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  His lips parted, luring her in. Then he laughed and sighed, all in one sound, and drew back. “Don’t get me started, or I swear I won’t stop.”

  She nodded sheepishly. He cupped the back of her head with his hand and guided her down to his shoulder. Wrapping both arms tightly around her, he stood with her, their bodies pressed together, cooling off.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” His voice floated down to her. She could see only the edge of his shoulder, a horizontal line of bone and muscle extending to his arm. He felt so solid. She wished she had the nerve to slide her fingers inside the open collar of his shirt and touch his skin—but then he definitely wouldn’t stop.

  She digested his words. He wanted to see her tomorrow. Obviously his interest in her extended beyond a few stolen kisses in a dark alcove. “It’s Sunday,” she said, her lips moving against the soft cotton of his shirt. “The Cesares usually have a family dinner after church. Their daughters and sons-in-law and the grandchildren come. They like me to be there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe you could come, too,” she suggested. “It’s always a big crowd. Seiiora Cesare might not mind.” She pulled away to gaze at him. He looked hesitant. “Unless you’d rather not.”

  “No, I’d like to.”

  “You could meet us at church. We go to the nine o’ clock mass, every week without fail.”

  “Is that part of your church sponsorship?” he asked.

  She grinned and shook her head. “My family’s church is Methodist. I’m just staying with the Cesares. I don’t think they even know what Methodists are.” A laugh escaped her. “I don’t mind, though. While I’m in San Pablo, I like doing things the local way—which, when it comes to church, is the Catholic way.”

  “Then I’ll meet you at church tomorrow,” he agreed.

  She rested her head against his shoulder again, because it felt so right there, because she felt so right in his embrace. A smile curved her mouth as she realized that she and Michael had traveled from the mindless yearning for a place to make love, mere hours after they’d met, to a plan to meet at church. Yet that also seemed right.

  Magic, she thought. Magic or amazing good luck.

  Or else maybe just serendipity, two people crossing paths at this one instant in time. Perhaps tomorrow Michael wouldn’t show up in church. Perhaps after tonight she would never see him again.

  She ordered herself to be prepared for that possibility. Magic could falter, luck could turn. What felt right tonight might feel very wrong tomorrow.

  “I should probably be getting back to the Cesares’ house,” she said, forcing herself to step back. When he released her she felt a chill ripple through her, but she resisted the temptation to fling herself back into his arms. It wasn’t like her to take such risks with a man, or to want so much so soon. Maybe the magic was all in her head. Maybe she desired Michael for no better reason than that she was homesick and he was an American.

  “I’ll walk you,” he offered, weaving his fingers through hers and leading her out of the alcove.

  They strolled in silence for a while, Emmie indicating the route with simple gestures of her hand. As they passed the cantina, the band began an elegiac piece, San Pablo’s version of the blues. The mournful melody made her want to take shelter in Michael’s arms once more, to dance just one final dance. But they kept walking, and she shook off the urge.

  “Maybe tomorrow afternoon you could show me where you teach,” he suggested.

  He really seemed serious about spending tomorrow with her. “I’d like that,” she said.

  “When I used to come down here as a kid, there was a one-room schoolhouse. Lots of the children didn’t even go to school then. That was my idea of heaven—not having to go to school.”

  “And now you’re a college professor.” She chuckled.

  “I grew up and rethought a few things,” he said with a shrug.

  “I’m still trying to get some of my students and their parents to rethink things. The ones who live outside town say there’s no good reason for their children to stay in school. They believe the children will only wind up being like their parents, working the land. They don’t need algebra for that.”

  “So how do you change their minds?”

  “I tell them they do need algebra to manage their farms. I don’t want to tell them that if the children get a good enough education, they won’t have to be poor like their parents. The parents don’t want to hear that. They don’t like thinking their children could outgrow them.”

  Michael nodded. “That’s not just a thing down here. My parents were really proud of me for getting an education, but it scared them, too. They still yell at me every chance they get, warning me not to think I’m smarter than they are just because I have a Ph.D.” He sighed in a way that hinted he had outgrown his parents much as she had outgrown hers. She heard love in his voice, but also a bristling frustration that his parents wanted to force him to fit a model of their choosing, just as hers did.

  She cautioned herself not to read too much into his words and his wistful tone. She mustn’t assume that she and he were alike. Such assumptions might be nothing more than her way of justifying the swift, uncharacteristic desire she’d felt in his arms.

  “This is the Cesares’ home,” she said, drawing to a halt in front of the small, tidy house wedged between two other equally small houses. Vining roses climbed the walls, and the rear yard was fenced in to keep the chickens from straying. Even in town, many residents kept their own chickens for fresh eggs.

  This late at night the chickens were quiet. The noise and bustle of people at the plaza seemed far away. The house’s windows were dark, everyone asleep.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Michael said, turning her to him for a good-night kiss. She sensed him holding back as his mouth touched hers, and she was glad. Like him, she didn’t trust herself to stop if they got caught up in another passionate embrace.

  “All right,” she murmured, gazing up at him and wondering if she looked as awed as she felt.

  He smiled, causing tiny lines to fan out from the corners of his eyes. His hair flopped boyishly onto his brow as he backed up a step and plunged his hands into his pockets. “Tomorrow,” he said again, then spun on his heel and strode down the street and out of sight.

  HE HADN’T BEEN TO CHURCH in a long time. During his childhood, church had been a bone of contention between his parents: his father had wanted him and his brother to attend la iglesia católica in their neighborhood, while his mother had preferred what she called “the American church,” where the mass was given in English. “This is the U.S. of A.,” she used to complain. “My boys are American. You’re an American, too, Al. We should all pray like Americans.”

  His mother had nothing against Hispanics. She’d married one, although Michael had learned he was the main reason for that marriage, an unintended consequence of his parents’ raging hormones. But despite their being forced to wed, his mother had always appreciated his father’s heritage. She’d learned how to cook rice and black beans, and she’d developed a rudimentary grasp of Spanish so she could talk to his family as, one by one, they immigrated to California. Still, she was adamant about her sons being raised American. His father resented that.

  His father had probably resented having to marry her in the first place. He’d had the hots for the cute redhead who worked in the office of the warehouse where he’d been employed driving a forklift, but he had always assumed he would marry a proper bride, someone from San Pablo, perhaps, someone chosen for him by his parents.

  He hadn’t counted on his carifia becoming pregnant.

  Church was just one thing they fought about. His insistence on bringing his family to the U.S. was another. Money, or the lack of it, was a major source of conflict. They argued about what time dinner ought to be on the table and what the meal ought to include; they argued about how clean the house should be and how late the boys could stay outdoors shooting hoops with their frie
nds at the park on summer evenings. They argued about whether Michael ought to be allowed to quit his job bagging groceries in the evenings once he was selected for an honors program at his school. But mostly they argued about Michael’s younger brother Johnny—“Juan,” his father insisted on calling him. Johnny didn’t get invited into any honors programs. He was smart but bored, and he wanted to fit in with his friends, who weren’t smart at all. He loathed authority figures and resisted them. He fully expected to wind up working at a warehouse like his father, and that didn’t seem like a particularly worthwhile future to him, so he poured his energy into other pursuits—cruising around town in low-riders, hanging out, drinking tequila with beer chasers and strutting his machismo.

  Then one day he was dead, shot in the chest by a gun someone had gotten from someone in Los Angeles who’d bought it illegally from Edouardo Cortez. And Michael, who had spent a lot of time praying his brother would not be felled by gang violence, developed a serious problem with the church.

  But he was looking forward to attending mass that morning—because Emmie Kenyon would be there.

  Last night had been special. Today would be special, too. Emmie was special, and he didn’t mind praying with her and her hosts in San Pablo.

  Gallard was still asleep when he left the room at nine-thirty, dressed in the only shirt he hadn’t yet worn, crisp white cotton with a banded collar and sleeves that rolled up loosely. The morning was already hot, and despite nearly two decades of maternal brainwashing, he skipped socks and shoes for a pair of leather sandals. He knew how people dressed for church in San Pablo, and it didn’t conform to his mother’s concepts of what was suitable.

  He would get through the church service okay. Returning to the home of Emmie’s hosts for a family dinner afterward had him a little edgy, but he would get through that, too, as long as he remembered he was a college professor in town to do research—and as long as he didn’t kiss Emmie in front of her chaperons.

  The Catedral de Santa María did not live up to its grandiose name. Hardly a cathedral, it was a cube-shaped structure that looked a bit like a bunker with a spire glued on top. The bells were chiming in the tower as he neared the building; he accelerated his pace, jogging toward the carved-oak front doors that stood open to the congregants funneling into the church. He didn’t see Emmie, but he wasn’t going to bulldoze his way through the crowd in search of her. He waited until the people in front of him had entered the building, then followed them inside.

  The church’s interior was stuffy, despite the ceiling fans churning the air. People crowded into the plain wooden pews, most dressed in attire his mother would have approved of. He scoured the room with his gaze, searching for Emmie or at least for a space on one of the benches where he could perch himself.

  He didn’t see any available seats. However, he did see Emmie. Her blond hair was as out of place in this congregation as a forest fire at the North Pole. She sat facing forward, her posture erect, her shoulders draped in the plain white linen of a short-sleeved blouse.

  He couldn’t tell if she’d managed to save him a seat, but he worked his way down the side aisle toward her, hoping to catch her eye and let her know he’d come as promised. When he was even with her pew, he wiggled his fingers unobtrusively. She didn’t notice.

  He nudged the person at the end of the row, a chubby man in a rumpled suit and tie who was sweating profusely and fanning himself with his straw hat. When he’d won the man’s attention, Michael pointed down the row to Emmie.

  “iA, sí!” the man bellowed, as subtle as an air-raid siren. His voice soared above the din of people greeting one another and nestling into their seats. “Muy bella chica. ¿Es su novia?”

  Michael doubted that every single person in the chapel, including the altar boys lighting the candles and the men at the rear of the room unstacking the baskets for the collection, had turned to gawk at him. Yet it felt like a good ninety percent of them had their eyes either on him or on Emmie. She glanced his way and smiled shyly.

  He sent her a contrite grin and angled with his head to indicate he would find a seat in the back. But people were already sliding along the pew, squeezing together to make room for him next to his novia, his fiancée. He couldn’t very well ignore their generosity.

  Mumbling numerous perdóns as he jostled into the people seated on the pew, he inched his way down to the narrow space beside Emmie. An older couple sat next to her, the woman in a prim cotton dress and a jaunty hat with netting on the front, and the man in a suit that was shiny with age and snug over his shoulders. They each gave Michael a dubious look, then turned forward as the priest strode to the pulpit.

  Michael wedged himself onto the pew next to Emmie and smiled again. There was no time to talk. The mass was beginning.

  They sat in silence, their hips jammed together, her shoulder pressed into his, her hands folded neatly in her lap, luring his eyes not only to the slender beauty of her fingers and wrists but also to her thighs, their sleek shape outlined by the drape of her skirt. “God have mercy on me, Christ have mercy on me,” the priest intoned in Spanish, and Michael watched Emmie’s hands, the subtle movement of her right thumb against her left palm, and the nearly imperceptible shift of her knees.

  He swallowed. What he was feeling right now didn’t belong in a house of God. Except that just as God oversaw a world where street gangs could get hold of illegal weapons without much difficulty and use those weapons to kill people who had brothers who loved them, God also oversaw a world where a man and a woman could meet and connect so suddenly, on so many levels, that the yearning to possess each other was as forceful and heartfelt as prayer itself.

  He listened to the priest not for his words but for the familiar cadences of the language. It made him remember his childhood, his parents and their constant tug-of-war, his brother slipping away while they fought. It made him remember why he’d come to San Pablo...but then Emmie stirred beside him, trying to rearrange herself in the confined space, and he forgot his rage about Johnny’s death and Cortez’s indirect role in it.

  He dropped to his knees at the right times, stood, crossed himself. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d gone to confession, so when it was time to take communion, he remained at his pew while the people around him rose and swarmed toward the altar. Being Methodist, Emmie probably couldn’t take communion, either. The entire congregation flowed into the aisles and forward, leaving them behind.

  He stole a look at her and found her smiling at him. She was lovely, her eyes an uncanny blue that reminded him of mountain lakes beneath a clear sky. He’d never seen a mountain lake beneath a clear sky except in photographs, and her eyes had that same startling perfection to them, the almost unreal clarity of a snapshot. With everyone facing the altar, no one could witness him covering her hand with his in her lap. Her fingers fluttered against his palm, but she didn’t try to break free.

  Lust sheared through him just from that slight motion of her hand. He wasn’t sure what it was about her—that she was beautiful wasn’t enough. Finding good-looking women had never been a problem for him, and he was too mature to be driven by hormones.

  But he wanted Emmie. Last night, he’d wanted to hold her so badly that he’d made a fool of himself dancing with her, and here he was again, making a fool of himself in church. People were beginning to file back to their seats, so he reluctantly let go of her hand.

  He got through the rest of the mass, praying for God to forgive him for thinking about sex during mass. Once the church bells started to ring and everyone stood, the older couple with Emmie scrutinized him and then conferred quietly with Emmie. He couldn’t hear their words or hers, but she seemed pretty fluent in Spanish, her accent a bit European but understandable.

  After their powwow, she turned to him with a smile. “Señor and Senora Cesare would like you to be their guest for Sunday dinner,” she said in Spanish.

  He bowed his head politely and said, “I would be honored.” Senora Cesare looked molli
fied.

  Leaving the church, Emmie tucked her hand into the bend of his elbow, allowing him to escort her. They walked a few paces behind the Cesares, exhibiting the proper deference to their elders. Michael’s grandmother used to describe to him the rigid courting rituals of her youth in San Pablo, the chaperons who always accompanied young ladies, the semiamanged marriages in all classes of society. Emmie must have seemed terribly brazen to her hosts, finding a man all by herself and inviting him back to their house. Michael would do his best not to embarrass her.

  The sun beat down on his head and shoulders, making his scalp steam. He missed air-conditioning. He missed drinking fountains spurting icy water. He missed his apartment, with its broad, comfortable bed and the freedom to bring a woman to it.

  The Cesares’ house had a window fan, at least. Propped into a kitchen window, it whined and hissed, spewing outdoor air into the crowded kitchen. Michael wished he could stand there to catch the breeze, but he knew men weren’t allowed in the kitchen when the women were preparing dinner.

  He watched from the doorway as Emmie pitched in, carrying thick porcelain plates to the table in the dining room, chatting easily with several other young women. She towered above the others, who all had toddlers clinging to their knees and skirts. Señor Cesare sidled up next to him and pointed to the women. “My daughters,” he said. “Elena, Lourdes, María. If you marry Emmie, be sure to have sons.”

  Smiling, Michael allowed Señor Cesare to usher him into a parlor that was smaller and hotter than the kitchen. The husbands of Elena, Lourdes and María sat there, drinking hard cider and smoking cigarettes. Michael accepted a glass and let the familiar scent of smoke fill his lungs. His father smoked. All men in San Pablo smoked, and if Michael hadn’t spent two torturous years quitting in graduate school, he would have helped himself to a cigarette from the wooden box on the table near the door. He still missed the burning rush of smoke in his lungs, the drugging relaxation of it. But having quit once, he never wanted to have to quit again.