Her First Mistake by Carey Baldwin (books for 10th graders txt) 📕

Mia and Alma rushed inside St Michael’s church with a volley of frenzied questions flying over their heads: Has there been a ransom note? Your son’s been interviewed multiple times. Is he a suspect? Do the police think it was a serial killer?

Looking back over her shoulder, Mia wished she could barricade the doors, but after a few deep breaths she realized there was no need. Apparently, the reporters were going to respect the sanctity of the church and give Alma a chance to say a prayer for her daughter in peace.

“I think they’ll leave us alone now.” Breathless, Mia pressed a hand to her chest.

The reporters had been camped at the bottom of the Coopers’ private road, but up until now they’d been reasonably respectful.

“I think that brunette is a bad influence. When she jumped in her van, the others climbed in theirs. This is the first time they’ve followed me.”

Mia knew exactly who Alma meant. A pretty brunette with stick-straight locks and over-filled cheeks, perpetually blushed up and camera ready. Already tall, her height was increased to star level by stilettos. “I don’t know how she can move that fast in those shoes. I hope she twists an ankle.”

“I was thinking exactly the same thing.” Alma’s eyes locked with hers, and for the first time since she’d met her, Mia detected a spark of fun in them.

Mia smiled. “Not very Christian of us, is it?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” Alma’s mouth twitched, and then without warning her shoulders started to shake.

In unison, as if they’d both caught the same contagious disease at the exact same moment, they could contain themselves no longer and peals of laughter rang through the church vestibule, echoing off the gilded walls and high arched ceilings.

When she finally regained control, Mia said, “Nice acoustics.”

Alma swallowed a few times before responding, “I bet the choir sounds great.”

“Please, can you show some respect?” A woman with a teenager in tow pushed past them on her way out.

“We’re so sorry,” Mia whispered.

“Really sorry,” Alma said, her tone and her face sagging back into their previous state of despair.

At least, Mia thought, as they ushered each other from the vestibule into the sanctuary, Alma had gotten some relief. For one minute, she’d been able to think of something other than her daughter’s disappearance. And Mia knew from experience how few and far between those moments came in the beginning. “It gets better. I promise,” she said, without considering what her words revealed.

Alma looked at her with a question in her eyes, then simply nodded and said in a low voice, “I hope so.”

Taking in the beauty around her, sunlight pouring through stained glass, towering gladiolas atop elaborately carved altars; Mia noticed she and Alma were the only people left in the sanctuary. Aunt Misty wasn’t organized religion’s biggest fan, and Mia had never been inside a Catholic church, though she’d seen pictures, of course. St Michael’s did not disappoint with its stunningly high ceilings, rich tapestries and everywhere-you-looked statues. Alma stopped in front of a wrought-iron table, filled with ascending rows of red votive candles. Some were burning, emitting a pungent, waxy odor. Mia hung back as Alma placed a bill in the collection box and lifted a match from a side holder.

“Excuse me,” she whispered, wanting to get her questions in before Alma began to pray, “but are there rules?”

“You’re not Catholic?”

“No.” She’d been praying and hoping, in her own way, for as long as she could remember, though. Trying to keep the faith that good was stronger than evil.

“They aren’t rules so much as guidelines. The candle is for whatever prayer you want to offer. For the dead or for the living. The flame continues to burn, signifying your prayer continues after you’re no longer present. Anyone can light a candle, Catholic or not, and usually we place a small donation to cover the cost.”

“Is it okay if I light two candles?”

“Of course.” Alma’s look asked the question that remained unspoken.

“One for Celeste and one for my mother,” Mia volunteered.

“What’s your mother’s name, dear?”

“Emily,” she said, unable to keep the tremor from her voice.

“I’ll light a candle and say a prayer for Emily, too,” Alma said. “Has she passed?”

“I-I don’t know. She went missing when I was six years old.” She shouldn’t be burdening Alma, who was carrying the weight of her own loss, with this information, but somehow in this moment, Mia felt closer to Alma than she had to anyone in a long time, including her aunt. “We don’t know for sure, but the police think she ran off with her boyfriend. No one has seen or heard from her in twenty years.”

Alma touched her heart, and then held the match in her hand to an already flaming candle, lit two others with it, and bowed her head. After placing a five-dollar bill in the collection box, Mia lit two candles as well, and then closed her eyes, picturing her mother’s face, remembered mostly from photographs. Next she called up an image of Celeste, as she prayed for their safe return.

At last, Mia opened her eyes and smiled at Alma. “Thank you.”

“Thank you for coming with me,” Alma said, her face unguarded, open.

The two shared a hug, and then wandered toward the vestibule.

When Mia turned to again admire the magnificent artwork on display, she heard Alma’s quiet footfalls behind her, and then, the discordant, rapid-fire clicks of heels on marble. She spun around, just in time to see the tall brunette reporter thrust a microphone in Alma’s face.

“Have you heard from a kidnapper? Do the police have any leads?”

Alma shot a pleading look at Mia.

“Can you please give Mrs. Cooper some privacy? We’re in church. I’d really appreciate it,” Mia tried.

“Are you the family spokesperson? What’s your name? Do the police think Celeste is dead?”

“Please! Leave us alone!” Alma cowered, and then took a few shaky steps to the side.

“Just a few more questions.” The reporter lunged, jamming her mic in Alma’s face,