Chapter Eleven

April stopped in the middle of scrubbing the kitchen sink to watch Sierra sitting in front of the TV. She’d been flipping an international news station on and off all evening as if she were searching for something. Apparently, she found what she was looking for because she put down the remote and leaned forward to watch the woman broadcaster. What was it she found so captivating?

April thought the broadcaster was speaking Italian at first, or maybe Portuguese. Then she caught the ribbon of text trailing at the bottom of the screen—Bucuresti. Bucharest, the capital of Romania.

April almost had the sense Sierra understood what the woman was saying, the way her eyes blinked in sync with the rise and fall of the broadcaster’s voice. Her daughter already spoke French and Spanish. Who knew? With Sierra’s abilities, she might be picking out some of the words. Romanian belonged to the same family of languages.

She put down her sponge. A simple warning wouldn’t turn her daughter from this man. Like her father before her, when something captured her attention, nothing would distract her. Food and rest, not to mention companionship, would take far, far distant seconds and thirds until she mastered her subject. And clearly, the one and only subject on her mind right now was this old man from Romania.

She sat on the couch beside Sierra. Her daughter’s ever-present notebook lay by her side, but instead of writing alphabets of the ancient world, Sierra used the familiar letters April knew. Boxed-in words with loops and accent marks filled the page. It didn’t take a genius to know what she was doing.

“Picked up much Romanian yet?” April refused to let Sierra see the wave of hysteria coursing inside.

Sierra gave her a shy smile. “A little.”

When the news program switched to Bulgaria, Sierra put the notebook away and got ready for bed.

But at one in the morning, April found her sitting in the corner of the living room next to the tiles, reading with the aid of her book light.

April sat down beside her. “What are you reading?”

Sierra looked up at her, blue smudges under her eyes. Without a word, she lifted the book, a thick leather volume. April strained to see it in the dim light. It wasn’t in English. Romanian? Where could she have possibly found a book in Romanian?

April sent her to bed, but it was almost two before the sounds of Sierra tossing and turning in her bed quieted, and April could fall asleep herself. When Sierra came out of her bedroom in the morning, she moved like a zombie. Her oatmeal sat untouched on the kitchen bar.

When she trudged off to school, April sank onto the couch, looking at the tiles. Sierra never mentioned them. April saw her glancing at them from time to time, but she couldn’t fathom what was in her daughter’s head.

It was time to do something about the empty middle. She would take care of it before she went to work. Dragging the large center tile from the coat closet, April took it outside. She laid the cream ceramic on the balcony and kneeled beside it.

Dipping her paintbrush in ebony acrylic, she hovered just above the tile. She wanted loose lines to match the feel of the running letters that would surround it. Black and bold, yet abstract. With her thickest brush, she painted the outline of a woman and child and then a symbol of water on both sides. She didn’t fill them, leaving the impression of a large hieroglyph.

When it was dry, April hung it and stood back from the completed project. Sierra could make of it what she wanted. April had conveyed her message, not in empty words, but in images. Her daughter would see it every day when she came into the apartment.

They were in this together. The waters might rise high, but they would surge over them together or not at all.

 

On April’s afternoon off, she went for a run. Back at home, she took out her camera, but she couldn’t bring herself to take one picture. She found herself pacing around the apartment. Her daughter needed light, and April couldn’t give it to her. Somehow this man, Luca Prodan, had provided something Sierra needed though.

On a whim, April logged on to the Internet. There was no phone number for Luca Prodan, but with a little digging, she found his address.

Unable to keep herself from snooping, she looked up the house records. The title and property taxes were in Nick Foster’s name. Something wasn’t right. Why wasn’t there anything in this man’s name except his address?

She looked up directions and picked up her car keys. What would she say when she found this Luca Prodan? She wasn’t sure yet, but she had to get a sense of who he was. What sort of grown man wanted to spend time alone with a teenage girl he had no relation to?

She passed apartment complexes and stores with bars in the windows and crossed over the bayou. When she found the street and the house number, she parked at the curb, inspecting the house.

She saw what brought Sierra here. It was a simple home. It wasn’t even half a mile from urban decay. And yet, under the shade of the huge oak trees and decorated by bright gardens, the street breathed. April’s heart tightened at the thought of her daughter feeling trapped in their concrete world when this green refuge was calling to her.

April knocked on the front door. There didn’t seem to be a doorbell. She was at the point of knocking again, when she heard shuffling steps and the door opened. This couldn’t be the man. He was stooped and frail. Why had no one told her?

“Mr. Prodan?”

“Yes.” He had his son’s piercing gaze. And for all his frailness, his single syllable spoke volumes. His gaze turned into a knowing smile. “You are Sierra’s mother, I think.”

“I’m April Wright.”

“Your eyes are very alike.”

April looked up in surprise. People were always saying Sierra looked like Gary. But then, this man had never seen Gary.

He didn’t invite her in, and it seemed he held to the door frame for support.

“I …” April fumbled, shook her head, and tried again. “I hope you don’t mind my coming. I don’t know what the police said, but they said some things to you, I think.”

“Untrue things.”

“Sierra has missed you.” April tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I hope you understand. It’s impossible for a mother to let her daughter go into the home of a man she knows nothing about.” She closed her eyes. She was bumbling it.

“Perhaps. But I did nothing to hurt Sierra, and it was wrong, what the authorities said to me.”

I’m sorry, April wanted to say. But she couldn’t say that. She wanted him to know she would not back down in protecting her daughter. “I wanted to meet you for myself. I can’t send Sierra here to spend time with you without supervision,” she said. “But I don’t know how I can tell her not to speak with you either. I thought if I came here and spoke with you, we might find a solution.”

Mr. Prodan inclined his head and stepped into the house. April followed. She took in the immaculate, bare house. He led her through to the kitchen, and they sat at a table beside a large window.

The window looked out on his backyard. Rows of herbs sloped away from the house, and a cluster of giant pine trees stood in the center of the yard. Soft breezes wafted in the branches, sending pine needles spiraling to the ground.

Mr. Prodan busied himself in the kitchen. He didn’t ask her if she wanted anything. He simply served her strong coffee and a pastry with some kind of herb sprinkled on top.

“Langoş, it is called.” He said as he handed her the pastry.

April looked away from his hands, not wanting to be rude. But she was curious. The scars were so uniform and unlike anything she’d ever seen.

He sat down next to her at the scarred table. “You should know there is no miracle to make you trust me. To trust is to believe. And to believe in what has not happened yet …” He lifted one shoulder in a very European gesture.

She swallowed. “Yes, well, it’s fair enough to trust for myself. But it’s reckless to make that decision for my daughter. She’s the one who would have to live with the consequences if I were wrong.” She looked up. “You have a son.”

He sent her a quizzical glance.

“He was once Sierra’s age. I’m sure you were careful about who you let him associate with.”

“I believe our circumstances are quite different.”

She studied her pastry. How were their circumstances so different? Mr. Prodan and his son had been separated for some years according to Nick, but he’d only been a year older than Sierra when Mr. Prodan arrived in Houston.

“I do not think Sierra wishes to come here with her mother,” Mr. Prodan said. “My years of fatherhood have not been as they should be, but they have taught me this much. Children have a different type of honesty with their parents than they have with friends. Otherwise, I would invite you to come and visit me with Sierra.”

April had been so sure she would see more options when she spoke to this man, but instead she found only more questions. “So what should we do?”

He shook his head. “I would very much like to see Sierra again, but it is more important for her to have peace with her mother first.”

Faith. That is what he was telling her. Her only way forward was to have faith in him. April looked into his eyes. This was a man worth knowing, as Sierra found out for herself.

It was hard to imagine a man less likely to hurt her daughter in the perverted way she had imagined. Even less in the way Nick Foster suggested. How could this gentle man use words like jackhammers?

But then she’d only known him a few minutes. He was still a stranger. She had to know more.

April inched forward in her chair. “What did you do in Romania, Mr. Prodan? Where did you live?”

“I was a secondary math teacher. In Bucharest.”

His eyes were all-knowing, and she had the feeling he knew she was investigating him, but that didn’t stop her. She inclined her head toward the library. “You’ve got a lovely collection of books.”

On that subject he opened up to her like a beloved friend. He leaned back and almost began to chat.

He liked to read theology and philosophy but was content to read a good children’s story or a classic romance. He gave a small laugh. “I learned English by reading children’s books by Enid Blyton, and eventually I moved on to Henry James. I got quite a few odd stares my first years here in America. It took me some time to realize that the language has changed since those writers put pen to paper.”

Outside, the afternoon light softened. She took a last sip of coffee, cold now and thick as molasses, and stood to go. “I haven’t found any answers. But I’m glad we met.” She let out a nervous laugh. “You’re not the man I imagined.”

He gave her a quiet nod and led her to the front door.

As she stepped onto the porch, she inhaled the sharp scent of marigolds and dead leaves. Her gaze traveled along the oaks and stopped when she realized a truck was parked in the driveway. Nick Foster, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, carried several bags of groceries. She’d understood from their conversation that he wasn’t on close terms with his father.

April stole a glance at her watch. They met on the walk, and she stopped to look up at Nick, who seared her with his icy blue eyes.

“I had to see for myself,” she said. “I needed to know what kind of man he is.”

He shifted the grocery bags to one hand and used the other hand to push his glasses up. “Was it a good day or a bad one?”

April wasn’t sure how to answer that. “He wasn’t what I expected. He seems … wise.”

“It was a good day then. You were lucky.”

Mr. Prodan, still on his porch, bent over his flowers, studying them. He made no move to meet his son on the walk, and his face remained blank, as if he didn’t realize Nick stood in his yard. Nick didn’t look his father’s way either. What was that all about?

Why did she feel the need to apologize for coming here and for liking his father? “It bothers you that I came to see him, doesn’t it?”

He shot her a sardonic smile. “I wouldn’t want him to ruin your day. He can be tough to deal with.”

“But you care enough to buy his groceries?” And pay his property taxes? But she wasn’t about to admit to snooping.

He shifted some bags back to his other hand, inspecting her for a moment. “Sure, he’s my father.” He stared off at the dim November sky. “It’s complicated. It’s just better if I do it.”

Complicated? Luca Prodan was elderly; maybe he needed the help. But what had caused the rift between the two men? The gentleman she’d spent the afternoon with was pleasant and courteous, and she couldn’t imagine his offending anyone. Well, their family complications weren’t her business.

“Look,” he said. “I don’t own my old man. If you want to visit him, you’re more than welcome. Just take care.”

“Okay, I will,” she said. “Have a good afternoon, Nick.”

He still stood in the yard looking after her when she turned the street corner.