The next morning, Mika and I both slept in. After luxuriating in the exquisite taste in sheets and mattresses that Santiago had for his guest rooms, we walked out into the living room to the smell of what could only be waffles.
Sure enough, there was Santiago in a pair of khakis and a polo, flipping over one of those professional waffle makers that I had only ever seen at hotel breakfast bars in the past. Across the peninsula in his kitchen, he had set out sliced strawberries, whipped cream, maple syrup, and some of the most amazing-looking sausage I had ever seen. Everything smelled wonderful, and it looked just as appetizing.
“If this is your normal morning,” Mika said, “I’m happy to pay rent.”
Santiago grinned. “You are welcome here anytime for my Sunday morning special.” He looked at me and winked. “You, madame, are due for coffee. Two sugars, almond milk creamer. Mika, how do you take yours?”
Mika’s eyes went wide as she said, “He knows about the almond milk switch.”
I nodded. “He does. She’ll take regular milk, or half-and-half if you have it, no sugar.”
“Coming right up.” He popped a cup into his single-serving coffee maker and let it pour into a very cute mug that read “Queen,” before adding half-and-half and passing it to Mika.
“Do I want to know why you have a mug that reads, ‘Queen’?” I asked with a playful tone but a genuine curiosity. Maybe this would be the moment I found out that Santiago had once been a major relationship that he hadn’t told me about yet.
He served each of us a waffle and put one on a plate for himself before pointing to the bar and getting in line behind us. “This was my mother’s way of praying for me to find the perfect woman.”
Mika held the mug out. “Shouldn’t Paisley have this one, then?”
He shook his head and smiled. “No, she has the mug she needs.” I looked down at mine more closely and saw, written in a beautiful font just around the rim, “Your people will be my people.”
I swallowed hard and pushed back the tears. Nothing could have said more about how Santiago felt about me than that. He had, from the get-go, taken to my people as much as to me, especially Sawyer, and now that I thought about it, I was pretty sure that’s why I’d let myself fall in love with him. If he loved my people, and my people loved him, then we were good. Very good.
I smiled at him and quietly took his hand under the counter as I waited for Mika to take a triple serving of whipped cream. Then, I kissed his fingers and helped myself to a load of strawberries, maple syrup, and then my own double-dose of whipped cream. As our friend from high school, Nikki, always used to say, “You got to eat big to get big, y’all.”
As we ate the delicious waffles – crispy on the outside and soft as butter on the inside – the three of us chatted about anything but Leo Farrow’s murder. I told them about how Mary was preaching on the definition of love as God sets it out and how I was excited to hear what she had to say. Mika told a story about how once a man had said he’d loved her and then, when she said she wasn’t sure about him the next day, he’d sent her a note that said she just wanted to be miserable. “I don’t think he knows what love means,” Santiago said.
The rest of our conversation floated through the usual horror stories of romances gone wrong that single people accumulate by middle-age. It was always good to lament our poor choices with good friends, and I was glad I didn’t hear anything terribly brutal from Santiago, either in terms of what he said or what he had experienced. No one gets to midlife without damage, I knew that, but if the man I loved had come through relatively unscathed, I was happy for myriad reasons.
After about an hour, we all worked together to clean up the kitchen, and then Mika and I donned the two dresses she had grabbed from her house the night before. I was glad she and I wore almost the same size because I really didn’t want to go to church in my dirt-covered jeans and ratty T-shirt from the day before. I knew no one there would bat an eye and would welcome me gladly no matter what, but I still liked to look nice for services, especially since many of the older women in the congregation still donned hats and gloves for Sunday mornings.
Fortunately, my rubber sandals had just enough shimmer to them to look a bit metallic under the long maxi dress Mika had brought me, and since I didn’t wear much makeup most days, I didn’t think anyone would notice that I didn’t put any on today. I slipped my usual headband on to push my hair back and cover the ponytail ridge from the day before and decided I was good enough for God and God’s people.
The three of us rode in Santiago’s civilian car, and this time I sat in the front, with Mika lounging across the back seat. We’d stayed up way too late sewing and watching four episodes of Manifest, and given how quickly Mika had taken to a prone position in the back seat and how heavy my eyelids were feeling, I hoped Mary’s sermon was rousing so I didn’t doze off. That would be both rude and humiliating.
But when we walked in, the organist was in his element with a rousing rendition of “Pass Me Not” that had me dancing a little as I headed toward my usual pew with Mika and Santiago right behind. Everyone around us waved or leaned forward or back to greet us as we sat down, and then I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder and turned to see Demetrius behind us. “Good to see all of you,” he said and clapped Santiago on the back hard enough to force the man to huff out a burst of air.
“Good to see you, too,” I said, just as the choir began to join in and sing as they swayed and clapped their hands. Soon the entire congregation was up and on their feet, and while I was still pretty reserved with my movements, I managed to get a pretty good clap on as we moved through the verses. I was wide awake now.
After the announcements were over and a tiny boy from the congregation had said a heartfelt prayer for everyone who “had” to go back to school, Mary took her place behind the pulpit. She looked long and hard at all of us, a smile sitting softly on her lips. “It’s good to see you all,” she said.
A murmur of “good to see you, too” spread through the sanctuary.
“I mean, really, just as you are – pain, beauty, questions, grief, profound joy, love – whatever you are carrying today, whatever doubts you have about how God feels about you, I am here as God’s witness to say, God is happy to see you.”
“Amen,” a man in the back shouted.
“And not just here, friends, everywhere. Even if you never make it to church another Sunday, even if you decided church isn’t for you, even if you never darken the door of this building again, God is always, always glad to see you.”
I sighed and felt something loosen in my chest as I settled into the truth my friend was sharing. I had stayed away from church for a long time because I couldn’t carry the weight of the “should” and the “do more” that so often came with church, but here, I was reminded every week that God simply loved me, wanted the best for me, and was rooting for me all the time. It was a message I would never tire of hearing.
Santiago and Mika seemed absorbed in what Mary was saying, too, and I couldn’t blame them. Who wouldn’t want to be reminded that the Creator of the universe loved you? Plus, Mary was a charismatic speaker. She had the cadence of a great orator, and the congregation was beginning to stir with the joy and affirmation that always left me filled up with energy and hope after a service. The amens were flying, and one woman in the front shouted, “Preach it, Girl.” It felt good to be here. It felt like home.
When Mary’s sermon was over, the choir started low and slow on a gospel rendition of “Troubled Water” by Simon and Garfunkel. When the chorus came, their voices broadened, and in that moment, I felt absolutely sure that God had me and would never let me go. It was glorious.
After the service, the sanctuary was humming with conversation and energy, and Mika, Santiago, and I made our way to the back of the church, where Mary was standing with the pastor to greet everyone. I gave her a big hug and said, “I needed that today. Thank you.”
She smiled. “I needed it, too.” Then she turned to Santiago and said, “Glad you could join us today.” She hugged him, too, and then pulled Mika tight to her chest for an extra-long minute.
“See y’all at lunch in a few?” she asked us.
I smiled. “You game?” I asked Santiago.
“That depends. Is there pot roast?” He grinned.
“You are in luck, sir. It’s in the oven as we speak. And what about you?” she said to Mika.
Mika blushed. “I have lunch plans already, but thank you for the invitation.”
I leaned forward and whispered in Mary’s ear, “She has a date.”
Mary’s smile spread across her face. “I hope lunch is amazing, and I’ll want a full report.”
“You got it,” she said and laughed. “I better get going.” She looked up the street and saw Chris’s Charger sitting on the curb. “See you later this afternoon?”
“Definitely. Let me know when you’re back, and I’ll come by,” I said before looking at Santiago. “That plan works, right?” I didn’t want to say anything in the midst of the crowd outside church, but I wanted to be sure Santiago thought it was okay for Mika to go home.
“Yep, we’ll both go by. I’ll need an update, too.” He waved at his friend up the street and then said to Mika, “Have a great time.”
She smiled and jogged up the street. I so hoped she had a blast today. She deserved it.
I turned to Mary and said, “Mind if we head over and get the table set?”
Mary smiled. “Not at all. I’ll be along shortly.”
I took Santiago’s hand and led him up the sidewalk and across the road to Mary’s house. Her home was always so inviting, with hanging baskets on the porch and a seasonal wreath on the door. I slipped my keys from my pocket and unlocked the front door, grateful that Mary, Mika, and I had all exchanged keys some months ago, just in case.
Now, when I opened the door, the scent of onions and beef wafted through the air, and Santiago actually groaned. I decided not to tell him that the scent was only one-tenth as good as the taste. Mary was some kind of amazing cook.
I led the way into the kitchen, and we grabbed silverware and a stack of plates and set the long, mid-century table in the dining room with eight services. Mary never knew exactly how many people would come over, but she planned for as many as she could comfortably seat and then had extra ready for any overflow.
As he set out the assorted collection of dinner plates that Mary had picked up at yard sales over the years, he said, “Does Mary know about Farrow’s body?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t told her, but really, do we think anyone in town doesn’t know?”
“Good point,” he said with a small wince. “Some days it would be nice to live somewhere with a little anonymity.”
I sighed. “Yeah, but then the love that Mary talked about might not be as tangible as it is here.” I returned to the kitchen and came back with the cut-glass goblets Mary used for Sunday lunch and set one at each place. “Do you want to avoid the subject at lunch?”
Santiago folded orange cloth napkins and put them under each fork. It took a few minutes, and then he said, “Let’s see if anyone knows anything about Farrow. But we won’t bring up Salis and the other men who might have been involved.”
I nodded. “I like that plan.” I wasn’t really worried about the men’s reputations, but I didn’t know if I could tolerate people dissecting my father’s actions in front of me. Better to let that happen out of my earshot.
Once we had the table set, we returned to the front porch and sat in Mary’s glider while we waited for folks to arrive. Within a few minutes, six folks, including Mary, had joined us on the porch, sitting in the rockers and on the railing as we talked about church and Mary’s preaching ability.
After a few minutes, Mary announced that dinner was ready, and I followed her inside to get out the food while everyone else filled drink glasses with the sweet tea from Mary’s fridge before sitting down to eat.
Of course, the pot roast was amazing, melt in your mouth and rich with flavor as were the carrots, onions, and potatoes that went with it. A green salad made with ingredients from the farm up the road made for a perfect meal. At least I thought it was perfect until Mary pulled a glazed lemon Bundt cake from the pantry and said, “One of Lucille’s.”
Everyone at the table groaned. My stepmother was infamous for her baked goods, and this was a classic recipe for her. It was the perfect balance of sweet and tart and so heavy that it felt like you gained a pound just from the weight of the cake itself. But man, even if that was true, it was every bite worth it.
As everyone savored Lucille’s cake, Santiago said, “So I suspect all of you have heard that we found Leo Farrow’s body out at the barn on Friday?”
Everyone nodded, and Mary shot me a glance before nodding herself. “Terrible thing,” she said.
“Obviously, I’m investigating the crime, so I’m wondering if you all know anything about what might have happened there,” Santi continued.
For a moment, everyone at the table looked at me, and then all their eyes turned down to their plates as if it had been choreographed. I sighed. Clearly, everyone knew more than just about the body, and as clearly, no one wanted to upset me.
“It’s okay, everyone. I know that my dad knew. I know that his best friend, Homer Salis, knew, too. You won’t be sharing anything I don’t already know or haven’t at least considered.” I kept my voice steady but quiet, despite how nervous I felt.
Under the table, Santiago took my hand. “Anything you might know or even have heard as a possibility would be helpful? And no one will know where I got my information. I’m not interested in creating snitches. Just solving this case.” Santiago had worked really hard to stay connected with all the members of our community, and his efforts had been especially hard with the black residents of Octonia because the previous sheriffs had unfortunately epitomized the stereotype of the racist cop.
Now, I was hoping that all Santi’s efforts to gain trust had worked because more than anything, I wanted my dad to have clarity about what happened and to clear his name, too.
Mary looked up and smiled at me. “I don’t know much, Pais, but what I heard was that four men killed Farrow for draft dodging.” She took a deep breath.
“Did what you heard include the names of those four men?” Santiago asked.
Mary didn’t take her eyes off me. “Yes.” She then listed the same four names my dad had shared.
“Will telling me where you heard this information put someone else in danger?” Santi asked.
Gloria, an older woman at the end of the table with long silver hair, said, “It’s not coming from one place, Sheriff. Everyone is saying it, been saying it a long time. Nobody knew where Farrow’s body was, but everyone knew those men had killed him.” She spoke with an assurance that made my blood grow a little cold.
“So it’s common knowledge that Salis, Smith, Watkins, and Davis killed Leo Farrow?” I asked.
Every head at the table nodded. Then an elder from the church, Mr. Bates, said, “We all knew. Even back then. I was just a kid, but it wasn’t a secret. Thing was, though, that they hid what they did well. Not the fact that they did it, mind, but how and where.”
Mary added, “As I understand it, because no one ever found Farrow’s body, police never pursued it as a crime.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Bates said. “They just said he must have run off.” He shook his head. “Everyone knew better, but what could we do?”
Santiago nodded. “Nothing. It wasn’t your job to do anything, not your job to do anything now, either. Thank you for telling me what you know, and again, I won’t say anything about our conversation. I appreciate your candor.”
He squeezed my hand under the table. “And I appreciate the good food. Thank you for having me, Mary. Maybe I can return the favor sometime?”
Mary smiled. “I’d like that.”
“Yes, thank you, Mary, and next week, I’m bringing lasagna, so don’t you dare cook,” I said as I stood up and carried my plate to the kitchen.
“That lasagna have spicy sausage in it,” Mr. Bates asked. “I can’t do spicy sausage.”
I came back to the table and put my hand on his shoulder. “No sir. I make mine with spinach and lots of cheese, but no spicy sausage.”
He put his hand on mine. “Good, good.”
Santiago cleared his plate and then joined me at the door. “Thanks again,” he said, and then we walked out the door and up the road to his car. After he shut the door he said, “So much for the theory that Farrow’s widow didn’t know he’d been killed, huh?”
“Sounds like everybody knew the truth.”
Santiago said what I was thinking. “Even the police.”