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“What do you say, girls?” their mother, Catalonia, chides.
“Thank you!” They giggle profusely as she gruffly speaks to them in Spanish, then shoos them away from her stand.
The pair have grown exponentially since I’ve been gone. They’re eleven and nine, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think they were twins.
“Theresa is fully convinced you’re going to marry her someday.” My friend swipes her paint-crusted hands over a worn smock. Then, arching a thin, dark brow, she teases, “I’m not sure I like her crushing on men with questionable reputations.”
With a grunt, I flip through various sketches Catalonia has displayed on her table outside of Ernesto’s café. “And I’m not sure I like her crushing, period.”
The girls skip their way across the cobblestone street to a small play yard. Theresa jumps in the middle of a soccer game, sticking her tongue out at the boys as she takes off with the ball. But her sister loses interest almost immediately, opting for the bookstore instead.
“At least Sariah has her priorities straight.”
We share a laugh as I move on to a giant canvas. I trace the raised gold and yellow hues of a bold setting sun before moving to a field so green, Sparrow’s stomach would be growling.
“Glad to see you’re still creating,” she says about my wood carving hobby.
“You as well,” I say, perusing several more paintings before tipping my gaze to hers. “These are gorgeous, Cat.”
“Your uncle always buys the biggest ones.” A soft smile graces her round, tan cheeks. “I have no idea what he does with them all.”
So many of her paintings are plastered on the walls of his and Aunt Lucy’s home. The woman’s too humble to charge what they’re really worth, but that’s never stopped Uncle Pat from paying double—or leaving large tips under her painting supplies.
Curving my hand over her shoulder, I lower my voice. “Have you thought about my offer?”
Catalonia pulls her long black braid over her shoulder before glancing at our feet. “You know I’d never agree to that, Marcus. Not with your situation.”
Fuck my situation, I want to argue. When we met inside Ernesto’s last week, I didn’t see my childhood best friend who never knew a sad day in her life. I saw a mother who’s barely scraping by, and years later, is still grieving the loss of her husband.
Offering to build her dream studio and a little money to keep food on the table until she gets established was a no-brainer. No matter the circumstances, I don’t want to watch them suffer.
“It’s not contractual, Cat. You wouldn’t owe me a damn thing.”
Fingers that are coated in red, white, and yellow paint settle over my sternum.
“I love your heart, Marcus. But if Daniel’s death has taught me anything, it’s the importance of being able to rely onmyself.” Her sharp green eyes travel to the two most precious beings on this island to her.
Moving those same fingers to her neck, she rolls a gold wedding band around the chain hanging there. “By the time they’re my age, our struggles will be nothing more than a blink in time, but they’ll have learned the value of working toward their dreams and the sacrifices it takes to achieve them.”
Every cell in my body vibrates with the urge to fix. To find a way to convince her to move out of her mother-in-law’s house so she and the girls can live comfortably.
With a dismissive pat on my shoulder, she smiles at an approaching couple, leaving me with an ache in my gut, but I know better than to push. Catalonia may be kind and gentle on the outside, but much like my new neighbor, she can bite.
I wave goodbye before making my way through the entrance of the corner café. If I want to find out what Heather’s up to, who better to ask than the man planning on taking her out?
Inside, rare plants climb the walls with their vein-like vines spreading over the low-hanging ceiling. The aroma of fresh soil and coffee beans steep my senses as I hunt for the man in charge.
Part of the reason why I love Augustine lies in the familiarity. Not just the land, people, or magic—but times like this, when I can go into an establishment and be completely ignored, except for a head nod here or a smile there from the locals who have known me since I was Sariah’s age.
“Marcus,” Ernesto greets me heartily. “How are you, my friend?”
I used to think Leah hung around here for her love of coffee and the fresh beans Ernesto and his father grow themselves. But one look at that obnoxiously charming smile reminds me it was he who drew my sister here.
His curly black hair is tied at the base of his neck in a low bun, and his eyes hold an annoyingly lively spark as he yanks me in for a hug.
Through three hard claps on my back, I answer, “Can’t complain, I guess.”
“Come, come. I have a special brew for you to try.” He guides me to a small table in the back, signaling a man behind the counter with a snap. “Finest beans in Topica Bay.”
