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“Good morning, Father. Come in. I was awake.”
He smiles but I see he heard theI, notwe.
“Santos isn’t here. I don’t know where he is, actually. He was gone when I got up.”
“Well, let me get the fire going and we’ll make coffee. The car is outside, so I am going to guess he walked along the beach to Gustavo’s.”
“Gustavo’s?”
“He’s the local baker. His cinnamon rolls are sinful.” He winks at the bad joke, and I can’t help but smile.
“You’re sure that’s where he went? Isn’t it too early?” I ask as he crouches down to build a fire.
Once the flame takes, he straightens, brushing off his hands. He looks at me. “If he came here, he needs the ocean. The cold. The empty space.” He must see my face morph into one of concern as I remember what Santos told me about how Father Michael found him the first time. “Don’t worry, Madelena. He’s out walking. He will walk the length of the beach to the town, and he’ll return with those cinnamon rolls I mentioned. Come, I’ll make coffee.”
“You’re sure?” I ask.
He looks at me, then smiles. “I’ve known Santos for a decade now. He’s stayed here more than a dozen times. I think he comes to clear his head. Process. And he walks. A lot.”
“He trusts you.”
“I hope so.”
I follow Father Michael into the kitchen where our plates from dinner are still on the table.
“How was it?” he asks kindly, with no judgment about the mess we left.
“Delicious,” I say, and I start cleaning up.
Father Michael opens a cabinet to take out a large stove-top espresso maker and, after adding ground coffee and water, he sets it on the stove and helps me clear the table.
“I’ll do the dishes,” I tell him when he begins to roll up his sleeves.
“Then I’ll set the table for the cinnamon rolls if you promise to save me one. I have to say mass before breakfast,” he adds, checking his watch.
“You’re confident it’s where he went?” I ask as I finish washing the few dishes we had used.
“I’m confident. He needs space, but he also needs home. And I don’t think he’s had much of the latter.” He studies me. “I think you’ll change that, Madelena. I’ll see you after mass, unless you’d like to hear it too?”
“Um, I think I’ll wait here for Santos. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. I’ll see you later.”
“Thank you, Father.”
He leaves, and I look out the window over the sink as I wait for the coffee to brew. Once it does, I pour myself a mug and put on my coat and shoes. I walk out of the house and onto the dunes to the beach. It’s icy cold, and I wrap my hands around the mug, looking in the direction of the town. It’s got to be five or six miles to walk. Did he walk it in the dark? What was he thinking?
Finding a bench that is at least partially sheltered from the wind, I sit, and I wait for him.
22
SANTOS
Organ music from Father Michael’s morning mass carries on the wind as I approach the small cottage. I stop to take it in, the sound a comfort. All the years I’ve been coming here, it’s been the same. Even as incense clung to the stone of the walls, the wood of the pews. Even as I watched fingers counting out bead after bead as the devout prayed, being here, hearing mass here, was a comfort. One I did not deserve.
That had everything to do with Father Michael. He’s a good man. He never asked any questions, not once. He simply took me in and took care of me.
The first morning, I’d crept out early in the morning, my head throbbing, sick to my stomach with the amount of alcohol I’d drunk… and the memory of what I’d tried to do. It was after that I started cutting the lines into my skin to remember the dead—to remember that they were dead because of me.
