The Saints of the Cross (18 page)

I stealth my way out the front door and run to Xander’s car. I throw the weekend bag into the backseat as I climb into the passenger seat next to him. The familiar smell of my favorite Starbucks’ drink greets me.

“Venti red-eye, two pumps Caramel, cream, and three Splenda,” he recites with a smile, handing me the cup. His face is cast with an eerie, green glow from the dashboard lights.

“Aww, you remembered.” I bat my eyelashes at him with my free hand over my heart. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” He winks back at me. “We have to start our trip off right.”

“Thank you for going with me, Xander. I know it’s probably not how you wanted to spend your Fall Break.”

“You’re welcome,” Xander smiles warmly. “Trust me, I had nothing better to do anyway. Besides, you know I’d do anything for my favorite redhead.”

“I’m your favorite?” I feel a surge of heat in my cheeks, and I’m glad it’s still dark so that he can’t see the blush on my face.

“Well, honestly—you’re the only redhead I know.” He shrugs.

“Really?”

“No, but you
are
the prettiest, even at five o’clock in the morning.”

“Oh, Xander, flattery will get you everywhere.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” he says with a diabolical laugh. I nearly choke on my coffee with that comment. “I’m just teasing, Evie.”

“Oh, I know you are, Xander. A boy like you could never be interested in a plain, boring girl like me,” I tease back.

“Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better, sweetheart,” Xander retorts, but his tone suggests he’s not just teasing anymore, and I don’t continue with the flirtatious banter. I can’t understand how I can be so careless in my interactions with Xander when I love Javier. Although I am attracted to Xander, I don’t want to pursue those feelings when there’s no closure with Javier. I have to end that chapter in my life before I can even think of starting another.

A few moments of awkward, dark silence fall between us before Xander turns on the stereo. Strains of Joshua Bell’s masterful violin playing Vivaldi fill the car.

“You like Joshua Bell?” I ask, and there’s unintended skepticism in my tone.

“Of course I do.” He sounds offended. “All Italians are raised on classical music, and he’s one of my favorite interpreters of the classics, although
The Red Violin
soundtrack is probably my favorite of his recorded works.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Joshua Bell is my absolute favorite violinist. And I’m obsessed with
The Red Violin
. I think I’ve seen it at least a hundred times.”

“See, Evie? We have a lot more in common than you think.”

“I guess so,” I say, contemplating the truth of his statement. “Do you have
The Red Violin
soundtrack on your iPod?”

“Of course. Hold on.” He pushes a couple of buttons on the iPod and
Anna’s Theme
begins playing out of the speakers.

“Thanks. You just made my day.” We smile at each other, and in the first golden light of daybreak, I see a familiar expression on his face. I can’t put my finger on why it’s so familiar: a disarmingly vulnerable smile and eyes that seem to be searching my very soul for some sort of validation. I have to break our locked gazes because of the rising pulse I know is visibly throbbing in my neck.

Last night, the excitement of embarking on our quest kept me from sleeping for more than a couple uninterrupted hours. The resulting drowsiness is taking over despite the influx of caffeine. I close my eyes and sink into the warm, buttery leather seats, allowing myself to drift off, carried to sleep by the waxing and waning of Joshua Bell’s three-hundred-year-old Stradivarius, the Gibson ex-Huberman.

When I awake with a snort a couple of hours later, my forehead is resting against Xander’s side and his right arm is draped over my shoulders. When I realize the scene in the car, I sit bolt upright and slide back over into the passenger seat in one not-so-graceful movement.

“Good morning, sleepy head.” Xander flashes a grin at me and adjusts his posture in the seat, rubbing a place on the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry.” I’m mortified at the idea that he’s heard me snoring, and I immediately swipe my hand across my chin, checking for drool.
Whew, clear
. Why didn’t he try to wake me up so that he could drive with both hands on the steering wheel? “Where are we?” I ask.

“We’re about ten minutes from Cumberland. Do you want to stop and get some breakfast?”

“Do you?” I’m not hungry because my stomach is bound up tighter than a Swiss knot in anticipation of what I might find in Indiana.

“Honestly, I’m starving.” He looks at me with an apologetic face.

“Good, so am I,” I lie.

We stop at a greasy spoon off the highway. Xander eats two Big Boy breakfasts consisting of biscuits, gravy, hash browns, fried eggs, and bacon. I tease him about how the Big Boy isn’t big enough for this big boy, while I pick at my blueberry muffin and sip the sorry excuse for a cup of joe that they served us. His face turns bright red, but he continues scarfing down the food and smiling between behemoth bites.

After we finish eating and Xander has paid—he insisted—we stop at the nearby Starbucks for a proper cup of coffee. Soon we’re back on the highway, heading to our destination: my birthplace.

We arrive in Indiana ten hours later. We’re tired, but no worse for wear. The homecoming scenarios running through my mind while on the road were numerous and varied. I try to imagine what my mother’s family will be like. Would they accept me? Why have I not seen them, ever? I try to visualize what my father looks like. He has to have red hair and pale-blue eyes like mine. Oh, and freckles. The patchwork of freckles scattered over my body
has
to have been inherited from him. They sure didn’t come from my dark-skinned mother.

We drive to the tiny town, which is twenty minutes south of Indianapolis, passing mile after mile of browned corn fields, felled for the winter. I grow quiet, our lighthearted banter becoming more serious as the realization of what we’re doing begins to dawn on me. I have to admit that while part of me is excited, part of me is scared out of my mind. It’s the unknown that’s throwing me for a loop.

Xander has reserved a room at a motel just off the highway on the southern border of town. He eases the Land Rover into the motel’s gravel parking lot and cuts the engine.

“We’re here,” he says, looking at me with a neutral expression.

I look out the passenger window at the dilapidated building where we’ll be spending the next couple of nights. I don’t reply immediately.

“Are you all right, Evie?” Xander’s says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “This place sucks. We don’t have to stay here. We could go back to Indy and stay somewhere there.”

“No, this is fine, Xander. Really,” I reassure him.

My problem isn’t with the motel. It’s the fact that I have no plan as to how to find my family. I didn’t do any research before dragging Xander here with me. What if we’ve driven all this way for nothing?

“You’re worried about something. I see it in your eyes,” he says, reaching up and brushing the back of his hand down my cheek. For reasons beyond my understanding, I welcome the intimate gesture. I need it, actually.

“You’re very perceptive, for a guy.” I try my best to smile, but fail miserably.

“When it comes to you, I guess I am.” His concerned expression alarms me, because I know that whatever anxiety I’m feeling has to be transparent on my face. I don’t want Xander to see the weak, timid side of me. He whispers, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Why don’t we check in? We can talk about it inside.” My tone is kind, but curt. I can’t let my emotions get the best of me. I have to keep myself stoic, so I can make it through this weekend, no matter what the outcome. I will have plenty of time to fall apart back in DC, if need be, just not in front of Xander.

We enter the small lobby, where a white-haired, elderly man in flannel and overalls stands behind the desk. The walls are yellowed with the remnants of years of cigarette smoke, and the air is thick with Febreze, probably in a valiant (albeit misguided) attempt at covering up the pungent smell of mildew and cat urine. As if signaled by my thoughts, a fat, yellow tomcat brushes against my legs and sends me leaping with a screech into Xander’s arms.

“It’s just a cat, Evie.” Xander laughs, lowering me back down to the ground.

“I know.” I try for an indifferent expression, but it twists into a trembling smile despite my best efforts, and I burst out laughing. After all, my reaction to the cat was a touch ridiculous.

“What can I do ya fer?” the man behind the counter asks around a cough, and then blows his nose into a grimy handkerchief.

“Reservation for Bartolomeo.” Xander hands him his driver’s license and credit card and then turns to me with a cringe on his face.

After checking in and getting the key from the attendant, we go straight to the room. Xander immediately grabs a pillow and extra blanket off the double-sized bed and throws them on the matted, green-shag floor.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’ll take the floor, you take the bed.”

“Xander, you don’t have to do that.”

“Now, Evie, we really haven’t known each other long enough to be sleeping together, but I
am
flattered by the offer,” he says, amused, hand on his heart.

“That’s not what I meant!” I scold, but my face is burning like I’ve had a micro-peel with an industrial-grade sandblaster. “I meant that you can have the bed, because you paid for the room. I’ll take the floor.”

“You’re kidding, right?” He looks at me as if I’ve sucker-punched him. I shake my head no. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I made you sleep on the floor? I can’t believe you’d think that of me, unless you are purposely trying to destroy my self-esteem.”

I catch the edge of teasing in his tone, and I sigh in relief. The last thing I want to do is to offend the one person who cared enough to come with me on this trip.

“Well, if you insist, I’ll take the bed,” I say and lay on my stomach, positioning myself so that I can look down on him from the foot of the bed.

“I do,” Xander says, spreading the blanket on the floor. He lies down on his back with his hands behind his head, and looks up at me with kind eyes. “Now that we’ve got the sleeping arrangements out of the way, do you want to talk about what you’re so worried about?”

I inhale a deep breath and close my eyes, contemplating whether I actually want to admit to him that I have no clue as to how to find my family. How stupid will I sound? Not to mention the fact that he drove all this way for me, and I haven’t even come up with a game plan.

I exhale and open my eyes. He’s staring at me with expectancy in those golden eyes.

“Okay, here’s the truth: I have no plan for finding my family. I have no idea where to start. Please don’t be mad at me.” The words tumble out of my mouth all at once, and I stifle a sob.

“Whoa, whoa. Calm down, Evie. I’m not mad at you about anything.” He sits up at the foot of the bed and places a reassuring hand on my back. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure out what to do. Why don’t we sleep on it? Maybe something will come to us in our dreams.”

I nod and give him a weak smile. I settle in under the comforter and turn off the lamp on the bedside table.

“Good night, Xander.”

“Good night, Evie. Sweet dreams.” 

The next morning I awake to the smell of coffee. Xander’s standing at the foot of the bed with a Starbucks Venti cup in each hand and a triumphant grin on his face.

“Found a Starbucks down the highway,” he says, handing me a cup.

“Thanks.” I place the cup on the bedside table, jump out of bed and run to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I almost scream when I see my hair in the mirror, back plastered against my head, front sticking straight up. Obviously, I did not have a peaceful sleep last night, although the subject of my dream is already becoming foggy. I can remember a much older Xander weeping by a gravestone, a pair of hollow black eyes, and a blurry-faced, redheaded man I’ve never seen before. The harder I try to remember the dream, the more distant it becomes, so I just allow it to fade away. I try to rake a comb through my hair, but I finally give up and tie it in a messy bun with a rubber band that I had wrapped around my wrist.

“I’ve got an idea, Evie,” Xander calls from the main room. I come out of the restroom and sit on the edge of the bed, grabbing the coffee and inhaling its magnificent scent. Xander sits across from me at the tiny two-seater table.

“Okay,” I reply between sips.

“Why don’t we start with the phone book?” he says, handing me the tattered volume. “We can call the people who have the same last name as your mom and ask them if they knew her. Once we find people who knew her, we can go to their place to talk to them in person.”

“Sounds as good as any plan I could come up with.”

“What ideas did you come up with?”

“Honestly, nothing. I just had a bad dream.”

“That would explain the crying last night,” Xander says, leaning over and placing a hand on my knee, “and the tossing and turning. Are you okay?”

I nod and swallow hard.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No, not particularly, but thanks for the offer.” I take another sip and divert my eyes to the window.

“Okay. Do you remember your mom ever telling you the name of her family members here in Indiana?”

“No. I was really young when she died, so I only remember her telling me that my grandmother still lived here in Indiana. She never mentioned her name or the name of the town. My original birth certificate is from a hospital in this town, so I figured it would be the best place to start.”

“Makes sense,” Xander says, opening the massive phone book to the white pages. “What was your mom’s maiden name?”

“Hamilton,” I answer.

Xander flips through the pages, stopping about halfway through the book. He runs his finger down the page. “Here are the Hamiltons. There are only three. The first is Grayce Hamilton—”

“Wait!” I exclaim and jump up to stand over Xander’s shoulder. I peer down at the phone book. “That’s my middle name—the same spelling, even.”

“Do you want to start there?” Xander asks, looking up at me. I nod, sit back down on the bed, and grab my cell phone. “Read the numbers to me, Xander.”

“Are you sure you’re ready?”

I nod. “Hurry before I chicken out.”

Xander reads the numbers to me slowly as I dial, and I hit the send button. The phone begins to ring on the other end of the line. After five rings, a weak, elderly voice answers.

“Hello?”

“Is this Grayce Hamilton?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Are you related to Amelia Hamilton?”

“Why, yes. Who is this?”

“This is Evangeline Sweeney. I’m in town and I’d like to meet you to talk about Mia. Do you have time today?”

“Child, all I have is time. Do you want to come to my house? I don’t get out much these days. They took away my license on account of my bad eyes.”