Clutch Hit by Faith O'Shea (books to improve english .txt) 📕

“Will you drop me at home and go to the office?”

She was staring out into he distance when she said, “I’ll check in, and if there’s nothing pressing, I think I can do what I need to from your condo.”

They got up and began to descend the stairs. He held her elbow as they made their way down.

“What shall we eat for dinner?”

They’d skipped lunch and he was hungry.

“Why don’t we stop along the way, eat dinner out. There’s a place not far from here that serves good Colombian food. I think you’ll like it.”

He’d eat anything right now but took pleasure knowing she was thinking of his palate. He was glad it was only a ten-minute drive away.

The restaurant was a small place and they took seats tucked in a corner and out of the way.

The menu set his taste buds to dancing and he wasn’t disappointed with the taste.

They’d ordered tostones, and empanadas as an appetizer and the beef stew with sweet plantains and beans was rich and hearty.

It was after they’d finished the meal that he broached the subject he’d been dwelling on most of the afternoon.

“I am wondering whether I should tell my mother the truth. If it would make this trip of yours easier.”

She’d been wiping her mouth with her napkin, stopped in mid-swipe, her eyes flashing up to meet his.

“You’d be willing to do that?”

“If that is what you’d prefer.”

“How will she take it?”

“Not well. She will be angry. She’ll know I did it for her.”

Her eyes squeezed closed. Her lips compressed. When she opened them, he read resignation.

She said softly, “I’m curious to know what you’ve told her? That we fell madly in love the minute our eyes met?”

He could tell her that and there would be no lie to untangle.

“I told her a partial truth. That as we got to know each other, we wanted the chance to explore the relationship but could not do so without getting married.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s pure fabrication.”

“Is it? I did not say the relationship was a personal one.”

“The implication is there. Marriage is personal.”

She was massaging her temples, her nails scratching the surface. When she finally looked back at him, she asked, “Is there much difference between telling her now or telling her later, when we’re no longer together?”

Time with her was necessary. He wanted to woo her, get her to trust him…

“There is. She will already be in America by then. My fear is that she’ll refuse to come if she knows.”

“Would she really do that, knowing if she stayed, she wouldn’t see you for eight years? I thought you were close.”

He was sure she wouldn’t. She’d save her lecture, practice it until they were re-united, and she could express her disappointment in him. Alicia didn’t need to know that.

“We are but she is somewhat stubborn.”

“Fine. Leave it. I’ll play whatever role you need me to. I can’t afford to have you worried about her.”

Of course. She’d do anything for the team. He should have guessed that angle would have worked. Maybe he could use it to keep her with him. Lay guilt on her shoulders. He could fall into a slump. Make some errors in the field. If she stayed, he’d come out of it. Where deception wasn’t his strong suit, or so he thought, he dropped that card out of the hand he’d been dealt, hoping for a better one.

All he could do at this point was nod and say, “I appreciate it.”

A couple of hours later, they were back in his condo: Alicia in her room making phone calls and he out in the living room, his old worn copy of Rumi in his lap. He felt at peace in his new home. He also felt married. Their lives had intersected and had begun to merge. He just had to figure out how to keep them moving in the same direction.

He didn’t have much of a chance over the next two days. The wake and funeral took her away, and he’d been left with Seb and Rique. The ritual of death in his country had been another new experience and the stark differences between his old culture and the new one were startling clear.

The massive structure where Jethro Farina was viewed for most of the day was well-appointed, the landscaping green, with trees, shrubs, and flowers lining the walkway and a parking lot filled to overflowing with expensive new cars. He walked in to sounds of soft music playing in the background and a placard with Farina’s face just outside the viewing room, as if to remind the visitors who they were there to mourn. Accommodations were spacious, chairs were in rows, some of the players sitting and chatting to those around them. There were flowers everywhere, the scent at times overpowering, and they lined the walls, standing at attention around the casket. A kneeler sat before the open coffin, where he paid his respects at Seb’s direction.

When his grandfather had died, his body was taken right to the funeral home for embalming. The service was short, held in a small room where mourners gathered, drinking coffee and smoking the cigars sold in the bleak cafeteria. There was no such thing as a wake, the time from autopsy to crypt taking only eight hours, the state picking up the expense. The family paid only for the flowers and the labor of those who worked the tombs. He could only wonder what this had cost and if there was a need for it.

On the second day, they arrived at a church, ornate with stained-glass windows, dark oaken benches with padded kneelers, where a mass was held prior to the funeral. It wasn’t as grand as some of the cathedrals that sat majestically in city plazas around his country, which were hundreds of years old, and built by the Spanish after their conquest. Where his family wasn’t religious, he’d never participated in such a service and