes. Jake, on the other hand, had rejected his heritage but had never gotten past his troubled childhood. It was too late for him, but maybe not for his sister. Laura heard herself saying, “These are for you.”
“Thank you.” Sarita’s eyes lit up as she took the roses.
“You’re welcome.” Laura followed her inside.
“Yellow is my favorite color,” Sarita said. “It’s sunny and happy.” Sunny and happy described the entire apartment with banana-colored walls, tropical plants, and soft reggae music.
“Have a seat.” Sarita slunk across a colorful striped rug that covered apartment-beige carpet and set the vase on a table near the kitchen. With a deer-in-the headlights expression, she settled on the sofa.
A clumsy silence engulfed them as Laura sat opposite her in a Caribbean blue chair. Finally she asked, “How are you?”
“I am sad,” Sarita answered. “I might have helped my brother, but now he is dead.”
Laura gritted her teeth. A draft from the window fluttered a palm plant as she tamped down her fears. Taking a deep breath, she replied, “Jake came to me for food.” And liquor, she refrained from saying, unwilling to add insult to injury.
“Why did you not tell my family he was alive?” Her beautiful eyebrows drew together.
“He was hiding from the cops,” Laura began hesitantly. “He threatened to hurt Rachel if I told anyone about him. He was afraid of being arrested for the death of that woman.”
Tears glistened in Sarita’s eyes as she poked a lime green throw pillow. “Layla was with child,” she whispered.
Laura was surprised at her familiarity. “Did you know her?”
Sarita drew a ragged breath. “She worked with me.”
Laura sat dumbfounded. They worked together? But Layla Gallagher was a...Oh! Just great. Yeah, Sarita could be a stripper—easily. Laura had assumed she’d been a patron at the club when Rachel went to get the booster seat from Jake’s car.
“We were best friends. We shared everything. Even birth control pills! She ran out of money and I gave her some of mine.” She tore at her hair. “What a mistake! Of course she got pregnant and Ramone was so angry.” Sarita began to say something else but stopped herself and changed direction.
“Layla was upset that night. I tried to stop her from running off. But Ramone started arguing with me and she slipped out.” She dropped her head, silently sobbing with graceful beauty. Her mascara didn’t even run.
A ticking clock broke the uncomfortable quiet as Sarita wiped her tears. Laura had to say something—anything. And this was no time for questions about Jake. Wasn’t the guy who came to the funeral with her named Ramone?
“Ramone works with you?” she asked tentatively.
“Yes. He is...my boss. And...” On the verge of tears again, she blurted, “He is my baby’s father!” Streams ran down her face, and she placed a hand on her belly. “He wants me to abort his child,” she growled bitterly.
In shocked silence, Laura stared at her, afraid to move.
Red-faced, Sarita stood. “I am sorry to bother you with my problems. I cannot change Ramone any more than Rachel could change Jake.” She turned toward the kitchen in dismissal.
Compassion overwhelmed Laura. She couldn’t just leave her like this. “You’re right,” she said softly. “You can’t change Ramone, and Rachel couldn’t change Jake. But Jesus can.”
“But He does not,” she responded coolly.
“They don’t want Him to.”
“Your Jesus gets permission from men?” The retort berated Jesus as powerless.
“Yes,” Laura replied. “Jesus does not force us to obey Him—that’s our choice. But He wants us to follow His ways because that’s the only way for us to be truly happy.” She found herself mimicking her grandmother—words she had rejected.
“He does not care about me.” Ice frosted Sarita’s glare.
“He loves you,” Laura dared to argue.
Sarita lifted her trembling chin, trying to resume her hard-won cool. “No one loves me.”
Amazingly, powerful words rolled off Laura’s tongue, as if she actually believed them. “You will see His love when you trust in Jesus. Love flourishes with trust.”
Sarita’s intense stare challenged her. “I can’t see His love because I don’t trust Him?”
“Exactly. Distrust keeps us from realizing love.”
“Ramone never trusted me,” she admitted. “He does not believe this is his baby.” Sadness crept over her expression. “He wanted Layla to have an abortion too. But she refused and now she’s dead!” Her face twisted with pain.
What did she know? And how could Laura ask now?
“The baby is in heaven, but what about Layla? And Jake?”
Laura stiffened. Was she a magnet for discussions of Jake’s eternal fate? Her heart wrenched at the hurt, anger, and pure sadness in Sarita’s face.
“Did Jake believe in Jesus?” slipped from her mouth.
“I think so.” Sarita looked up. “When we were little, we went to mass. But when Papa lost his job, he drank too much. My mother took a second job working weekends and we stopped going to church.” She grew quiet for a moment, and then her voice hardened. “I don’t think any of my family will go to heaven.”
Groping for words, Laura heard them coming from her mouth of their own volition. “Jesus died on the cross to pay for our sins. The Bible says that if we believe that and repent our sins, God will forgive us and we’ll have eternal life.”
“And if we don’t believe?”
“If we choose to reject Him until our death, we must pay the penalty for our sins in hell.”
“So your Jesus lets you choose your own fate.”
“Yes. He waits patiently for us to turn to Him. When we choose to trust in Him, His Holy Spirit guides and comforts us.”
“Again the trust. Everyone I trust lets me down. My family, my friends, Ramone...They do not deserve my trust.”
“God deserves your trust.” And hers, Laura realized.
Enlightenment dawned on Sarita’s face. “From now on, I will trust God. I need His help.” Her accent vanished. It must have kicked in when she was upset, the way Emily’s did. “I will lose my job, but I won’t kill my baby,” she declared.
Quick tears blurred Laura’s vision. “I’m so glad,” she choked, moved by Sarita’s courage. Laura felt an odd longing to hug her but didn’t dare.
“My grandmother will be so proud.” A smile spread across Sarita’s face as she motioned to a photograph on the wall. An elderly woman held a toddler that looked like Amelia. Behind them, a tiny house stood in a grove of palm trees.
“Is that you?” Laura pointed out the child.
“Yes. Someday I will take my baby to Puerto Rico to visit her great-grandmother. She’ll be very happy to see us.”
Struck by how she embraced her heritage, Laura realized that Sarita held the key, not only to Jake’s past, but to the ancestry of his daughters as well.
Questions boiled like a brewing geyser, but an interrogation after that vulnerable confession would be a betrayal. Besides, Sarita was so forthcoming that if she’d had the answers, she would have told Laura by now.
“I’m sorry,” Sarita said with a deep blush. “But I must get ready for wo
rk.”
Laura stood. “Can we visit again?” she asked, drawn to Sarita as a friend. Most of her friends, including Brett, had left town in search of better jobs. This woman, a stripper, seemed the most genuine soul she’d met in a long time.
Sarita’s blush drained away. “I would like that.” At the door, she said, “Thank you for telling me about your Jesus.”
“He’s your Jesus too,” Laura said with a smile and walked out the door.
In the stairwell it hit her. Laura stopped and gripped the railing. Sarita didn’t have the answers. For the first time in her life, she had a problem she couldn’t handle alone.
But her mother was distraught and her father was ill. Her brother didn’t understand. Her sister couldn’t forgive her and Brett was gone.
No one could help her but God.
She had no choice but to follow her own advice and trust Him. He was the only one who could help her.
A loving peace washed over her. The words came to her again. Love flourishes with trust.
Lilacs For Laura
Lilacs For Laura
Chapter 22—Driving by the Seat of Your Pants
On Saturday, September ninth, Charlotte wasn’t prepared for record low temperatures. But the racetrack was reserved for a test run, and Hatley’s Snap-on Tools/Pennzoil/Pepsi Cola Chevrolet was ready. Psyched, Brett jumped out of Bo’s Suburban and followed the team into the pits.
Today would prove his abilities.
“Hi there, Richard,” Bo walked toward the team owner whose car was in the time slot before them. “How’s the track?”
Brett recognized the famous competitor. Should he pinch himself, or was he really in the man’s presence?
“Tires won’t stick. Track’s too cold.” Richard turned to watch his car pull off the track. “Be careful out there.”
“Will do,” Bo answered as Richard walked toward his car. “Let’s get it out there, boys,” he addressed the team.
Grant fired up the engine while the mechanic still had his head under the hood. Choking on fumes, the guy stumbled away from the car with a scowl. As soon as he shut the hood, Grant dumped the clutch and fishtailed out of the pits.