by Niki Turner
His forehead wrinkled. “Why?”
She took a deep breath and exhaled before answering. “Because Eva St. John is an amazing Christian woman who has spent almost all her life selflessly helping others. Her story is inspiring and encouraging and hopeful.” Tansy scooted to the edge of the chair. “There are so many stories about terrible people and things that happen in the world. It’s not often a writer gets to tell a true story about a woman who has done so much good.”
She rose and gathered their plates, crumpled napkins, and the box, and carried them all into the kitchenette.
Sebastian stared at the wall and tried to wrap his mind around the idea of an American grandmother who wasn't a villain, as his mother and maternal grandparents had been portrayed in his family history. He was so focused on his thoughts, he jumped when Tansy returned to the room, curled up in the chair and tucked her legs beneath her.
“I’ll send you a copy of the manuscript, if you’re interested,” she said.
“Yes. Certainly,” Sebastian reached for a pen, leaned over and scribbled his e-mail address on a napkin. He pushed it toward Tansy. “I should excuse myself and say goodnight. It’s getting late.”
She took the napkin, glanced at it, and looked up at him. “Thank you for dinner.”
Sebastian dipped his head, then looked up as an idea blossomed in his mind. “We missed the worship service at Iglesia Espiritu Santo. Would you like to attend their Sunday morning service instead?”
Tansy hesitated. “I would, yes.” When he turned to leave, she touched his arm. “I should tell you...I believe the church is part of the ministry that the St. Johns started.”
He shook his head, offered a wry smile, and grazed her chin with his thumb. “Why am I not surprised? Meet me downstairs at nine, sí?” He let himself out and strode down the corridor toward the elevator, heart pounding and mind churning. Was he about to discover the truth about the dark side of his family history?
****
Sebastian found himself whistling on the way to his penthouse. His mood had taken a surprising turn. Tansy Chastain was gutsy, he’d give her that. And independent. And charming. And beautiful. And he’d almost kissed her.
And she was probably lying to him.
His jaw clenched. Since she was probably hiding something from him, yielding to any kind of attraction to her was foolish at best. For all he knew, Tansy Chastain and Eva St. John had made some kind of deal with Diego and his uncle. After all, it was Diego who had managed to find his way to Sebastian’s grandmother’s home. Had he had help from Eva? Or Tansy?
Sebastian had been too short-sighted to look beyond his mother’s role in the theft of the walking stick. His uncle had not, and Diego had made it as far as Eva’s home, with Tansy inside. Score one for Team Vargas. The thought made Sebastian’s stomach clench. He knew the kind of violence Diego was capable of.
The elevator opened into his apartment. Sebastian flicked on the lights, relieved to find his dwelling free of Diego-shaped pests. He headed for his office, sat at his desk, and tapped in the code to open the electronic lock on the top right drawer. Reaching inside, he withdrew Darcy St. John’s diary.
The leather-bound book had been handcrafted by Sebastian’s grandfather, a gift to Darcy from Sebastian’s father, Fabian, just a few months after they met. The last thirty or forty pages were blank, the final entry made the night Darcy had abandoned her son and left Chile.
He thought of all the times he’d lain awake in his narrow bed in his grandparents’ house, poring over his mother’s words, willing himself to understand why she had abandoned him. Abuelo and abuela didn’t know he had the diary. He had told no one when he found it buried in a box of his baby things. Tansy was the first person to whom he had ever spoken of the journal. He placed the book back into the drawer and closed it, resetting the lock with a new combination, as he did every time he accessed that particular drawer.
Sebastian logged on to his computer and opened two browser tabs to begin simultaneous searches for Tansy Chastain and Eva St. John. He read until his eyes blurred with fatigue, then he yawned, stretched, and pushed the massive leather chair from the desk.
Everything Tansy had said about Eva was true. The woman was a saint in every sense of the word. And Tansy’s name had popped up on the bylines of half a dozen articles. She was a good writer. She would do well with Eva’s memoir.
His cell phone buzzed, and he checked the display. His grandfather. It was late for the old man to be calling. Sebastian tapped the button to take the call, hoping nothing was wrong. “Abuelo? Is everything all right?”
“Hmph. No. My grandson, my heir, is almost thirty years old. He is not married, and he has not found the walking stick his mother stole from our family. Everything is not all right.”
“I’m working on finding the walking stick, Abuelo.”
“So you’ve said. Are you working on finding a wife?”
Sebastian suppressed a groan. “I’ve been a little busy.”
“Diego tells me you are seeing an American woman. Do you plan to marry her?”
“Diego needs to keep his mouth shut,” Sebastian growled. “Anyway, I’m bringing her to meet you tomorrow, at the shop. Is that good enough?”
There was a moment’s hesitation before his grandfather answered. “You only bring the ones you think you’re serious about to meet me at Los Dominicos. Now I’m curious.”
Sebastian clenched a fist. What had compelled him to offer to take Tansy to the artesanal?
“I’ll be there tomorrow, as always, Sebastian, but I must remind you, your birthday is this week. I want you to take over Sandoval Industries, but you must be willing to fulfill the family traditions, not continually kick against them.”
“It’s not a matter of being willing.” Even as the words left his lips, Sebastian’s conscience poked him. He loathed his grandfather’s obsession with dried-up, useless traditions.
“I expect a bride on your arm and the walking stick in my hand at your birthday party.”
Sebastian opened his mouth to respond, but his grandfather had already ended the call.
He pressed his palms against his eyes. In the last year, with the walking stick still missing and Sebastian still unmarried, he had fallen from his grandfather’s good graces. The descent had been excruciating. Eduardo Sandoval had been grandfather, father, mentor, and friend for as long as Sebastian could remember. He’d felt the subtle shift in their relationship as he would have felt a death.
He stood and turned to look out the window. During the day he enjoyed an unparalleled view of Cerro San Cristóbal and the gleaming white statue of the blessed Virgin. The view—day or night—often soothed him, but tonight he was agitated.
He could have provided the old man with a daughter-in-law and a few grandchildren by now if he’d been willing to marry without love. But he wouldn’t sacrifice the possibility, however slim, of finding the love of a lifetime.
As for the walking stick, his repeated searches had failed to unearth so much as a splinter of the prized heirloom. That Eva St. John’s home had been one more dead end discouraged Sebastian, even if it hadn’t been his idea to search there. He grimaced.
Ben would tell him to pray, to petition God’s help to locate his grandfather’s precious treasure, but Sebastian couldn’t bring himself to ask God to rectify his mother’s offense.
A siren somewhere penetrated the glass barrier that separated him from the rest of the city. He listened to the shrill noise heralding some human trauma, then left his office, shoulders hunched under the familiar weight of familial responsibility and his fear of failure.
7
Tansy snapped awake at the first hint of dawn creeping through the curtains. Her skin flushed hot with the memory of their almost-kiss. “Stop it, Tansy,” she said aloud. “This isn’t a romance novel.” She shoved aside the down comforter and silky sheet and swung her legs off the bed.
And what was it, then? The question whirled through her mind as s
he made her way to the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Nothing. Nothing is going on. I’m spending the day with a handsome man who wants to show me his hometown. End of discussion. She sighed. She hated to argue. Especially with herself. After her shower, she smeared creamy lotion over her skin, and shrugged into one of the complimentary robes. She riffled through the clothes she’d brought, settling on a pair of jeans, knee-high brown boots that worked well in every season and didn’t hurt her feet, a loose turquoise top with three-quarter length sleeves, and a multicolored scarf accented with silver sequins. She tugged out the boots, then reached into the corner of the closet, feeling for the walking stick.
Her hand snaked past the pouf of pink chiffon and tulle she’d hung on a hanger, and scrabbled against the back wall. A damp, cold weight of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. “No,” she whispered.
Frantic, she shoved aside the dress and patted the closet walls, then moved to the floor. When her hands bumped against the knobby stick, which had toppled over in the back of the closet, she moaned aloud and clutched it against her hammering heart as a fresh fear blossomed.
Diego and his accomplice had traveled all the way to Colorado and broken into Eva’s home in search of the walking stick. If he figured out her connection to Eva... She grimaced.
If Eva’s suspicions were correct, people connected to the Sandovals had considered the heirloom murder-worthy. Whoever had it, or knew its whereabouts, would be a quick target. She had to keep the walking stick hidden.
She swallowed an acid lump of fear and tried to pray, but she couldn’t imagine what Jesus would do in a situation like this. What would Eva do? Tansy squeezed her eyes shut, but all she could picture was Eva’s frail form lying in her hospice bed, entreating Tansy to return the walking stick to the patriarch of the Sandoval clan.
“Lord, I want to do what’s right in Your eyes, what’s right for Miss Eva and for her family. She trusted me with this walking stick. Please, tell me what to do.”
She stayed there, forehead pressed to her knees in silence, listening until her body rebelled against the awkward position. She heard... nothing. No audible voice, no inner witness, nothing. The sharp rap at the door had her heart thundering. She scrambled to her feet, dropping the walking stick in her haste. The knock came again.
“Tansy? Are you awake?”
Sebastian. She cast a glance toward the bedside clock. Glowing red numerals told her it wasn’t even eight o’clock.
“I’m awake,” she said, knowing her voice sounded shrill.
“Good. I thought we might have breakfast at Melba’s again.”
She looked back at the bed. “Just a minute,” she shouted toward the door. She had to hide the walking stick, but where? Under the bed? Too obvious. As bad as the closet, she chided herself.
She moved into the living room and spotted the lush potted plants on the balcony, several as tall, or taller, than herself. She chose a mid-sized plant with plenty of thick, dark foliage and jammed the walking stick into the dirt along the plant’s thick stem. Stepping back, she fluffed the leaves and surveyed the results. No hint of the walking stick, not even the glimmer of the silver fox head, was visible.
Shaky, Tansy stepped back inside, closed the door to the balcony, and locked it.
“Tansy?” Sebastian knocked again, concern in his voice.
“Coming!” She hurried to the door and yanked it open.
****
Sebastian took in the tightly-wrapped robe and her frantic expression and knew something was amiss. He stepped inside, closed the door, and placed his hands on her shoulders, his eyes scanning the room beyond for signs of an intruder. Diego, in particular. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head with a bit too much force, in his estimation.
“Are you sure?” His grip tightened. “Diego?”
“No. I haven’t seen him.”
Sebastian focused on her face. “Then what’s wrong?”
Her eyes flickered from his gaze.
“I don’t know what to wear,” she said.
The thought of someone hurting her wrenched something deep inside, and Sebastian resisted a primal urge to pin her to the nearest hard surface and demand the truth. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and studied her. “Well, the robe isn’t going to cut it.”
She flashed him a brief smile. “You’re right about that. I’ll just be a minute.” She disappeared into the bedroom without a backward glance.
Sebastian prowled the perimeter of the living area. Her phone was still plugged in to its charger, as was her computer. Nothing appeared to be disrupted or disturbed. Nothing except Tansy herself.
Sebastian had decided to set aside his suspicions and doubts, at least for the day. Tansy’s current behavior was making it difficult. Was she in contact with Diego, or with Arturo, even though she’d told him she wasn’t?
He tensed when the bedroom door opened, revealing Tansy in jeans and boots, her caramel-colored hair pulled up into a messy knot.
“I’m ready,” she said.
Sebastian wasn’t sure what he heard in her voice that jangled his nerves. It was as if the most fragile silver thread had been strung between them, and this morning it was stretched to the breaking point.
****
Tansy smiled at Sebastian for the umpteenth time since they’d left the aparthotel. The bright smiles made her cheeks ache. He’d been silent, even sulky, and she’d tried to cover the tension with nonstop chatter and forced cheer.
His car was waiting for them outside the café, though they’d walked to and from the aparthotel. Tansy allowed him to help her into the passenger seat. “It must be nice,” she said when he climbed in beside her.
“What?”
“The conveniences of wealth.”
He frowned as he glanced in the side mirror. “There are many conveniences. But wealth doesn’t make life perfect.”
She relaxed as he threaded the car through traffic so thick one would have thought it was rush hour instead of a lazy summer Sunday. She was glad for the chance to be quiet. The forced niceties at breakfast had drained her resources, and failed to improve Sebastian’s mood.
The problem, she decided, was that she liked him. She sensed in him the same inner goodness she so valued in Eva, and that made it almost impossible to keep the walking stick a secret. But telling him would break her promise to Eva and put them both in danger. She had to find a way to contact the elder Sandoval. Soon.
The sports car veered to the right and came to a stop outside what looked like a warehouse.
“Is this it?”
“According to the address on the flier.”
Graffiti marred the concrete block walls and trash littered the gutter. A rangy stray dog with the head of a pit bull and the body of a greyhound wandered past the car, sniffing the ground as he went.
Two older women hurried down the sidewalk, huddled elbow-to-elbow and clutching their purses close to their bodies. They knocked on a door painted the same color as the building and camouflaged with the same graffiti. Seconds later, a man in a suit and tie opened the door and ushered the women inside with a smile.
“There it is,” Tansy said, relieved. She reached for the door handle, but Sebastian stopped her.
“Are you certain you want to go in there? I can take you to any number of churches.”
Tansy turned, surprised and saddened that he would judge the ministry by its exterior. But where she thought she would see judgment, she saw apprehension, like that of a small boy on the first day of school. Her heart melted with compassion and the tension she’d felt since he’d knocked on her door that morning drifted away. Perhaps there was more than one reason she was in Chile. She covered his hand with her own and squeezed his fingers.
“I’m sure, Sebastian. Let’s go to church.”
8
When they reached the door, Sebastian hung back, his heart thundering.
Tansy surged ahead and knocked. A
smiling young man in a dress shirt and trousers opened the door.
“Bienvenidos! Welcome!” He waved them inside.
The building really was a warehouse, Sebastian realized as the usher directed them to a pair of unoccupied chairs. Tansy took the aisle seat, forcing him to wedge himself between her and an older woman.
This particular section of the warehouse had been transformed into a church sanctuary, complete with an elevated platform for the worship team and the minister, multiple rows of folding chairs, and a modern video screen upon which weekly announcements were displayed. Hand-lettered banners hanging on the walls declared “Jesús es el Señor” and “Gloria a Dios” in festive colors.
To Sebastian’s surprise, almost every seat was occupied. There were older women like his abuela— children who fidgeted, poked each other and giggled; young couples; businessmen in suits with their well-dressed wives; and a few individuals he would guess belonged to Santiago’s homeless population. It was a very eclectic group.
Tansy leaned close. “This reminds me of the Statue of Liberty.”
Sebastian blinked. “What?”
She turned those lovely, long-lashed eyes to him. “You know, ‘give me your tired, your poor...’ The whole idea of everyone being welcomed and wanted and valued. It’s how the church should be, but it’s not always that way. It makes me glad to see it here, and I know it will please Eva. I can’t wait to tell her about it.”
The worship team took their places on the platform and everyone stood. Music swelled around them and Sebastian closed his eyes, feeling out of place and uncomfortable. And then he found himself listening to the song, to the lyrics.
The words washed over him. Words of love, peace, and comfort. He knew them, though he couldn’t have explained how or why. And he knew they were true. Peace would never be found anywhere outside of Christ. Not in business success. Not in family honor. Not even in making his abuelo proud. Reminded of his humanity, his place in the universe as a child of God, Sebastian lifted his embittered heart to his Savior in worship for the first time in a long time, and felt tears burn the back of his eyelids as peace washed through him like a gentle rain.