Knowing Vera (Romantic Suspense, Family Drama) (Chance for Love) (5 page)

“Papa, can you hear me? What should I do about Zach?” I light a candle and look out my bedroom window. In the clear night sky, the stars twinkle above the tree line. “I can’t get closer to him only to have him turn around and hate me, but I can’t stand the thought of never seeing him again.”

The flame of the candle glows brighter. I sit at the foot of my bed and close my eyes. Papa used to tuck me in. He’d say, “Hun-Hun, no matter what, we’ll always be together. We’re family. Everything will work out at the end.”

“No, Papa,” I address the flickering candle. “Mama doesn’t believe in happy endings. You promised we’d be together, but you left. You stole Mama’s heart, her one shot at love, and all your promises were lies.”

A voice echoes from the past. “Take care of Rey, Rod, and Mama. I love you, Hun-Hun.”

“I love you, too,” I mumble and blow out the candle.

Lying in bed, I sing Papa’s favorite songs. Usually, I drift off immediately, but tonight my heartbeat accelerates instead of calming.

“Papa? Why does everything hurt when I think of Zach?”

I hug my pillow and sing myself a lullaby, pretending Zach is in my arms. Not big Zach, but the little blond boy with the sad blue eyes. I stroke his silky hair and wipe tears from his sun-kissed cheeks. I tell him his mother loves him, and that he’ll be with her one day.

The prepaid cell phone jingles, waking me. A text message says, “I’m listening to you sing.”

What? I duck beneath the window-sill and pull the curtains shut. The neighbor’s dogs are quiet. Could someone be out there?

“Who are you?” I text back.

“
Anak
, I miss you.” He calls me daughter, and my hands start shaking. An old Sunday school teacher once told me angels carry messages to people in Heaven. Maybe this is Papa’s way of answering back.

Another text rolls in. “Tell your mother I love her.”

Yeah, right. The thing with men is that sweet words too often mean nothing.

I text. “Why did you kill Mrs. Spencer?”

“I didn’t kill Lilli. Her husband did.”

Zach’s father killed his mother? Should I believe this? I run through the theories Owen suggested. If the messenger is Zach’s ex-girlfriend, why would she want me to believe my father was innocent and let me off the hook? If it were the real killer, why reopen the investigation when everyone had pegged my father guilty?

My thumbs tap the screen. “Why would he kill her?”

“He was jealous.”

A chill runs down my spine. Usually the husband is guilty, if … if his wife were cheating.

I text back. “Of you?”

Oh, God. Please don’t let my father be her lover.

“No, not me. I was innocent.”

My heart is palpitating and sweat dots my forehead. If Zach’s father framed my father … Oh, what will I do about Zach?

There’s a question I’ve been dying to ask. “Why did you jump?”

“To protect someone.”

“Who? The real killer?”

“No. My brother.”

“What does Tito Louie have to do with any of this?”

“Ask him or your mother.”

“Can’t talk to Mama. You broke her heart.” There. I let him know what he did to her.

I wait, but he doesn’t message back, so I text again. “What do you want me to do?”

There’s no reply. I save all the messages and forward them to my email for Owen to investigate. My skin tingles, as if tiny spiders bury under each pore. I flip on the light and look around the room. Empty, no one here.

I’m just about to flick off my light when there’s a knock at my door, and  Mama says, “What are you doing up? How late did you come in?”

Obviously I can’t talk to her about the fishy text messages or about Zach and my investigations. Maybe we can talk about life in the Philippines and touch on Papa. But then, she has a new boyfriend, a long distance relationship with a man she recently met online.

I open the door. “Couldn’t sleep either. Let’s talk over hot chocolate.”

“Sure, I have to check my email first.” She shuffles in her slippers to the kitchen and wakes her laptop.

“How come you don’t get a smartphone?” I ask. “Then you can message him all the time.”

“Screen’s too small. Besides, I don’t want to be too available.” She chuckles with that dry ‘heh, heh,’ that drives me batty.

“What do you know about him?” I’m suddenly suspicious. Why is she emailing him so late at night?

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are locked onto her laptop, and she types intently with a silly smile on her face. I drag myself to the cupboard and take out the hot chocolate powder. Her laptop makes jingling noises, so I gather she’s instant messaging. What if? Would she have told a stranger about my father?

After the chocolate is ready, I pour her a mug and walk behind her, but she slaps the laptop shut. All I saw was the blank head and shoulders of a person who hadn’t uploaded a picture.

Her eyes dart evasively as she takes the mug from me.

“Is this relationship serious?” I ask.

“Of course not.”

“What do you talk about?” I set my chocolate on the table and pull the creamer from the refrigerator. “Extra cream?”

“No, gotta watch my cholesterol.” She huffs and eyes her laptop. I bet she’s dying to get back on.

I pull my chair next to her. “Were you messaging Tito Louie?”

She rolls her eyes and blows into the mug. “I don’t have anything to say to him.”

“Seeing as he’s Papa’s only living relative, I thought you’d invite him over more often.”

“Why’d I want to do that for? He’s an old grouch.”

I take a sip and lick the cream from my lips. “How come every time you see him, you’re all smiles? He probably thinks he’s your favorite relative.”

“There’s manners and respect.” She sniffs and sloshes the chocolate onto the table. “Were you at a man’s place again? Coming in so late.”

It’s just like Mama to deflect, but I refuse to turn this into an examination of my social life.

“Why do you think Papa was so close to Tito Louie when they were ten years apart?” I put my feet on the chair and rest my elbows on my knees.

“Vera, sit like a lady. When are you getting married?” Mama scowls, jutting out her lower lip. “If you were married, I wouldn’t have to worry so much.”

I sip the velvety bittersweet liquid and inhale the dark chocolate scent. Since she brings up marriage, I might as well probe her feelings on the matter. “I’ve always wondered how a woman knows when she wants to get married.”

Mama runs her fingers through her hair, something she does when she’s nervous or avoiding an uncomfortable topic, which is often. “She just does.”

“Like you and Papa? Was there some sort of spark? Were you in love?”

“Things were not the same back in my day.” She coughs into a napkin and blows her nose. “I think you’re right. I
am
coming down with the flu.”

“I’m sure love existed back then.” I can be a persistent pest when I want to be.

“We had to do the responsible thing. You were on the way already.” Mama sets her mug on the table with a thump and pushes her chair away. “Now that I know you’re safely home, I’m going back to sleep.”

“W-wait. You don’t want to know who I was with?” I’m not giving up. Somehow, I have to figure out the connection between Papa, Tito Louie, and Zach’s mother.

“Well, yes.” She stifles a yawn and puts on the concerned mother face.

“I went to see Zach. You remember him?”

“The guy who lost his leg?”

“Sure, but didn’t you used to like him? You were always flattering him and fawning over his medals.”

“
M’iha
, I was being polite. I never thought of him as husband material.” She plays with her hair. “Why are you still hanging out with him?”

Because there’s something about him needing me that makes me feel gooey inside. Maybe I have the caring gene because I took care of my brothers after Papa died, becoming a second mother to them while Mama worked.

I clasp my hands on the table. “Did you know he’s Lillian Spencer’s son?”

Mama’s eyebrows knit for a second before her hands start to tremble and the light of recognition sharpens her gaze. She sits up straighter. “Who told you about her?”

“She’s been sending me cards from Australia.” I reach for the pile of mail and find the latest one. “Obviously, someone’s sending them on her behalf.”

She grabs it from my outstretched hand and reads, “Your father did not kill me, Lillian Spencer,” and drops it on the table as if it burns her hand. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“No, but if Papa’s innocent, I have to find the real killer. I wonder if you or Tito Louie know why anyone would want to kill Lillian Spencer.”

“Why would we know? Someone’s playing a trick on you. Why are you all of a sudden so interested in Tito Louie?”

“For one thing, he’s dying, has six months to live. If he knows anything, I better get it out of him soon.”

“I’d stay away from him. He’ll most likely lie and say whatever you want. I don’t trust him.”

“Whoa!” I wave my hand in front of my chest like I’m hot. “Why all the Tito Louie hate? He’s always been nice to me.”

She glances sideways and purses her lips. “Of course he’d be nice to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? He’s my uncle.” I blow a puff of frustration through my nose. Mama always talks about family and how important it is. But she resents Tito Louie, probably because he reminds her of my father and what she lost.

She pushes from the table. “I don’t want to think about your father or Lillian Spencer. Why are you digging into this? It’s not like you’re marrying Zach Spencer.”

Well, duh, of course I’m not marrying Zach, but if my father really killed his mother, he wouldn’t want anything to do with me, no matter how well I cook or sing. My stomach twangs like a flat guitar string, and I stir the chocolate a little too fast. “I’m not ever getting married.”

“Vera, you never answer my questions.”

“You don’t answer mine either.” I wipe up the spilled chocolate. “Did Papa ever talk about Lillian Spencer or anyone else he worked with?”

“No.” Mama tucks her mug in the dishwasher. “Forget about it. Your father’s dead. What does it matter? Why are you picking at old wounds?”

“I believe Papa was innocent.”

She covers her eyes with one hand and slowly shakes her head. “He jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge,
M’iha
. Let him rest in peace.”

Uncle Louie lives in Happy Bear Forest, a retirement community. Visitor parking is scarce, so I park at the mall across the street and make my way down the tree-lined sidewalk while balancing the food I made: chicken adobo, pancit canton, and shrimp sinigang. I smile at an elderly woman exercising with her walker and cross the parking circle in front of the lobby.

The doors open automatically, and I stop at the receptionist’s desk. It’s Cliff again, a recently hired college student who makes it a point to ask me out every time I visit. He inhales exaggeratedly at the steaming food. “Here to see your uncle?”

“No other. How’s he been?”

Cliff comes around the counter and stands a little too close. “Let me take the goodies you’re carrying. You know that’s way more food than he can eat.”

If there were ever an audition for a bad-boy Romeo, Cliff would be a shoo-in. He favors no-sleeve muscle tees to show off his tats, and a silver ring with a black gem pierces his left eyebrow.

I hand him the stack of Tupperware containers. “It makes him happy. What can I say?”

“That you’ll go out with me?” He makes a show of flexing his muscles as he grabs the food. “Then I wouldn’t be stuck with leftovers after you leave.”

I flash him a smile and shake my head. “I bet you’re up there the minute I’m gone, buttering him up.”

“I’d rather butter you up, sweetie.” He wiggles his eyebrows and smirks, then struts up the stairwell, his too tight clothes an obvious advertisement of his bodybuilding prowess.

He’s too young for me, but it’s flattering, and he does have a body worth drooling over. I follow him through the carpeted corridor until we stop in front of my uncle’s door.

I slide out a twenty, but as usual he waves it off and asks me out again. I’m sure an exciting evening with him comprises of admiring his muscles and playing with his Wii … gaming system, urgh … never mind.

Cliff announces us on the intercom, and the door opens in a few moments.

“Vera, my darling.” My uncle stretches out his hand.

“
Kumusta po?
”
How are you?
I touch the back of his fingers to my forehead to receive his blessing, and he smacks a loud kiss on my cheek.

Cliff rolls his eyes and makes kissing motions as he sets the food on the kitchenette counter.

I make a show of holding the door open for him. “Thanks for bringing this up.”

“Anytime you want me to bring anything
up,
I’m your man.” Cliff ogles me and heads out the door.

I shut it none too soon, because Tito Louie pinches my arm. “What a nice young man. I think he’s sweet on you.”

“Tito, you know he’s too immature.” I unpack the food and set the table. “How are you feeling?”

“Not good, not bad.” He wheezes and pulls himself to the tiny dinette. Everything about the room is cramped. The kitchenette is in the entry across from the bathroom equipped with handrails. The furniture consists of a single bed, a row of dressers, and the dinette set. Medical equipment, trays and syringes, a blood pressure cuff, and a spare oxygen tank sit in the corner next to the hospital style bed.

Tito’s eyes light up at the shrimp sinigang—bright orange jumbo prawns, complete with their heads and tails cooked in a tangy vegetable broth. I serve him a plate with steamed rice while he tucks a paper towel in his collar.

Filipinos don’t talk while eating, not when the food is so succulent and tasty. Okay, let me amend that. Filipino
men
don’t talk when eating. They’re too busy biting the heads off the shrimp, sucking the meat and juices, and slurping the vegetables and soup. At least my uncle still has a healthy appetite. His lung cancer has metastasized, but he refuses treatment other than palliative care.

“You’re a good niece. The best.” He reaches for the red mung bean dessert, a dish derived from the Chinese side of our heritage. “And yet, you bring me a feast. You must want something.”

I clasp my hands on the table and cluck my tongue. “I only want to spend time with you. How was your check-up?”

“Not bad.” He inhales through his nasal prongs. “I can still walk around, eat, and sleep, so life’s good. How about you? Your mother says you’re quitting your job?”

My mouth drops, but I cover it with a sip of calamansi juice. My mother, who claims she doesn’t speak to him, is apparently the first to supply him information about me. I should feel betrayed, but I smile. “I’m wondering how my mom and dad met back in the Philippines. Were you around?”

“I was.” He pours sugared condensed milk over the red bean mix and stirs it. “They were inseparable.”

“Were they in love?”

“In the deepest way.” He smiles as he licks a spoonful of the dessert. “Your father was devoted to her, and of course, she was the prettiest girl in the high school.”

“But she was so much younger.”

“Nine years isn’t that big a deal. Besides, your dad looked young for his age.”

Something about the slippery way he says this curdles my stomach. My mother was seventeen when she got pregnant.

I scoop a second serving of red bean soup into his bowl. “Were her parents happy about them getting married?”

Tito Louie rubs his wrinkly chin and stares over my shoulder. Creepy. I almost turn around. Finally, he shrugs and puts his spoon down. “They gave consent. Of course it was a step down for her. She grew up in Forbes Park, Spanish blood, you know, and we’re the ‘brown ones,’—or, as you Americans say, from the other side of the tracks.”

He doesn’t look so brown to me, more like Chinese colored, with Chinese eyes. But my father was quite dark, and you could barely tell they were brothers.

I fiddle with the fringes of his waxed table cloth. “Mama doesn’t talk much about her childhood.”

Tito Louie’s eyes crinkle into slits, and he laughs. “You wouldn’t talk about it, either, if your parents had you destined for the nunnery.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yes. I was her private tutor, so I helped her sneak out of the estate. You know, it’s all walled, and girls had to be escorted by a chaperone everywhere they went.”

“You don’t look so trustworthy yourself.”

“I was dating a fine lady.” His eyes twinkle. “An American woman. Blonde. She was a diplomat’s wife and could open doors anywhere, even Makati.”

I don’t like the way this conversation is going—two older men consorting with my innocent on-the-way-to-the-convent mother.

“Sorry I asked. No wonder they had to leave the Philippines.” I’m beginning to understand why my mother doesn’t talk about love or romance. “How did my father find a job at a Napa Valley winery?”

Tito Louie’s previously jovial face turns to sullen stone. He clears his throat and plays with the oxygen prongs. “I’m tired. Can you help me to my bed?”

I hold his arm while he struggles to his feet, his breathing more labored than before. Dragging the oxygen tank, I guide him to his bed and lift his legs over the edge. I remove his slippers and prop a pillow under his head. “Is that better? Are you too full?”

“Yes, I ate too much. Thank you, my favorite niece.”

“Your only niece.” I perch on the side of the bed and drop my bombshell. “I have a problem.”

“Ah …” He squints at me as if I were a creature under a microscope. “I knew it! What do you want Tito to do for you?”

Ever since I was a child, Tito Louie would do favors for me, including forging my mother’s signature on bad report cards. I reach for the medical supply tray. “Let me take your blood pressure and pulse first.”

He waggles a finger in my face. “No treating me like an invalid.”

“I’m not, but what I’m about to show you might you know, upset your bucket.”

He puts his hands behind his head and whistles. “Are you pregnant? Is it that crippled guy?”

My heart does a somersault and my stomach tightens. “First of all, he’s not a cripple. He’s disabled. And no, I’m not pregnant.”

“When are you going to settle down? You’re already thirty! No wonder your mother’s worried.”

“Why would Mama share with you?” I fetch my purse from the table and take out the prepaid cell phone.

“That’s for me to know and you to guess.” He gets all enigmatic on me, his old man face wrinkling at the smile lines. He takes his reading glasses off the nightstand and dons them. “What are you going to show me?”

I touch the message window and it expands. “Here, take a look.”

I’m watching him carefully, but he wears a poker face at first. Then, as he scrolls through the messages, his jaw slackens and he blinks rapidly. His breathing starts to wheeze and huff again, and he puts a hand over his forehead. “This might be him. Think he’s still alive?”

A sense of unreality spins me around. Someone actually believes my father’s alive. “Has he contacted you, too?”

Louie pats his chest, and I dab his forehead with a tissue. After his breathing calms down, he lowers his reading glasses and says, “Get my laptop and bring up your YouTube channel.”

His laptop is idle on the dresser, so I wake it and hand it to him. He sits up in the bed and gestures for me to sit next to him as he browses to my YouTube. I haven’t been on it in ages since I gave up on going viral. I have a few fans, people in the Philippines who love the childhood songs I sing, “Bahay Kubo” and other traditional tunes I learned from Papa. There are also a few stalker types who ask me on dates, but I ignore them.

“You ever read what
Tatay
writes to you?” Louie asks.

“
Tatay
? That’s his handle? How unoriginal.”
Tatay
is equivalent to Daddy, or Papa in Tagalog. I try not to roll my eyes. “Every elderly man calls himself my father. I don’t pay it any attention.”

Tito Louie’s eyes gleam and he licks his lips. “But look at this. He’s asking you for that song about Bing-Bing the Bear.”

Bing-Bing! I lost him the night … the night … Papa jumped.

I bolt upright. “Let me see.”

Tito Louie sets the laptop on the nightstand. “Maybe it’s nothing. I sent him an email, but he never replied and stopped posting.”

“Of course. If the authorities knew he was around, they’d arrest him.” I push the cell phone at my uncle. “Look, the number has a local area code, 510.”

“You mean he’s here?” Tito Louie’s hand flutters. “I want to see my brother before I die.”

My pulse vibrates behind my ears and I gasp.

I don’t know what’s worse, wondering if my father is alive, or noticing Tito Louie using his left hand on the touchpad.