Shelter (32 page)

             
His head swiveled her way at last as he glanced at the baby, and then up at her. His eyes, his deep, dark, unshielded eyes were brimming with all the things he wanted to say, but for some reason couldn’t. He swallowed again. “Yeah, but…my hands are dirty.”

             
Alma sucked in a breath. She knew, the way he was staring at her now, that he wasn’t talking about the grime under his fingernails. She felt at once guilty for dragging his emotions back out into the daylight, for coming here and reminding him of his sins.

             
But then she shook her head, resolve blasting through the guilt. He was going to have to work through his demons instead of hiding them away. Keeping apart from one another was not going to help them forget what had happened to Sam, what had happened to the two of them.

             
“He’s not scared of dirt.”

             
One corner of his mouth twitched in a sad half-smile. “You think?”

             
“I
know
.” Her pulse had picked up when she’d walked into Marianne’s office earlier, but now, standing in front of Carlos, her heart was flat-out galloping. She took another of those deep breaths she couldn’t get enough of. “Come have dinner with me tomorrow night. Please. Even if you don’t want anything to do with me anymore, you don’t want to miss out on knowing Sam.”

**

In the absolute dark of the bedroom, the moonlight that streamed in through gapped blinds turned their skin to silver. The competing sounds of both their breathing filled the room and Carlos reached to pull the sheet up over them as the sweat began to evaporate and he felt a shiver run through Alma’s body.

She was molded to his side, her head against his shoulder, one slender arm and the wavy lengths of her dark hair across his chest. Each time her lungs expanded, her breasts pushed against his ribs and he remembered taking them in his hands again, remembered all of her body as it had been revealed to him. Her stomach was flat, but still a little soft from the baby. She had sworn up and down that she was working out again, like she was afraid he’d find some flaw in her. Which had been kind of adorable: the way she’d nibbled at her lip and shyly unfastened her jeans, it had been the first time in memory that she’d ever been bashful.

He rolled onto his side and wrapped an arm around the curve of her back bringing them face-to-face. The moon highlighted the shape of her cheek, the side of her nose, and the whites of her eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. She stared at him with such fixation she might as well have reached inside his chest and pulled his heart loose of its moorings so she could keep it for herself. Because that was the thing about Alma: it had not, nor would it ever be, just about sex.

Across the table from her, over a dinner of pasta and chicken, he’d felt himself starting to slip.
He wanted her, and not just because the deep v of her shirt plunged down into her cleavage, or because of the way her ass looked in jeans as she went to the stove and pulled the rolls from beneath the broiler. He wanted to take a real hold of her, to have her look at him and know she was his, for it to be his name she whispered drowsily in the afterglow, to know that he could wake up each morning and know that she was beside him and always would be. He did not associate sex with emotion except with her. And their months apart had only solidified that knowledge in his mind; no one was going to plug up the empty place inside him save for Alma.

But he would not force that love like he had before.

She burrowed through the sheets until their bodies were pressed together and brought her lips to his. It was a slow, bone-melting, unhurried kiss, and he heard her murmur of approval when he took over and pushed his way into her mouth with his tongue. Her fingertips drew aimless patterns across his chest and when they pulled apart, she tucked her head in under his chin with a contented little sigh.

“I missed you,” she said against his collarbone. “God, did I miss you.”

Carlos skimmed his hand up her spine and into her hair, cupped the back of her head and gently urged her away from him. When he saw her face, he saw the glimmering streaks of tears too. He knew what he wanted, what he craved, but didn’t know where her head was. “I dunno what we’re doing here,” he had to say it, though he hated to, because he’d learned that hopes and lies weren’t going to get them through a damn thing.

One of her hands slipped up between them and she wiped at her cheeks. “Why’d you leave that night?” she sounded wounded about it, which he hadn’t quite expected.

“’Cause you didn’t want me.”

Her eyes batted shut and then came open again. She took a deep, shaky breath. “I was so angry,” and he knew she was referring to the night she’d thrown him out. Her voice quavered. “And then I started thinking about what it must have been like for you to…to have…been there.” Fresh tears slid down her pretty face, liquid crystal in the moonlight. “You were trying to protect me.”

And even if his methods had been flawed, he really had been.

Alma took a deep breath. “Sometimes, I think you’re right when you say that it alwa
ys shoulda been the two of us - ”

“Don’t
.”

She nodded, understanding;
she had to have been with Sam. There was no sense in wishing the past had been any different and he’d known that when he’d picked up little Sam for the first time that night.

“I love you,” she whispered, and Carlos held his breath. “And not because I need to lean on you anymore, and not because you’re Sam’s cousin. I just really, really love you, Carlos.”

He chuckled before he could catch himself.

“What?”

“Been wanting to hear that for a long time.”

Alma smiled. “Are we crazy?”

“Very.”

The moment hung between them and it was not full of regret or hesitation, anxiety or
questions. Carlos felt scrubbed clean in a way no soap or water could accomplish: like his soul had been dusted off. He didn’t know if God could forgive him, but Alma had, and for now, that was good enough. He didn’t think his cousin would be too pissed off either.

“So where do we go from here?” Alma asked, and her voice was full of the kind of hope and excitement it had been when she was a teenager talking about what she wanted to do with her life.

“Maybe we take things slow?”

“Slow’s good,” and she leaned in for another kiss.

Epilogue

              It should have been sunny. And cloudless. Warm. It should have been the brightest, most perfect of days. But instead, vivid tongues of lightning beyond the window heralded the coming of a summer evening storm. The sky gave the impression of a great grey quilt that was being slowly unfurled across the landscape. The humidity fogged the glass panes in the kitchen’s bay window thanks to the air conditioning that hummed through the house and rustled the filmy white curtains.

             
But Alma could still see the lush, green gardens in her parents’ backyard and the arbor loaded down with vibrant wisteria blooms at the back of the property. And she could see Carlos standing under it, in his white shirt and black pants. He wasn’t wearing a coat or tie, because she’d stressed the importance of casual.

             
“I can’t believe this,” Caroline said from the table behind her, and she turned, skirt swirling around her knees as she did so. Her best friend was perched on the edge of a chair, her dress so tight she was having trouble sitting comfortably, and held a copy of that day’s paper. “Alma,” she glanced up, beaming. “This article is incredible.”

             
Alma returned the smile, her already excited stomach doing another somersault at the praise. “It’s not much,” she said, but inside, she was ecstatic over the two hundred words she’d penned and been able to publish about young motherhood.

             
“It’s your work in print,” Caro said, folding up the paper and setting it on the table. “Now, when you submit your manuscript, you can say you’ve been published.”

             
Which was exactly why she’d written the piece.

             
“Alright, girls, let’s do one last touch-up,” Diane said as she breezed into the room. She had Sam in her arms and paused a moment, a happy, tear-filled smile warming her face. “Oh, baby,” she said, coming toward Alma. “You look beautiful.”

             
“Thanks, Mom.” She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. It was simple and light, strapless and tight, it hugged her body and then the skirt fell in a loose column that pooled around her feet. It was ivory rather than white, with crystal beading on the bodice and a lavender sash the same color as Caroline’s strappy sheath dress that came to just below her knees.

             
Diane was in powder blue looking very shapely and elegant, younger than her years, her long, dark hair done up in a loose bun. She moved Sam to one arm so she could arrange Alma’s locks around her shoulders. Then she pulled a tube of lipstick from the small bag slung over her shoulder and added a dab to her daughter’s lips.

             
“There,” she said with approval. “You’re perfect.”

             
Thunder rumbled deep and low in the distance and Diane snapped her fingers. “Quick, quick, let’s get this done before it rains.” And all her sentimental softness was gone in an instant, replaced by her usual businesslike tone again. “Alma, I’ll have the baby, but if the storm kicks up, we’re coming back inside.”

             
Alma leaned forward to press a quick kiss to her son’s head while she could, chuckling at the lipstick mark she left behind. “See you in a sec, baby.”

Diane sighed and wiped at the stain with her thumb as she tucked him up on her chest and prepared to depart.

              The kitchen’s few occupants shuffled around, lining up in the order in which they would walk down the “aisle,” which was really the garden path that led out to the arbor. All the guests, the few that there were, had been seated in rented white chairs in a semicircle around the ceremony spot and Alma could hear the light tumble of voices as Carlos’s coworker – and former Good & Green landscaper – Mike opened the back door and took Diane’s free arm.

             
“Good luck,” Caroline turned around and gave Alma a fast hug. “You look amazing, girl.”

             
“Thank you,” Alma squeezed her back before Caroline hurried to begin her descent down the back steps toward the walk. She strode with head held high, not at all bothered to be the only bridesmaid: she was the maid of honor, after all.

             
“You ready?” Tom asked from beside her and she slipped her arm through her father’s, smiling up at him. He didn’t appear to share her joy today. “You sure about this? It’s not too late to back out.”

             
In the days leading up to the wedding, as she and her mother – Alma as a bit of a hostage – had poured through wedding and gardening magazines, trying to settle on décor and flowers, Tom had paced around the house, brooding. Alma had never known that there was any kind of real bad blood between her father and her man, but that had become obvious at the family dinners, and now, as she studied Tom’s frown, she wondered if her mother’s heart wouldn’t harden toward her new son-in-law once the excitement of the marriage had died down.

             
And then she decided she didn’t care. She was not going to push anyone out of her life like she’d done when she’d married Sam; they’d all have to learn to get along, or tear each other to bits. Hopefully the first.

             
“I don’t want to back out,” she told her dad with an encouraging smile, sad that, on this day, she was the one comforting him.

             
Tom attempted a smile, patted at her hand. “Just so you’re sure.”

             
“I’m so sure, Dad.”

             
“Well, then…” he motioned toward the door with his free hand and they started toward it, Alma doing one last smoothing of her dress. For some reason, she was really worried about looking perfect today.

             
Outside on the back porch, the garden stretched before them in all its splendor: the vegetable beds full of tomatoes and zucchinis, colorful peppers and watermelons like green boulders nestled on top of the dirt. Along the brick walk, roses, hydrangeas, impatiens, daisies, and a half a hundred species she couldn’t name lent their hues to the celebration. Overhead, the clouds churned, now a dark charcoal, full of rain and ready to burst. A snaky bolt of lightning danced over the tree tops in the distance and Alma prayed the storm would hold until they were all safely indoors.

             
And then her eyes landed on Carlos.

             
All the flowers, the garden, the arbor, the guests in their chairs, all of it melted away into a soft outline around the centerpiece of her attention: the man who’d asked her to marry him. The excitement reached a crescendo behind her breastbone the way it had the night before. In the dark, both of them too giddy to sleep like children waiting for Santa, they’d stared at one another in the dark, the whites of their eyes shining, talking about their futures: their careers, their relationship, the siblings they wanted to give to Sammy. She’d been amazed how right it had felt, how natural it was to seek shelter in him, even when there was nothing to hide from. That was how she’d known, in their months apart, that she was hopelessly in love with Carlos: Even when she didn’t need him, even when she rolled out of bed each morning with a scrap of hope in her heart, she still wanted him to hold her, still wanted to be his. She did not, in fact, love Carlos because he was her connection to Sam, but because he was the man she wanted to spend her time with.