The next call was to Mrs. Tomlinson. It was obvious from her tone that her husband had not yet made it home. I told her I was spending the night at Justine’s and apologized for not calling earlier. She was understanding, knowing, she said, that young folks needed time to do fun things on a Friday night. She told me to be careful and I told her I would see her tomorrow. As I hung up the phone, I wondered what I would say to her tomorrow. I knew I had to move out. There was no way I could stay under the same roof as Rowland Tomlinson.
Once we were seated at our table, Flynn asked me what I would tell her and I admitted that I didn’t know. “Like I told you, she’s been good to me. She treats me like a daughter. If I could’ve given her two weeks’ or even a week’s notice about moving out, it would make more sense . . . but just moving out all of a sudden . . . how do I explain quitting my job?”
“You could tell her the truth.”
“I told you I can’t do that.”
“Well, maybe you can just tell her that you met a man, fell madly in love, and you’re running off with him.”
I laughed. “And who would that be?”
“I could be there when you told her. It would be obvious.”
“And you know what would happen then? Mrs. Tomlinson would be on the phone the very next minute calling the operator to get my Uncle Hammer up in Oakland and he’d be down here the next day.”
“Well, it was a thought, and still a possibility.”
I knew he was teasing me with the proposal, and I smiled. “I don’t think so. You don’t know my uncle. Nobody gets on his wrong side.”
“He sounds like a formidable man. Maybe we’d better come up with a new plan.”
“Maybe we’d better,” I said, laughing. “He is a formidable man.”
Thoughts of any new plan were delayed by the serving of our meal and a flurry of exchanges in Spanish. There was a lilt to the words, smiles on faces all around, and the discomfort I had felt earlier was gone. I asked Flynn about his relationship with the Peñas. “I’ve known them since I was a child. They’re kin to my father.” He did not elaborate, and from the brevity of his answer, I knew not to question him. This was obviously something he did not want to talk about.
As we finished our meal, the Peña family joined us at the table. The restaurant now had begun to clear and we lingered over a drink called sangria. I began to feel somewhat light-headed and put the drink down. “What? You don’t like the sangria?” asked Señor Peña.
“No, I do,” I said. “It’s delicious! It’s just that . . .” I glanced at Flynn. “Is this wine?”
“Yes, of course, special to Mexico!” Señor Peña responded proudly.
“Oh, well, that’s my problem then,” I said, feeling just a bit foolish. “I’ve never had wine before.”
“Not any kind?” questioned Flynn. His arm was now resting on the back of my chair, not touching me, but close, oh so close. His nearness made me flush.
“Country Baptist,” I said, as if that explained it all, “and there are some things country Baptists just aren’t supposed to do.”
Flynn laughed and so did the Peñas.
“You want, Miss Cassie, I’ll bring you something else,” offered Señor Peña, moving to take my glass.
I stopped him, putting my hand protectively over it. “Oh, no . . . the sangria, it’s fine. Maybe this is what I need tonight anyway. It’s been a hard day.”
By the time we left, the café was closed. Flynn had kept saying we should go, but the Peñas kept insisting that we stay, that it had been too long since they had seen Flynn. Finally Flynn stood, asked for the bill, and pulled out his wallet.
“What!” exclaimed Señor Peña. “You insult us! We’re family!”
“You see, that’s why I don’t come more often,” explained Flynn. “Here, let me pay for this.”
Señor Peña pushed away Flynn’s hand and the money it held. “Would you pay for a meal if you came to the house? For you, this is the same as taking a meal at our home. Put your money away, hijo mio, it’s no good here.”
Flynn smiled. “Guess I don’t come back again, you treat me this way.”
“Well, that’s up to you,” retorted Señor Peña, “but you know always you’re family and our door is always open to you.” Flynn then spoke to Señor Peña in Spanish. The two hugged, and as Flynn and I started out, unexpectedly, Señor Peña gave me a fatherly embrace and said softly, “You come again, Miss Cassie Logan. I can see you are special to our boy. He’s never brought anyone here with him before.”
I couldn’t help but feel that despite the awkwardness of the day with Rowland Tomlinson and the uncertainty of my future, all had been worth it, for what I was feeling now as we left the café: a closeness to the Peñas and a closeness to Flynn and whatever world he was from. Maybe in part it was the sangria that made me feel this way, but more likely, it was because of Flynn.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
I did not want to leave Flynn, and I knew he knew that. “You want to go to Justine’s now?” he asked as we drove from the café.
I shook my head. “But I suppose I have to. . . . It’s late.”
“Cassie, when you’re with me, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. The time doesn’t matter.”
I didn’t question what he meant by that. I decided to let him guide me through whatever was to come. I trusted him. I didn’t know why, but I did. I nodded and rested my head against the car door. The sangria had made me sleepy. I covered my mouth as I yawned, then asked, “What do you want to do?”
He reached over and placed his hand over mine resting on the seat. “It’ll take us a while to get there. You’re sleepy, so sleep.”
I didn’t ask him where we were going. I just nodded again. I trusted him to take me where he chose. With his hand over mine, I fell asleep. I did not wake until the car stopped.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“Cassie, we’re here,” he said.
I looked around groggily. “Where?”
He got out of the car. I stared at what was before me, a framed wire gate with barbed-wire fencing running from each side. A large “NO TRESPASSING” sign, visible in the darkness, was spread across the gate. My door opened, and Flynn held out his hand to me. I took it. “Where are we?” I asked.