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Would she ever get another hot mug of coffee from him again? Surely Amos wouldn’t have tossed her this lifeline if he never intended to forgive her. And surely, when she made it safely home with Mateo, he would welcome her back into his and Simon’s lives. What a shame to have realized it this late in the game, but that was exactly where she wanted to be from this day forward.
* * *
Amos paced the length of theUSS Theodore Roosevelt, intending to walk all the way from the area reserved for amphibious operations where the SEALs were billeted, clear to the bow of the aircraft carrier and back again—more than the length of six football fields total—all to work off his agitation.
He’d gotten no reply from his messages to Grace on WhatsApp, a circumstance that thoroughly distressed him. Had she even received his recommendation? Was she able to find a way to Caracas?
For a man who was used to being in charge, this business of waiting and not knowing left him feeling helpless and anxious and entirely unfit for human company. As he stalked down the long, relentlessly gray corridors, past the officers’ mess, the impressively large weight room, and a berthing area for enlisted females, he debated with himself whether to send Grace another message. What would he say? Several possibilities came to mind.
Grace, if you make it safely back to the States, with or without Mateo, I think we should get married.
No, no. What made him think she would ever marry him? The last time she’d mentioned her feelings for him, she said she didn’t evenlikehim. But then she’d voluntarily embraced him the other day. That had to count for something. He just had to take things slowly, not rush her along or browbeat her into a relationship she wanted no part of. But couldn’t she see that she, Amos, and Simon were already like family? They enjoyed each other’s company. They complemented each other’s differences.
Just play it cool. He wouldn’t send her another message—not when she hadn’t answered his previous ones. And when his squad suited up this evening and then launched the rigid-hull inflatable boat, headed for the coast of Venezuela, his personal cell phone would be left behind, secured in a locker with his other stuff. She wouldn’t be able to reach out to him then, even if she wanted to.
The matter of her rescue would be entirely out of his hands. All he could do now was trust that God would take over.
* * *
How was it possible that some days passed in a blur while others seemed to last a lifetime?
“I work the night shift,” Lena explained over the pizza she’d warmed for breakfast. “We’ll have to stay put in this apartment until then.”
Grace noted the words with dismay. Keeping Mateo entertained until evening wouldn’t be easy. She would have to call upon her teaching experience to come up with activities.
She started off by drawing him a bath. As he frolicked in the tub, playing with a plastic cup Lena had found for him, Grace transferred her laundry to Lena’s dryer before hunting for something else to do with Mateo. Her hostess had nothing by way of toys or games, and the government-run television channels offered zero programs for children. Finding paper and a pencil in a kitchen drawer, Grace sat her son at the little dinette table on his knees. There under the striped lighting of the sun slanting through the blinds, he commenced to drawing crude pictures, most of which Grace was eventually able to interpret.
The tall stick figure with large hands was Peter Doyle. The Irish missionary had clearly left a favorable impression on Mateo, who depicted Peter in various caretaking roles. Mateo drew another figure with a wild mane of hair and pointed to Grace when she asked him who it was. Once, she asked and received only an inscrutable, somber stare. It wasn’t clear whether Mateo couldn’t understand her questions, uttered in both Spanish and English, or whether he simply chose not to answer. At times he grew frustrated when her guesses fell too far afield, but not once did he attempt to speak, not even to say, “No.”
Grace was fully aware of Lena’s small frown as she crossed to the kitchen for more coffee and stood a moment watching them. The woman said nothing—just made herself another cup before returning to her bedroom and shutting her door. Grace thought she’d heard her exercising in there, of all things.
At lunchtime, someone knocked on the door, startling Grace into thinking the police had come for them, but it was only the Venezuelan equivalent of DoorDash. Unbeknownst to her, Lena had used the landline in her room to order themarepas—four tortillas stuffed with cheese, beans, and shredded pork. Mateo pleased her by eating nearly an entirearepaby himself.
That afternoon, she urged him to lie down for a nap. Pulling out her cell phone, which she left charging, she checked for another message from Amos, concerned to see there wasn’t one. Then again, she wasn’t allowed any communication, not even to assure him she was safe. He was probably busy, anyway, training the Colombian Special Forces.
Thinking of Amos, she opened the camera application on her phone and showed them to Mateo. “Look, love. I want you to meet somebody. This is Simon.”
Riveted, Mateo watched the video of Simon petting the stingrays, then demanded with a plaintiff sound to watch it again and again.
“Let’s look at some photos, now,” Grace said when she’d had enough. “This is Amos with Simon. Amos is Simon’s papa. You remember Amos?”
Mateo stiffened against her. She searched his wide mistrustful gaze, wondering what he was thinking as he studied the photo of father and son grinning down at a playful otter.
“See, Amos isn’t scary at all when he washes the black paint off his face. He can be bossy sometimes, but deep down, he’s a good soul.” She remembered the poem he’d written her, “To My Son.”That he’d taken the time to express his understanding of her grief said something about his true gentle nature. “And he can do anything. He can cook. He’s read a lot of books. And he knows how to build and fix things.” She wished she’d taken a picture ofCamelotso Mateo could see how pretty Amos’s home looked sitting on the water with the sun shining down on it.
At long last, Mateo drifted off to sleep. Grace closed her eyes and catnapped. Not long after Mateo awoke from his nap, Lena announced it was almost time for them to leave. She had dressed in a dark pantsuit made of a stretchy, formfitting material and pumps that were both attractive and practical at the same time. The outfit made Grace wonder, yet again, what Lena’s work entailed. Her hair was up in a ponytail. Tiny emeralds glinted on her earlobes. Grace glanced down at her own jeans and tan T-shirt and felt dowdy in comparison.
As Lena placed the remainder of their lunch in a small cooler to eat later, Grace packed up their meager possessions, folded their blanket, and placed the pillow atop it.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
Together, with Mateo in Grace’s arms, they left the apartment and coursed the dark stairwell to the parking garage.
Grace kept Mateo in her lap as they squeezed back into Lena’s small car. Something about the clamor coming from beyond the building made her loath to set him in the back seat by himself. Voices chanted in the distance, accompanied by a metallic clanging.
“What’s happening?” she asked, as Lena drove them out of the parking garage. Though just five o’clock, the sun had dipped behind the mountain, leaving the empty streets cloaked in shadow. Not a soul was in sight, making Grace wonder where everybody was.
