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Her cackling morphs into a fit of laughter and for a second, I question whether letting someone I just met escort me into unfamiliar territory was really the best idea.
I’ve filtered through at least twelve different scenarios of escape before she finally clues me in. “Jingles is the mayor in the school play.”
She slides out of the truck with her mutt not far behind and points to the schoolyard where a group of kids are rehearsing.
“Oh.” I cautiously trail after her.
“Hi, Penelope!” the entire group shouts and waves.
“Hello, my loves.” She bumps Jingles’s backside. “Keep Mr. Mayor in the yard, please.”
“Yes, Penelope,” they collectively singsong.
“I love kids,” she says, her gaze heavy with affection as she waves back at them. “It’s been a while, but I try to volunteer at the school or bring some of the kiddos from the group home around the ranch anytime I’m in Augustine.”
My heart trips through its next beat. “Group home?”
“Yeah, you know, for homeless kids or those waiting for a foster family.” Penelope ribs me with her elbow. “The real mayor implemented an order to rebuild and expand the shelter years ago. I wish we didn’t even need one, but I’m glad they have a safe place to sleep at night.”
Most of my youth was spent bouncing around foster homes. I may have had more than a cot in a shelter, but sleeping in a stranger’s house where I knew I didn’t belong—where I was the outcast, no matter how they treated me—felt just as lonely.
Her hand around my wrist melts the scowl right off my face.
I look to Jango for help figuring out why she grabbed me, but he’s squinting up at the sun, huffing happily at our sides.
I’m not used to people openly touching me, but Penelope succeeds in tugging me along regardless.
We pass several storefronts with dresses and bags strung from braided ropes hanging outside. Most of the items appear handmade, with a surprisingly modern twist.
I’m swept up in the fantasy that is Augustine, snapping a few pictures with my Nikon as we walk along a path full of broken tiles and bricks which have been grouted by hand. The buildings we wind through are all different sizes, teeming with color. Giant bushels of pink and purple flowers kiss the tops of our heads as we pass between a narrow walkway, which leads us through a throng of family-owned restaurants and cafés.
Jango barks excitedly whenever we’re greeted by locals of all ages with deep tan complexions and dark hair. They scratch his ears and meet Penelope with smiles, laughter, and hugs as if they haven’t seen her in ages, and not one of them hesitates to squeeze my hand in a warm welcome.
It’s a stark comparison to the bitter loneliness of Chicago. There aren’t cars honking, people shouting, or tourists jamming up the intersections. In fact, while I spot a few foreigners, I’m the minority here.
“You know all of these people?” I ask, following her to the front of a humble corner coffee shop with a slew of terracotta pots lining the steps and giant plants overflowing from their centers.
“Most of them have known me and my cousins since we were children. My dad was obsessed with the island and the magic he claims to have found here. He spent many years living in Augustine, and in that time, he fell in love with the residents and their culture.”
The tangy aroma of freshly brewed coffee saturates the air, making my bloodstream tingle with the demand for caffeine. “Do you take care of the entire property on your own when he’s traveling?”
Penelope glances around as if looking for someone when we stop short of the shop’s white doors. Intricately hand-painted swirls and patterns blend across their surface, and in the bottom right corner, the name Catalonia is scrolled in a pretty, deep lavender.
Giving up her search, she says, “We have a ranch hand and farrier of course, and some of the townsfolk help from time to time if needed. But when I’m visiting, I like to give Russel a break. Besides, it’s nice working with my hands every now and then.”
Penelope pauses, interrupted by the vibrating coming from her pocket.
“Shit,” she mumbles after removing her phone. “It’s the school. Be right back.”
“Of course.” I give a tight-lipped smile, watching as she and Jango trot off down the street.
The sun greedily laps at my fair skin as curious eyes catch mine everywhere I look. Their sudden attention makes my face hot, and I quickly duck inside the coffee shop, only to stop dead in my tracks.
In a quaint window booth, across from a beautiful woman with long raven hair, sits the very man I’ve been following–andwow, he recovered from his accident well. They speak freely in the comfort and intimacy of the café, but gorgeous as she is, I can’t stop staring at his mouth, stretched in a relaxed smile.
Straight teeth flash through a grin only Hollywood money could procure, but his hair is uncharacteristically unkempt, like maybe he’d been driving with the windows down or couldn’t bother gelling it as he normally does. And the white T-shirt that’s clinging to those ridiculously fit shoulders, speckled with dirt smudges around the front and collar, makes me instantly suspicious.
Okay, now I’m gawking. But he could have the decency to wear something less form-fitting. If the three elderly ladies in the back get heart palpitations when he flexes and one of them faints, then what? Instant lawsuit.
