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Instead of answering him, she said, “I can’t tutor Simon tomorrow morning. My sister’s new horses are coming. She needs help in handling all three.”
Given Amos’s frown, he didn’t like either her unwillingness to discuss Venezuela or her announcement. “What about in the afternoon or over the weekend?”
“I’m not sure. Depends on how much we get done tomorrow. But I’ll text you and let you know.”
Her assurance seemed to appease him.
“Who’s Captain Bligh again?” She had meant to look it up.
A ghost of a smile appeared beneath his dark moustache. “Mutiny on the Bounty.”
“Ah.” A vague recollection of the movie came to mind. No doubt, Amos had read the book. She had to respect that fact.
With the worry that Amos had caught her in his net and was slowly hauling her in, she gave Simon a squeeze and slipped out of the alcove.
“Good-bye. I’ll see you both soon.”
Amos made it to the door before she did and opened it wordlessly. She could no more read the expression on his face than he could know her plans for retrieving Mateo were already set in stone. Darting past him, she hurried across the gangplank and up the pier.
She hurried up the hill to her car. She didn’t want to be caught by a man who both infuriated her and set her pulse racing. She’d been betrayed by such a man already, and one was enough.
* * *
It was seven o’clock that night before Grace left Faith’s ranch, promising to return bright and early to help with the arrival of the therapy horses. The setting sun set the tops of the trees ablaze with golden light. Driving with her windows down to take in the sultry evening breeze, she relived the feeling of steering the houseboat.
Within the citadel of Amos’s arms, it hadn’t been so bad. For a few scant moments, she’d even understood why people enjoyed being out on the water. She recalled his unexpected offer, fashioned in the form of a text. Could he find someone who would fetch Mateo for her? Or were his words just a ploy to keep her in the country? What would he say if she’d told him she was leaving at the end of next week?
For that matter, what would Faith say? Grace had passed on the chance to tell her this afternoon. To be honest, she’d been afraid the news would send her twin into early labor. Perhaps it was better to say nothing to both Faith and Amos. Couldn’t she just vanish and, a few days later, return with Mateo?
Ugh.She struck her steering wheel with her palm. None of this aggravation and secrecy would have been necessary if Amos had just let her bring Mateo home the first time!
By the time Grace turned into her neighborhood half an hour later, she was blaming Amos all over again—not just for the awkward situation he had put her in but for the financial burden of having to travel back to Venezuela. Nobody had answered her advertisement yet on the Nextdoor App.
By the time she drew up close to the cluster of mailboxes in her neighborhood, night had fallen in earnest. The sound of crickets and cicadas floated through her open window as she reached through it to unlock her little box. The thick envelope filling it brought a gasp of hope to her lips. She pulled it out, read World Adoption Agency on the return label, and hugged it to her chest.Yes, it’s here!
Unable to wait another few minutes to view the contents, she clicked on the interior light before tearing into the envelope. Bypassing the instruction letter, she encountered Mateo’s new birth certificate—this one withhername on it as his adoptive mother. The sight of it brought a sob of hope up her throat. He was legally hers now—at least in Venezuela.
Behind the certificate was the approved form 1-800; the biographical data form; an approved medical exam by the US Embassy panel physician who’d looked Mateo over earlier that summer; evidence of financial support form, complete with her tax documents and W-2s for the past three years; and, finally, the adoption decree from Venezuela with Mateo’s passport clipped to it.
At last, she skimmed the instruction letter. All that was left for her to do was to travel with Mateo to Colombia, to the U.S. Embassy in Bogotá, since the one in Caracas had closed its doors way back in 2010. In the consulate’s office there, Mateo would get an immigration visa stamped into his new passport. Andthenshe could bring him home. It sounded so easy.
Desperation brought tears to Grace’s eyes. Getting back to Mateo was only half the battle. The other half was getting himout. Five years ago, she would have said God would find a way. But now that God had let her down, she was in this battle alone.
Leaving the dossier on her lap, she continued the rest of the way to her dark condominium, then raised her open window as she parked in her allotted space. As she reached for her bag in the adjacent seat, a silhouette standing on her dark stoop caught her eye. Alarm spiked her bloodstream. How could she be imagining that? There in the shadows of her small, covered stoop, backdropped by the white siding of her condo, stood the soldier of her nightmares. His reddish-brown eyes even seemed to glow as he stared at her.
Pinned to her seat, Grace’s breath came in shallow gasps. Her heart galloped. She didn’t need this—to be losing her mind with her life already in tatters.
“Think through your fear.”
Amos’s advice returned to her. She swallowed hard. She had to be seeing things. The soldier was a figment of her imagination, a product of post-traumatic stress. Drawing on her resentment, she killed her engine, opened her door, and pushed out of her seat.
“Go away!”
The silhouette had already vanished. Feeling foolish, Grace glanced around to see if anyone had overheard her panicked shout, but the street was clear of pedestrians, and all her neighbors’ windows were closed against the heat. Ducking back into the car for her bag, she slipped Mateo’s dossier next to Simon’s workbook, then shut her car door and warily approached her stoop. The fine hairs on her forearms rose in dread of the soldier’s sudden reappearance.
Soon she was inside her condo, flipping every light switch on as she came across it. Her phone made a chiming sound, causing her to think maybe Amos had texted her. The thought alone brought comfort. But it was only a message notification from the Nextdoor App. Someone had replied to her advertisement, after all!
Slipping onto a stool at her breakfast bar, she read the message from a woman named Tracy Ellington three times.
