to exact tribute from the Santa Ana street gangs for all drug sales – starting with his own Delhi F Troop. Zolorio had given him a mandate of one hundred percent compliance.
There was nothing better, Tavarez had realized back then – than to be free, employed, and in love.
His heart did what it always did when he thought of Ofelia – it soared, then hovered, then fell.
He pictured her slender young fingers as they traced the Nahuatl symbols across the page in the Corcoran visitation room. He could hear her voice as she translated their sounds and meanings into Spanish and English for him. There was innocence in her smile and trust in her eyes, and luster in her straight black hair.
He remembered the simple shock on her face when he told her, six weeks after moving into her cheerful little apartment, that he was going to marry Paul Zolorio’s niece from Guadalajara. He really had to, he explained, really, it wasn’t quite arranged in the old-fashioned way, but his marriage to Miriam would solidify the families and the business they did, it was practically his duty to Paul to…
He remembered how softly she shut and locked the door when he left her apartment that night, and the heaviness in his heart and the painful clench of his throat as he drove south into the night. It was nothing like walking away from Hallie Jaynes and her insatiable desires, her murderous guerra selfishness. No, Ofelia was uncorrupted, untouched except by him. She was drugless and guileless and had the purest heart of anyone he had ever known, and the wildest beauty to her smile.
One year after he had married Miriam, shortly after she had given birth to John, Tavarez secretly traveled to Nayarit to find Ofelia.
With doggedness and patience he was able to learn that she had joined a convent in Toluca, Mexico’s highest city. It took him another day to fly to Mexico City, then rent a car for the drive up to Toluca.
Sister Anna of the Convento de San Juan Bautista scolded him for coming here unannounced with such a request. She said Ofelia never wanted to see him again, after what he had done to her. Yes, she was healthy and happy now in the love of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was not a love given and taken away according to lust, commerce, or advancement. She looked at him, trembling with disgust.
Tavarez set five one-hundred-dollar bills on the desk between them. ‘For the poor,’ he said in Spanish.
‘They don’t need your money,’ Sister Anna said back.
He counted out five more. ‘Let the poor decide.’
‘I have decided for them.’
‘Okay.’
Tavarez rose, leaned across the desk, and grabbed the holy woman by her nose. He pulled up hard and she came up fast, chair clacking to the tile floor behind her. He told her to take him to Ofelia or he’d yank it off.
‘You’re the devil,’ she said, tears pouring from her eyes.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Tavarez, letting go of Sister Anna’s nose. ‘I’m trying to see an old friend, and help the poor.’
She swept the cash into a drawer, then led Tavarez across a dusty courtyard. The other sisters stopped and stared but none of them dared get close. Sister Anna walked quickly with her fist up to her mouth, as if she’d just been given unbearable news.
The vesper bells were ringing when Sister Anna pushed open the door of Ofelia’s tiny cell. It was very cold, and not much larger than the one he’d spent five years in, noted Tavarez. She had a crucifix on the wall. His cell had pictures of Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio.
Ofelia rose from the floor beside her bed. She looked up at Tavarez with a stunned surprise. She was thinner and pale, but her eyes still held the innocent wonder that he had loved. She was not quite nineteen.
In that moment he saw that she loved him helplessly, in the way that only the very young can love, and that the greatest gift he could give her would be to turn around and walk away. It would mean denying himself. Denying his desires, his instincts, his own heart. It would mean giving her life.
He reached out and put his hands on her lovely face. Sister Anna flinched.
‘Love your God all you want, but come with me,’ he said.
‘We’ll both go to hell,’ she said, her breath condensing in the freezing air.
‘We’ve got three days and a lifetime before that.’
‘What about your wife?’ asked Ofelia.
‘I have a son too. Accommodate them. I love you.’
Tavarez watched the struggle playing out in Ofelia’s dark eyes but he never doubted the outcome.
‘I don’t have much to pack,’ she said.
Sister Anna gasped.
Tavarez looked at her and smiled.
Even now, ten years later, Tavarez thought of that moment and smiled.
But finally – as always – he remembered what Matt Stromsoe had done to Ofelia. And with this memory Tavarez canceled her image as quickly and totally as someone changing channels on a TV.
The first For Rent sign he saw in Fallbrook was for a guest cottage. The main house was owned and occupied by the Mastersons and their young son and daughter. The Mastersons were early twenties, trim and polite. She was pregnant in a big way. They were willing to rent out the cottage then and there, so long as Stromsoe would sign a standard agreement and pay in advance a refundable damage deposit. The rent wasn’t high and the guest cottage was tucked back on the acreage with nice views across the Santa Margarita River Valley. A grove of tangerine trees lined the little dirt road leading to it. Bright purple bougainvillea covered one wall of the cottage and continued up the roof. It had an air conditioner, satellite TV, even a garage.
Within forty minutes of driving up, Stromsoe had written a check for first and last month’s rent and deposit, and collected a house key and an automatic garage-door opener.
Mrs. Masterson handed him a heavy bag full of avocados and said welcome to Fallbrook and God bless you. Included in the bag was last week’s worship program for the United Methodist Church.
Frankie called him around noon and asked him over for lunch before their drive south to the studio.
‘I just moved to Fallbrook,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘The butterflies sold me. And I’m minutes away if you need me.’
She was silent for a beat. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘What are the wooden towers for?’ he asked when the lunch was almost over.
‘The one in
