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I open my laptop and type a message for my PA. Asking her to clear my schedule for the next six weeks and find me accommodations for the same time. An entire house would be amazing. I don’t like hotels that much and value my privacy too much to stay in a shared facility for more than a month. The only reason my current living quarters works is because it’s on the top floor with a private entrance. It’s like I’m on my own island.
This is insane, but I guess I’ll have to rely on my team and technology. My skin crawls with anxiety. God, I hate this feeling.
“I’ll email you the information,” Charles says, his tone full business now. “Also, I’m forwarding you the forms Pastor Garfield needs to complete for the court and our records.”
After finishing the call, I walk to my nightstand. The daylight is filling my room now, and I look around the big space. My sheets are wrinkled and tossed to the side. I want to go back there and close my eyes. I need to go back to that night, even for a moment, to the last time I felt complete. A whole man.
The last moment where my problems were smaller than me. The last moment when I didn’t envy any other person in the world. But no matter how many times I’ve tried to conjure her, she’s still just a ghost lurking in my mind. I look inside my nightstand drawer for the scrap of lace and then in my wallet for the old piece of paper. My fingers stroke over the delicate fabric while reading the note again:
Thank you for giving me more than I was looking for.
She was real, not just a mirage. One day I’ll find her again, and this time I’ll make sure she won’t run from my grasp.
Chapter Two
David
I spent the entire afternoon in a virtual meeting with my assistant, organizing my schedule for the upcoming weeks, instructing her about the steps to follow at the construction site, and the acquisition of a lot in Santa Clarita for an industrial park a client commissioned for us to build.
Marissa found a cottage in the middle of an orange grove for me to rent. The place is old, and I’m sure it will smell like mothballs, but I don’t give a fuck. I’ll be spending most of the time working anyway.
Pastor Garfield is expecting me to arrive after his Sunday service. It starts at noon and it lasts for an hour or so. At eight, I’m on my way already, hitting the road before the traffic starts to jam the freeway. My plan is to check in to my new lodgings and then head to meet pastor Garfield.
I’m not much of a churchgoer or a believer, for that matter, but my parent raised us Catholic and made us wear our best for Sunday mass, so I’m wearing navy chinos and a long sleeve white button-down shirt.
After taking a sip of my coffee, I deposit it back into the cupholder with my left hand over the steering wheel. The permanent curved fingers are a gift from my father. He inherited the trait from his father. None of my four siblings share it with me. I’m the lucky one.
When I was a kid, my mother used to say it was a special signal for the woman I’m destined to love so she’d know me anywhere. Just like she knew with my dad. Thinking of her makes my chest ache with longing. I miss her so much. She passed away unexpectedly almost six years ago. A silent illness took her away from our family. She has been sorely missed since. My father hasn’t yet recuperated from the blow. He’s still living in the same house. Nothing has changed. Mementos of her around him. My father always says she was the love of his life and honors those words every day.
I’m not close with my siblings, but my father keeps me informed about their lives when I call or when he flies to LA to visit. We were born and raised in a small town in the northern part of the state,in a mango orchard. None of my three brothers nor me showed any interest in farming. Surprisingly, my sister Elena was the only one who wanted to remain there and take care of the business.
Thanks to an accident and California traffic madness, I arrive at Warmer Springs with a few minutes to spare before the service ends. I park my Range Rover in the farthest spot and hop out, surveying the surroundings.
For the construction, a tall iron fence was erected to secure the perimeter, nearby is the motorhome where the pastor said he’s living. At the new sanctuary, the walls are up, and the roof’s plywood sheathing has been laid. The crew is following the specifications, and the building will be as fire-resistant as possible. We are using steel instead of wood rods to build the walls and installing a new brand of drywall made of glass fiber that’s more durable and easier to install.
Due to the church’s food distribution program, we are also building a special feature—I designed it myself—that looks like an open drive-through. That way, the volunteers have space to interact with the families who come to collect the groceries and quickly access them from the storage facilities. At the other end of the structure is a huge storage room with a built-in temperature-controlled feature and a driveway for the trucks to deliver every week.
I’m so damn proud of the work we are doing here. They are impacting a lot of people right now. With this project, they will be able to help even more.
Full of satisfaction, I keep walking toward the temporary tent where they are finishing singing an unfamiliar song. The parishioners stand with raised hands. I’m too distracted looking at the preparations for the landscaping and where the playground will be located to notice a small figure running to me with his arms waving in the air.
The little boy crashes into me, his little hands landing on my hips.
“Hey,” I grab his shoulders to stabilize him. “Are you okay?”
The kid looks a bit shaken and agitated.
“Oops,” he whispers with a frown, looking at my pants with his big dark eyes full of worry.
Shit. His hands weren’t clean, were they? I look down. Nope. They were full of lime green paint, and are now stamped like billboards around my crotch.
Fucking fantastic.
Any man loves to boast about the family jewels, but this isn’t the moment or the place. Let alone in front of a preschooler. I’m about to ask him where we can find his parents to get this straight when a voice yells my name. “Davi!”
Pastor Garfield.
The kid turns on his heels, straightening his back stiff as a rod. I frown.
