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“Of course, but you told your brother we’d meet him.”
“It’s fine. I’ll call him later.” He smiles at me as we merge onto the highway. “Your birthday is coming up. This can be an early present.”
“I don’t need a present. You gave me a phone. Are you sure you’re okay?”
He nods.
“Odin told me something today.”
“Odin?” he turns his dark gaze on me.
“About my uncle’s will.”
It takes him a moment, but he relaxes, and I explain about Uncle Jax’s will. “That’s unexpected. You had no idea?”
I shake my head. “Dad apparently did and was trying to get his hands on the house at least until it transferred to me. Not sure what he’d have done with it.”
“Just like him.”
I settle into the seat, hyper aware of Santos, who is lost in his own thoughts with his hands tight on the wheel and his entire body tense.
We drive in silence, and by the time we pull into a town by the name of Hells Bells, I’m hungry and ready to stretch my legs.
“I’ve never heard of this place. Cute name.”
“Lesser known town than the ones surrounding it. I hope it stays that way. Tourism would ruin the place.”
Santos drives a few more minutes until we come up onto a small road leading to the tiniest chapel I have ever seen.
I glance at him as he navigates the turn then drives the SUV around to a house behind the chapel. It, too, is small—a modest cottage that looks like it belongs in a fairy tale forest nestled among tall blowing grasses and bushes. It’s a natural, wild garden through which a curving stone path leads to the front door.
Lights are on inside, and it looks inviting and cozy.
Santos parks the SUV, picks up our bag from the back, and comes to my side just as I’m slipping out.
“Wow. This is lovely,” I say. A cool breeze lifts my hair from my shoulders, and I huddle into my coat.
“Come, Madelena,” Santos says, enveloping my hand with his. We head up the path.
“Does it back to the water?” I ask as we near the front door because over the wind I hear the breaking of waves and smell the salty air.
“It does. The views are rugged and incredible.” He smiles, and the door opens as if someone were waiting for us. A man of about fifty sees him and stops, then smiles wide and comes to wrap his arms around Santos, patting his back the way men do when they hug.
I watch Santos’s shoulders relax and when he draws back, I get a good look at the man. He has a scar that bisects the right side of his face. It takes all I have not to stare at that and at the collar he’s wearing. He is a priest.
“Well, I’ll be,” the man says, looking him up and down. “Santos Augustine. How long has it been, my friend?”
It’s easy to see the affection between them.
“A few years.” Santos smiles at him. “Too many.”
The man studies Santos, and when he smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkles. He’s kind. I know it without having to know anything else about him.
He turns to me and that smile spreads. “Welcome, my dear. Come in out of the cold.” He steps out of the way to invite us into the cottage.
“I hope we’re not intruding,” Santos says as the man closes the door. I inhale the delicious smell of food and take in the fire crackling warm and bright in the living room’s fireplace. We step into the circular room with its cozy furnishings. The light is on in the small kitchen around the corner.
“Not at all. The cottage was empty. Just needed a little tidying.” He turns to me and waits expectantly.
