Deadly Games - Cate Noble [8]
“You don’t ever think of going back to him?” Lupe pressed. “Or wish it was different?”
By him, Lupe referred to Gena’s ex-husband. If only bad love were that simple.
“I suppose it’s human nature to wish some things were different,” Gena began. But not with Harry. Never with Harry. Even if he were alive.
Now, Rocco … A vision of him popped into her mind. The forbidden one. Tall, tanned, rising up naked from an ocean wave like a mythical god. And how many other women shared that same vision of Rocco? Scores? Or just a few dozen? Gena shook her head. She so wasn’t going there.
“We can’t change history. It’s better to face forward.” Another thing Gena usually avoided was platitudes. Right now she grabbed for them, eager to change the subject. “The future lies ahead, not behind.”
Lupe’s gaze drifted to the digital clock on the microwave. “¡Ay caramba!” She shoved her soda can aside, suddenly panicked. “I’m late!”
“Don’t ask” meant Gena couldn’t acknowledge that she knew Lupe worked graveyard shift with a cleaning crew at the fertilizer plant in the next county. Like many undocumented workers, Lupe worked filthy, dangerous jobs for a pittance under the table. A pittance that was largely split between overpriced telephone calls to her grandmother in Mexico and wire transfers that were the old woman’s only source of income.
“You’ll be okay?” Gena asked. “With your temptation?”
“For today. Tomorrow?” Lupe shrugged and waved farewell.
“That is enough.” Gena bit back another platitude. One day at a time.
The house seemed abnormally quiet with Lupe gone. The quartet of uninvited crickets that had infiltrated the back porch started to chirp.
Great! Bugs for company. Gena crossed the room and plugged in the ancient radio sitting on the far counter. The only good thing about the analog monstrosity was that thieves ignored it.
She twisted the tuning dial but heard nothing until she smacked the case. Then static came over the speakers. She spun the dial until she found an AM Spanish-language station. Having grown up bilingual, thanks to a Mexican nanny, Gena understood the lyrics even if she didn’t like the fifties music genre.
Right now she just wanted to drown out the crickets. Turning, Gena paused midstep. From this angle, she saw the entire kitchen and realized how hard Lupe had worked earlier to clean it. The grimy layer of construction dirt was gone. The floors gleamed, the appliances sparkled. Even the windows had been polished.
For the first time, Gena could envision the room decorated. Curtains—no, plantation blinds—at the windows. Maybe some potted herbs on the sill. Women and children would gather at the table sharing food. Sharing hope.
Her eyes watered. God, she wished Vianca were there to see it all finished. She’d be so proud. With ten bedrooms and dorms, it doubled the existing shelter’s capacity.
And Vi wouldn’t have rested on her laurels for long. “After this project wraps, I want to look into re-habbing the old shelter,” Vianca had said with her usual verve. “I’ll need your help with that, too. Just to get started. Then you can leave.”
Vi knew Gena had never intended to stay in Sugar Springs. It had been a place for her to hide and heal after hitting rock bottom. Already Gena had remained longer than planned. Over three years longer. Finishing this project was a huge turning point in her life.
Wandering around the kitchen, Gena ran a hand along the smooth Formica countertop, enjoying her sense of accomplishment. Who would have guessed that the spoiled, multititled beauty-queen daughter of the once powerful Jefferson Armstrong—the same girl who couldn’t wait to flee the citrus belt of southern Texas—would have returned to champion the same poor people her father had once exploited?
Darn it, she was pretty proud of herself.
“We did it, Vi,” Gena whispered.
You did it. You kept your word. You saw it through for both of us.
“But I couldn’t have done it without you.