by Anne Eliot
Mrs. Perino draws in a breath and stops dead in her tracks, looking at me like my suggestion has shocked her. “My Cara, she used to do something similar with her little brother at bedtime too…”
“Robin is an artist. Did I mention that, Mamma?” Angel is still at the sink, squeezing out the damp rag as though he wants every last drop out.
“How do you know that?” I ask quietly.
“I saw your books and portfolio in the car. When I saw them—and because of Cara…” He flushes. “I guess I just assumed you were. Am I wrong?”
I shake my head, flushing as much as he just did. “No. You’re not wrong,” I answer quietly, feeling really strange.
He and his mom share a weighted look I don’t quite understand, one that makes their obsidian eyes lose half of their sparkle and that makes me feel even more strange.
Does me, being an artist, somehow make them sad?
“Why am I not surprised about that, Angelino. Not surprised at all,” Mrs. Perino answers, pausing to move Sage’s backpack out of her way. She pulls in a fast breath and I notice she’s reading Sage’s luggage tag. “Mamma-mia. You’re your last name is Love? You are Robin and Sage Love? Love? Amore? Angelino. Did you hear? It’s belissimo this last name. Perfecto per voi. Robin Love. Perfecto.”
“It’s awkward, I know, but yeah. That’s it.” I swallow, acting all casual while ignoring the ball of fear her saying our whole names out loud is bringing to my stomach because—what if Joanie reported us as runaways? What if they decide to hop onto laptops and Google our names and somehow we’re in some sort of runaway database, somewhere, if there is such a thing.
God, I hope not.
I swallow again.
“Angelino, can you believe this? It’s not awkward, all of this is wonderful.” Mrs. Perino beams at her son like she’s been hit with a thousand suns.
Eyes never leaving his mom’s, I get the idea Angel is having some sort of silent conversation with her before he joins me in the back hallway. “Ma—do you have to call me Angelino? In front of—people?” he asks stiffly, and I can absolutely tell he’s trying to change the subject, I just don’t know why.
“She’s not just people, are you Robin. You’re going to be more than friends. I just know it.”
Before I can answer, they start what sounds like a little argument in Italian with lots of ‘Mamma-mia’s and caro-mios, and one mi-amore-caro, and so much Italian I can’t understand. It all ends with Mrs. Perino scooting in between us so she can pinch one of Angel’s cheeks. “He’s such a good boy, my Angel. He’s made me so happy by bringing you two here. Truly.”
He ends it with a frustrated, “Oofa, Mamma, okay please. Ferma. I love you, yes I do. You know that, but you’re sounding and acting crazy.”
Angel’s grin and embarrassed cheek rubbing is kind of adorable.
He drags his trash bag out the back door, motioning for me to follow.
When we’re far enough away, I ask, “What does your mom mean when she says she’s not surprised I’m an artist? Was she choked up back there? Were you? Are you? And why? What’s up with all of that, plus my last name?”
“Don’t mind us,” He says, not turning back. “Italians are too emotional about things that mean nothing. My mom is in love with the word love, that’s all.” Angel pauses so I can fall in step with him. “She’s always saying everything that happens, is for a reason. She thinks the people we meet is all part of some bigger plan. She’s into manifest-destiny and how things are all created from our actions. That kind of stuff. The word love means a lot to us.”
I nod, not completely understanding all that he’s said, and address the parts I do get. “I used to believe in that kind of stuff, too. But when things go bad or get sad, like…” I choke back words and facts that almost slipped out about my father. “When things go bad or sad,” I repeat, gathering my thoughts. “It’s really hard to believe that some higher power—God, the universe, whatever that may be, would do that to people on purpose. Harder to believe that we could attract things that hurt, you know?”
He sighs loudly. “After what happened to my sister, hell yes, do I know. But even after Cara died, my mamma still believes it was all for a reason. She says that we don’t make the plan, the plan finds us. It comes from years and years of church and, also from watching this Oprah woman who was on TV when I was a kid. Your mom get into that show?”
My back stiffens, and I glance over at him. “You promised no questions. That’s a question.”
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t think.” His expression is so surprised I realize I’m being too paranoid. He shrugs. “Back to my mom, then. She, like me, is moved by how you and Sage remind us of the past. But it’s more that you, personally remind us of Cara.”
“How?” I stop walking, and look directly at him.
He pauses for a long time and I realize the buzzing going on around me is not from my head, it’s from the sound of the backyard crickets.
Finally he answers, “It’s your face. The big eyes and the shape of your face and the long, curling hair. That’s what drew my attention to you at first. The way you set your shoulders when I questioned you in the garage reminded me of Cara so much it almost brought me to my knees. Even though your coloring is the exact opposite of hers, my mom agrees, you could be sisters or cousins. But…it’s more than that. You radiate this very natural prettiness, or maybe it’s how this unwavering hope and determination shines from you non-stop. It’s also…something about how your eyes go over your brother to make sure he’s okay , just how Cara did with me. That’s what made me call my mom after I’d parked your car.” His voice wavers and he breaks my gaze to look up at the dark sky. “Hell, I don’t know exactly, but your essence is so very much like my sister’s was, and…there’s one more thing.”
Angel pauses to swing his bag of trash to one side and takes the one I’ve been carrying out of my hands and motions me to walk ahead.
“What?”
“My sister…she was also into art. Painting. Like you are. She was so talented and creative. Her dream was to go to art school, but we couldn’t afford it.”
My throat constricts again at that information, and suddenly I feel way, too exposed. This time it’s me creating the long pause while I grapple with how much of myself I want to reveal to this guy. “It’s also my dream to go to art school. I mean, I am going. I have a scholarship waiting, and once my life is all figured out, I will go. I hope.” I sigh, taking in how he’s shaking his head and staring at me like what I’ve said has made me grow a second head.
“You look like you might cry,” I say, calling out how his eyes look too weighted and, too shiny again. “And your mom? In the kitchen, she also seemed sad and…well.” I pause, because my lips itch to form questions about his sister, about what really happened and how she died. Only, I can’t ask questions when I won’t allow them to ask me any. Maybe they’re like me. Their personal secrets and pain might be too heavy to send into breathable air. Like if they did, it would collapse them. On a whisper, I finish, “I don’t want my presence to make you guys feel sad, that’s all.”
“I think mom and I are always sad about Cara,” Angel replies. “Having you and Sage here so suddenly has brought feelings to the surface we’ve spent years working to put to rest. It’s possible mom and I will choke up about it here and there, but please just know Mamma and I are so happy that you and Sage will be safe tonight. And safe tomorrow, and hopefully for as long as you need. You two, staying here under our protection, it’s like a balm to that sadness. We know we’ve helped, or stopped some worry or sadness for you two.” Before I can speak he holds up a hand. “Not that the same things would have happened to you two, but like, you never know who you could have met. And, Cara and I met the worst possible people in the world when we needed help so it means a lot to us that you met…us.” he shakes his head. “Hell. I don’t know what I’m saying because I’m really bad at talking about this stuff, but, does any of what I said make sense?”
“Yes. I get you,” I choke out. Not knowing how to deal with the raw emotions now swirling between us, I nod, because damn him, and damn my situation, but this guy is completely right.
To change the subject, I point around the huge yard. “Are those three cottages back there? What are they? Is this a bed and breakfast kind of place? That’s what it looks like.” I eye the tiny-house shaped structures on the far side of the yard.
“They were built in the 1920’s. Foremen’s cabins from back when this was a part of a working orange grove. We’ve talked about renting them out, but two don’t have running water and the third, which is the largest, used to belong to Cara. The idea of changing her cottage has always seemed impossible for us, but at the same time we could use the money rentals might bring. We’ve been torn over deciding what to do back there for like five years now.” He sighs. “We also couldn’t rent to just anyone, because after what happened to Cara, we’ve become really private people.”
He nods to the picnic tables. “This center garden area was as built like a real town square. Mamma calls it her private piazza. The migrant workers would have been housed nearby in canvas tents and caravans. Here, they could gather after work, play music, eat together, and have a family environment during the long months spent working. The big house we live in belonged to one of the overseers. Part of it was used as a one room school.”
“It’s really nice here. Peaceful. You wouldn’t know there’s a big city nearby.”
“That’s why we love it so much. Mom’s got her own mini-farm going, and there’s still fruit trees all over the place.” He motions to the dark gardens behind the cottages. “Tomorrow you’ll see. Hopefully the flowers on the remaining few orange trees will hold off falling for one more day. They’re beautiful.” He leads me to a small gate and holds it open. “The pathways go in a circle. One to the gardens leading out back, the others all leading out as separate, secret escape routes.” He winks.
“Nice,” I say. “Because after today, you know I’m all about quality escape routes.”
Chapter 14
When we get back to the kitchen, Mrs. Perino is halfway through folding a huge laundry basket into sorted piles on the table and Sage is at the sink, dropping off the desert plates.
“Any calls?” Sage asks.
“Not yet.” Angel pulls out the phone to see if anyone’s called, like he’s done every half-hour since we’ve been here. I’ve tried not to watch him each time or feel overly hopeful, but it’s hard not to do both. When the screen shows no signs of life, I give him my told-you-so look right when the phone lights up and buzzes against his hand.
We all startle, and Angel almost drops the phone. He pulls it between us so we can look at the number on the screen.
“Unknown number. It has to be them,” Sage whispers out.
Angel answers quickly, “Hello? Yes. Yes, sir. She’s right here. They’re both right here.” He reaches over and passes the phone to Mrs. Perino, whispering, “Mamma, he wants to speak to you first.”
“Me?” Mrs. Perino takes it and raises her brows as high as mine have just gone. “This is Mrs. Perino. Angel’s mother.” She glances between us, listening carefully to whatever they are asking her. “Yes. Wonderful to meet you, young man.”
Sage tip-toes over to sit in one of the kitchen table chairs, already biting his nails while I panic, hold my breath, and scoot into another seat while wondering just who’s talking on the other line. Angel leans on the counter, all of us watching intently as Mrs. Perino paces in front of the sink as she laughs into the phone.
“Well, thank you. My apologies, but you sounded like a young man, not at all like you’re fifty-four, either. Gregory Felix. Okay. I shall call you only Gregory, then. I’m Carla Perino. Just Carla will be fine.”
Her cheeks are steadily getting pinker. “Well, thank you for saying that, but no, I’m forty eight, and the accent is from Italy.” She locks gazes with me, nodding like she wants me to know all is well. “So you’re the baby’s great-uncle? The uncle to the father of the child…uncle to Royce Devlin?” She nods again, frowning. “Mrs. Felix is the great grandmother, Robin told me. Where are these parents of Royce Devlin, then, if I might ask.” She pulls in a breath. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Mhm. Yes, so he’s got no one but you two. And the boys from the band.”
She glances at me again. “Robin and Sage? They are absolutely fine, and yes, they are staying here at our house with our family for the time being. I give her the highest reference. Yes, I do. You can trust her. She’s a wonderful girl.”
My breathing tightens and a taste of hope mixed with gratitude gathers at the back of my throat as she answers again, “Very reliable. Hard working, too. You will have no troubles.” She smiles at me then, and does this cute thumbs-up with her free hand.
My chest has twisted with guilt and a second wave of wonder that these strangers would go out on a limb for me and Sage like this. How can she know I’m trustworthy or hard working? I seek solace in the idea that Mrs. Perino told Gregory—that we are staying with them for now—which does free Angel from the lies he told to Mrs. Hildebrandt.
That’s something.
She pauses and her brow furrows. “I’m a home caterer. Breakfast pastries and cakes that I bake here at home and sell mostly for local coffee shops and breakfast places.” She stops to listen. “Oh? Oh really? Well, yes. I’d be honored for more work. Please hold on.”
She pulls out a pen and paper, then moves some of the laundry aside as she takes a seat by us, scribbling notes while Angel steps up to look over her shoulder, smiling.
“I had no idea how many people would travel with a band. I could imagine being stuck at a hotel for a month would make people miss home cooking, though. Thank you. Now, back to our Robin.” She sets down her pen. “She wants to accept this job, but of course you can understand that as much as you are responsible for those boys in that band, I am watching out for a vulnerable teenage girl. I am concerned that she would take such an unconventional position and be exposed to a lifestyle that might not be wholesome. I wouldn’t want her reputation tarnished.”
“Mamma!” Angel protests.
Mrs. Perino ignores her son by turning away. “Robin and Angel tell me it is a position that lasts only for a week, possibly two? And the money? You are paying it in cash? It is so much money that it sounds difficult to believe. It also sounds inappropriate. Is that how you normally do business?”
“Mamma!” Angel calls out again, sounding even more stressed.
Still ignoring us, she shakes her head like she slightly disapproves of something he’s said. “If you can verify all that you’ve said is true, and that Robin will be safe, I can accept your word. I suppose nothing too crazy can happen in such a short time if you and your mother also live there as chaperones, right?”
Angel whispers so his mom can’t hear, “So sorry, Robin. My mom—she’s such a helicopter mom.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper back, suddenly too overcome to answer anything more. If I could, I might tell Angel that I haven’t had a real mother look after me in my entire life, and that Mrs. Perino’s interference and genuine concern has filled about two hundred holes I didn’t know were hiding inside my heart.
I know my father would love this woman for what she’s done for us. He’d also approve of everything she just asked on my behalf. And better, now I don’t have to ask them anything. After only knowing her for two hours, I trust Mrs. Perino.
“This is what I wanted to hear.” Mrs. Perino finally takes a seat at the table along with all of us. “I invite you and the band to come for one of my garden dinners before you leave the area. The pastries I send tomorrow shall be my special gift of thanks for answering all of my questions. No charge.” She laughs again. “Wonderful. Yes. Yes. Of course. Here she is.”
She passes me the phone.
“Hello?” I clutch the phone a little too tightly, feeling my heart thump in my chest.
“Robin?” Gregory
’s voice crackles over the connection. “She seems like a great lady, this Mrs. Perino.”
“She is.” I smile.
“You’ll be taking the job, then? You had me worried you wouldn’t.”
“Yes. If you want me. Royce and I had a bit of a misunderstanding…are you sure?”
“So we all witnessed.” He laughs. “Boy do you pack a punch, young lady. He told me he deserved it. And yes, we want you. We are desperate for your help.”
“Does Royce want me to take the job?” I press.
He laughs again. “Do you want lies or truth?”
“I think you know. I’ll need the truth.”
“He does not want you to take the job. Not one bit.”
I press my eyes closed, imagining how Royce Devlin must hate me for what I did, and I decide that I probably deserve that too, listening as Gregory goes on, “Royce will not interfere with our choice to hire you though, because he wants what is best for the baby. He also agrees that he needs help with her while we search for the mother. You’re all we’ve got, and Mrs. Felix and I think you’re great. Better than great. Perfect for the baby.”
“Oh, thank you. And I can do a good job for that little one, I just know it.” Afraid Gregory might suddenly change his mind or that this is all a dream, I add quickly, “What time should I be there to start in the morning?”
“Is seven okay? Though you’ve agreed to the job, you didn’t know the hours would be long. We will provide meals, as well as limo service for you as needed—door to door. Angel explained your car is currently not functioning?”
“Yes,” I answer, feeling ashamed of that fact. “But it will be fixed soon,” I add.
“We’ll adjust schedules for you, depending on the day. I don’t want to overwork you, but considering we don’t even know the baby’s exact age or name yet, or where the mother is, you, being flexible and agreeable is as important to us as keeping the baby happy.”
“I can be both of those things,” I answer brightly.