Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,101

spewed from Alejo’s lips onto his muddy knees as he nearly choked.

“I think you’re already a little attracted to her. C’mon, I’m not asking you to crawl on your hands and knees from here to the Vatican with a belt of nails around your waist, or live for a year on locusts and honey. Just a little penance, a little making things right. You’ll be fine.”

Rupert heaved himself up from the ground with a loud crack, clumps of dirt clinging to his worn jeans. Alejo was still stunned, and he wiped coffee from his chin with one sleeve, watching Rupert warily.

“We should tell her tonight, at the latest,” Rupert said, walking towards the edge of the arbor. Apparently noticing Alejo draw back like a deer in the headlights, Rupert turned around and crossed his arms, annoyed.

“I didn’t mean we should tell her tonight that you’re proposing marriage! Jeepers! For that, I’m giving you some time. All I meant was that we should talk with her about CI and see what she says.”

Alejo got up from the muddy grass, rather shakily. “You said that Wara was in the dream you had, didn’t you?” he asked, feeling a headache coming on.

“She was.” Rupert seemed much too delighted. “God sent her to me, too, and I think we are just beginning to discover the reason.” With another wink, Rupert disappeared into the yard, leaving Alejo alone, standing in the arbor.

With a deep groan, Alejo shoved his hands in his pockets and began walking towards the house.

32

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ON WARA’S FIFTH DAY AT THE OSTRICH FARM, she allowed herself to admit that Rupert’s pancakes really were delicious. That morning, he had cooked up one pile with fresh raspberries and cream, and the other with bittersweet chocolate and dulce de leche. The day before it had been orange butterscotch and strawberries with a wine sauce.

Wara still couldn’t remember what she had had for breakfast the first morning she had come here; it was all still a blur. The night had been filled with violent dreams about Noah and Gabriel, and Wara had woken up late, without the strength to talk to anyone.

On Day Number Two, at night, Rupert had sat down, with a very silent Alejo, and presented the crazy plan in which she, a flabby linguist from Montana, would become part of the organization Rupert worked with, called CI. She truly couldn’t imagine she would be any use; she didn’t know anything about all this spy-style business. But it seemed obvious that God wanted her here, and honestly, she didn’t have the strength at the moment to spend hours analyzing why.

Day Number Four was the day she had sat in Rupert’s office and told him she would go on a trip to learn more about CI. When she informed Rupert that the answer was yes, she had been sitting in one of the plaid swivel chairs in Rupert’s office, trying not to look at the blank computer screen where she had seen Gabriel’s suicide video. Rupert stood behind Alejo’s swivel chair, and his teeth flashed in a grin under his bushy mustache as he punched Alejo in the shoulder.

“So it begins!” he crowed, obviously quite pleased. “There you go, che.” Alejo smiled weakly at Rupert’s words. Rupert walked over to Wara and clasped her hand, shaking it warmly. “I swear I will take care of you like my own daughter. Of course, you can still change your mind after your exploratory trip, but if you’re who I see when I look at you, I know you won’t.”

Now it was Wara’s seventh day at Rupert’s little ostrich farm, and tomorrow she would be leaving to fly to Lima. She would spend a few days with the Martirs, then fly home to Bozeman to spend three months with her family. Alejo would go to see his family after Wara left them, and help them get settled in a new location that he and Rupert had worked out. Then Alejo would come back here to the ostrich farm to stay for the time until their exploratory trip.

I need time to heal, Wara thought as she leaned back into one of Rupert’s chocolate leather sofas and stretched her bare feet out on the coffee table. Her laptop was open next to her on the couch and she was alone in the living room, listening to the sound of Noah’s voice. Until a few days ago, she hadn’t remembered that her laptop contained two albums of music Noah and Eduardo Sejas