Island Affair (Keys to Love #1) - Priscilla Oliveras Page 0,72

his truck for the short drive to St. Mary’s, Sara’s earlier jumpiness had passed. Good thing, too, because, as they neared a potential run-in between his familia and Sara, his agitation mushroomed.

Sara tried making small talk. Until his monosyllabic responses quieted her. At St. Mary’s, before leaving the sanctuary of his truck cab, she had tried reassuring him that everything would work out. His familia would never know she’d been there.

Strangely, her assertion didn’t sit well with him. Though he didn’t have the time to ask himself why that would be.

Then she had disappeared in the sea of parishioners heading into mass.

The clap of cushioned kneelers hitting the stone floor signaled the time for the consecration, and Luis knelt with everyone, his gaze straying to his right through the open shutter door leading to the grounds. Sara had mentioned visiting the well-known Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes while she waited for him after mass. Apparently, the Grotto reminded her of an outdoor rosary garden at Mamá Alicia’s old church. Sara planned to pray a decade of the rosary in honor of her beloved nanny. Forgoing donuts and fellowship with his familia to join Sara held more appeal than was wise.

He refused to ponder that truth. Instead, Luis closed his eyes in search of the peace he sought here.

With the wide doors spaced every few feet along both sides of the building open, the muted sound of passing cars and mopeds drifted in, occasionally mixing with the choir voices and organ music. Every so often the ocean breeze blew through, providing much-appreciated cross ventilation.

For someone like Luis, who often itched to be outside, the openness of St. Mary’s spoke to him. The nave and sanctuary’s neutral ivory and white walls, the round arches and thin columns separating the pews from the side aisles, and the natural light illuminating the stained-glass windows above each door generated an aura that blended the outdoors with the tranquility found within.

Carlos and his family sat in the pew in front of Luis, his parents, and Enrique. At ages seven and five, Carlos’s boys reminded Luis of when he and his brothers had snickered at each other’s silly antics during mass. Similar to Luis and his siblings, José and Ramón had both parents and their abuelos keeping them in line. With extra help from the occasional Spanish fan tap on the head from their abuela and mami if necessary.

This church had witnessed many rites of passage for Luis’s familia, starting with his parents’ wedding, then, years later, Carlos and Gina’s. Every Navarro kid in Luis’s and the younger generation had been baptized on that altar, by Father Miguel.

First Communions, confirmations, funerals.

Every spot Luis’s gaze fell upon in St. Mary’s and the lush grounds outside evoked one memory or another. Mostly good ones. Some that may have sucked at the time but made him smile when the Navarros reminisced.

Like the time some punk had teased Anamaría about the crooked bangs she’d cut herself that morning. Luis had found her out in the Grotto, crying. At age six, she’d had the bright idea to play beauty shop before Sunday mass, even though Mami had said she would give her a trim that afternoon.

To teach her impatient daughter a lesson, Mami had made Anamaría attend mass with her bangs sheared in a crooked line halfway up her forehead. She looked like one of the Three Stooges, which made Anamaría a prime target for teasing. After mass, Luis had found her in the Grotto, crying. Her face smeared with tears and powdered donut sugar. Needless to say, all three Navarro boys had taught the obnoxious brat who’d hurt their sister’s feelings a lesson of his own. Luis had drawn the line at anything physical—they were on church grounds—but when the Navarro brothers surrounded you, a kid tended to take the warning to heart.

Luis snickered at the memory, earning him another qué pasa? frown from his mami.

On the other side of their papi, Enrique leaned forward to catch Luis’s eye. Luis made a cutting motion with his pointer and middle fingers. His younger brother flashed the cocky grin that had always made young girls and grown women swoon and the Navarros’ mami make a swift sign of the cross because it meant Enrique was probably up to no good.

For a moment it felt like they were back to their old selves. His younger brother cooking up some scheme that Carlos perfected, with Anamaría and Luis playing devil’s advocate but ultimately agreeing