Page 41 of Saint of the Shadows

Dressed in a clean shirt and shorts, Marisol kept the robe on. The warm scent of sandalwood comforted her, but another smell wafted into her bedroom. Marisol wheeled out into the hallway, following the scent of cumin and chili to the kitchen.

In a dry T-shirt and jeans, Vincent moved around the kitchen with the same fervor as he had in the bathroom. He ladled soup into a bowl and set it at an empty place at the table. Marisol rolled up to the table and set her brakes.

She recognized the aroma. “Pozole?”

“Yes. No fresh ingredients, but it will make-do.”

“You made it from scratch?”

“Relatively.”

Marisol dug in. The flavors of hominy, cumin, jalapeno, and a hint of lime reminded her of Abuelita’s cooking. “You’re a good cook.”

“You’re too kind. I emptied cans and heated them. And a weak attempt at that.“

With a full mouth, Marisol said, “Don’t be so modest.” She held her hand over her face, forgetting her table manners. “You won’t give my abuelita a run for her money, but you’re good.”

“Thank you.”

“Her food was the best. Cooking was how she loved. She barely put up with my dad, but I knew she loved him when she’d make kielbasa and dumplings.”

Vincent smiled. Although she was far from home, she had pieces of it with her—the spice of the food and the warmth of his smile.

A sudden snap sounded from the record player and called her to attention. She had tuned out the music until now. After a grainy whisper, the needle settled on a smooth groove and jazz music played faint and low. The jazz singer’s alto voice was beautiful but raspy, as if her grief and exhaustion came out with each note. The music unsettled Marisol and reminded her she was in a strange place. She pulled the robe closer around her. “What’s with the music? Figured you’d be listening to something more contemporary.”

Vincent chortled. “You’re right. The music belonged to an old friend of mine.”

“Grandpa’s home and a friend’s music. I thought billionaires owned more things.”

“I suppose I’m atypical.” His spoon pinged at the bottom of his empty bowl. Vincent walked to the giant record player swallowing up half the livingroom. “I’ll change the music, but we’re limited to ol’ Leonard’s tastes, I’m afraid.”

“Leonard is your friend?” she asked.

He nodded.

Leonard was the old man in the painting hanging back at the estate. “And grandpa,” she noted. She loved her abuelita, but they weren’t friends. If she dished to Abuelita the way she did to Annie, the old woman would pinch her as a stern reminder to be a lady, whatever that meant.

“We spent a lot of time together until he died. A little over a year ago, actually. A hundred and five years old, yet I was like a father to him.”

“You mean, he was like a father to you.”

“Right. Today’s excitement is getting to me.” He stretched his arms above his head and seemed to focus on the living room full of objects. “He turned this place into his escape. Being here makes me feel like he never really left, in a way.”

The objects that kept Abuelita’s presence alive were at Marisol’s childhood home in the closet-sized bedroom. Pictures of Abuelita’s favorite saints hung from the walls, and in its corner, stood a small table overcrowded with candles in various stages of life, from a pool of wax to an untouched candle with a singed wick. Marisol fidgeted with her cross pendant, moving it up and down the chain on her neck. What objects would remind her of Annie? A stack of magazines? A beaker?

Her attention drifted back to Vincent, who changed the music and put on an up-tempo number with a bouncing and plucking jazz guitar. “I believe I found just the thing.”

Marisol expressed her approval with a rhythmic nod. Vincent’s shoulders relaxed, as if his entire fate relied on that nod. Now, he moved with graceful speed from the living room to the kitchen. He cleared the table and washed the dishes. While he worked, Marisol wheeled over to a shelf of old and hard-bound books. She squinted at the titles. Only a few letters were recognizable among other rune-like shapes. She touched the book’s spine. “These books, were they Leonard’s as well?”

He called back from the sink, “Yes. They’re Russian translations of some classics. Dracula, Frankenstein, Phantom of the Opera.”

She took in a short breath. “You can read Russian?”

“I can read a lot of languages. I can read one to you.”

With that prep school affectation? “Sure. A little later maybe.” She ran her finger along the edge of the shelf, zigging and zagging around the trinkets of a by-gone era. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem like the womanizer that everyone says you are. You’re too…” She searched for the word in his face. “Sentimental.”

He dried his hands on a dish towel. “Really?”

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