Timebound(63)
Trey was waiting in the same spot as last time. He looked very handsome in a dark blue shirt and gray dress pants.
“What, no onion rings?”
“I have something even better planned,” he said with a smile. “Services don’t start until eleven, and I know that Katherine and Connor’s culinary skills are… well, limited.” That was putting a polite face on things—on the few occasions that he’d eaten a full meal at Katherine’s, I’d been the one doing the cooking. “So what would the birthday girl say to a real home-cooked breakfast that she doesn’t have to cook?”
My face fell. “Oh, Trey—I don’t think we should. What if…” I didn’t think breakfast at his house increased the chances of me getting caught—but I was terrified at the thought of meeting his family, and I could tell from the look on his face that he knew exactly what I was thinking.
“Dad is going to love you. Don’t look so scared. It’s too late to call and cancel, because Estella is already cooking. And you really don’t want to cancel anyway—her huevos divorciados are muy delicioso.”
“Divorced eggs?” My Spanish wasn’t nearly as proficient as Trey’s, but I was pretty sure that’s what he’d said.
“You’ll see,” he said, laughing.
Estella was well under five feet tall and very round, with vivid red curls that were clearly not part of the natural color palette of her native Guatemala. She gave me a quick up-and-down appraisal when she opened the door and, her judgment apparently complete, broke into a huge smile and pulled me down for a hug.
“Lars is in the shower—Sunday is his only day to sleep in—but he’ll be down soon. I am sorry that Trey’s mama is not here to greet you, but I welcome you for her. When she is back from Peru, she will be so happy to meet the young lady who has made her baby smile.”
Trey’s blush at that statement matched my own, and Estella laughed, leading us both into the big yellow kitchen. I was relieved that breakfast would be an informal occasion in the kitchen rather than at the long, formal dining table I had glimpsed from the foyer. Estella put us to work setting the table and slicing fruit as she scurried between fridge and stove, shooing Dmitri (who was clearly in search of his breakfast) out of her way and asking me a steady stream of questions as she worked. I answered as best I could, piecing together bits of my old life (Mom, Dad, and Briar Hill) and my new one with Katherine and Connor.
By the time breakfast was ready, Estella had managed to make Trey blush three more times. I learned about his first steps and an unusual encounter with the tooth fairy when he was six, and she had just finished telling me about Marisol, the first girl he’d had a crush on—“not nearly as pretty as you, querida”—when she broke off to greet Trey’s dad. “Sit, mijo. I will bring you coffee.”
Mr. Coleman was nearly as tall as his son. He had darker hair, but it was instantly clear where Trey had gotten his smile. The gray eyes were also the same, if slightly distorted by the horn-rimmed glasses that made him look a little bit like an older version of the lead singer from Weezer. “Kate!” he said, the smile growing a bit wider. “I’m glad to see that you’re real. I was beginning to think Trey had invented a girlfriend to keep Estella from trying to fix him up with girls from her church.”
“Ha. Very funny, mijo.” Estella slid a plate of huevos divorciados—two eggs, one covered with green sauce and the other with red—in front of him. Trey was right; they were delicious. In fact, the entire breakfast was so good and Estella so insistent we eat more, more, that I was amazed Trey could actually live there and still manage to stay thin.
The four of us engaged in breakfast chitchat for a few minutes while we focused on our food, and then Mr. Coleman surprised me with a more pointed question. “So I understand you’re off to do some detective work this morning?”
I gave Trey a startled glance and he jumped in to explain. “I told Dad that you’re worried about Charlayne’s sudden interest in the Cyrists.”
Estella’s expression gave little doubt about her opinion on the matter. “You are a good friend to be worried, querida. Those Cyrists are no good. Always going on about the riches God will give you here on earth if you are strong—never anything about how you should treat others. I watch that preacher on TV one morning—Patrick Conwell—all the time he asks for my money and says I will get it back ten times over. Same thing they say in Atlantic City. I don’t trust him. Don’t trust any of them.”