What Lies Within Page 6

  Right. Like the chance to help something? Like the kitten? You wouldn’t have noticed them if they did. You’re too focused on the next accomplishment.

  It was hard to argue with truth. Which explained why, with the completion of each of the commercial projects she’d done the last few years, one feeling was growing and threatening to overwhelm her. A feeling she’d spent her life doing everything she could to avoid.

  Failure.

  Enough!

  Enough thinking. Enough feeling sorry for herself. She had to get out of here.

  Now.

  She jabbed the key into the ignition, then froze. Was that …?

  Her senses sharpened, Kyla jumped out of the car and ran toward the bush near the trunk. Sure of what she’d seen. But the spot where the kitten had been was still empty. Stabbing disappointment stole her breath—until another sound jump-started her breathing, drawing her around the bush, along the landscaped section to another smaller bush nearby.

  There, cowering beneath the leafy branches, was the kitten.

  This time, Kyla didn’t hesitate. She reached down, cupped the tiny animal in her hands, and drew it close. She tucked it inside her suit jacket, nestling it next to her racing heart, and made her way back to the car.

  Easing into the driver’s seat, Kyla rubbed the kitten’s fur, doing her best to dry it and warm it at the same time. Its coat was a mixture of black, orange, and white—though the white was more of a dingy gray at the moment. The animal’s shivering body and heart-wrenching squeals tightened Kyla’s throat.

  “I know, little guy. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I left you there …”

  The kitten rested its forehead against her, and the simple trust in that motion nearly undid Kyla. She met her own gaze in the rearview mirror, noted the red-rimmed eyes, the tears streaming down her face. “You look terrible.”

  Funny thing was, she was smiling as she said it.

  Holding the kitten with one hand, she leaned down to pull out the phone book she kept beneath her driver’s seat. It only took a moment to find a nearby animal hospital. A few minutes more to call for directions and let the person on the phone know she was coming in.

  “Is this your pet?”

  The woman’s question stopped Kyla, and she looked down at the bundle now sleeping against her. She couldn’t keep it. Of course she couldn’t. For one thing, she was gone all the time. For another, there was Mason to consider. She didn’t even know if he liked animals. Shouldn’t she ask him first?

  “Ma’am? Is this your pet?”

  Be smart, Kyla.

  She opened her mouth to answer, and one word jumped out. “Yes.”

  Kyla had to bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud. She tightened her hold on the kitten, and this time her answer came out solid and sure. “Yes, it’s my pet.”

  So it wasn’t smart. So what? This little creature nestled against her seemed to think it belonged to Kyla. And for the life of her, she couldn’t disagree.

  All those years of telling Annot you weren’t an animal person, and now you do this? You’re knocking on crazy’s door, you know.

  The kitten shifted, rubbing its soft face against her hand and releasing a soul-deep sigh. Kyla’s heart melted.

  Crazy or not, this kitten was exactly where it belonged.

  And if Mason doesn’t agree?

  He would. Of course he would. Because it was important to her. And when someone loved you, they cared about what mattered to you. Right?

  She didn’t give herself time to ponder the answer. She’d faced enough crises for the day.

  It was time to give her heart—and her doubts—a rest. At least for tonight.

  SIX

  “The dream was always running ahead of me. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle.”

  ANAIS NIN

  “Your heavenly Father already knows all your needs, and he will give you all you need from day to day if you live for him and make the Kingdom of God your primary concern.”

  MATTHEW 6:32–33

  Rafa, if you stare at that doorway any harder, it will melt.”

  Rafe took another sip of his coffee and angled wide-eyed innocence at his sister. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Her eyes scolded. “Do me favor, porfa?”

  “Whatever you ask, ’manita.”

  “Keep in mind that just because I’m your sister, that doesn’t make me una cretina.”

  “I would never call you an idiot.”

  “Vale, but you try to treat me like one, hmm?” She waved at the door he’d been staring at. “You tell me you’ve come to work early so you can have everything ready before the first clienta comes in. And then you sit there, drinking your coffee, waiting for her to show up. The morning passes, and still you sit there for every break. Watching the door. Hoping. And tu creo que I don’t know that’s what you’re doing?” She swatted at his shoulder. “Besides, you know as well as I do it’s still too early for her. She doesn’t usually show until at least early evening.” She winked at him. “A little touch of heaven on her way home, si?”

  “My coffee heaven?” Rafe let a broad grin spread across his lips. “Si, hermana. I’ll agree with that.”

  Olivia flounced past him. “Not your coffee, you! Ooo, you make me crazy when you do that.”

  He held up his hands, still laughing. “I’m not trying to annoy you, mija—”

  She planted her hands on her slim hips. “Oh, don’t give me that. You love annoying me. And all I’m trying to do is help you.”

  Rafe fought hard against the laughter. He really did. But there was no holding it back.

  Olivia tossed back her long black hair, pressed her lips together, and glared at him. “¿Qué?”

  He stood, going to slip his arms around her. “Sorry, mija. I don’t mean to laugh at you. You just look so much like Mamá when you scold.”

  Olivia’s frown melted into a warm smile. “Look like her, si. But not sound like her. Mamá scolded in Español.”

  “You do too. Sort of.”

  Olivia went back to the glass display case she’d been stocking. “Spanglish, Rafa. You know Mamá hated Spanglish.”

  “She didn’t hate it. She just chose not to participate in it.” Rafe set his coffee cup on the counter. “I miss her.” Hard to believe their parents had been gone for five years. Killed in a car crash when he was twenty-eight and Olivia had just turned thirty-four.

  A soft hand came to rest on his shoulder. “They would be so proud of you, Rafa. Of all you’ve done here. That you didn’t let your injury destroy you.” She waved her hand at the shop. “That you used all you’ve learned, all you are, to make this.”

  Rafe couldn’t say he was sure about a lot of things. But this place? He’d known the day he opened Cuppa Joe’s that his coffeehouse would be a success.

  Oddly enough, he owed that to the military—prime territory for coffee addiction. Especially in his Force Recon team. Now, Rafe had always liked coffee. Good, strong coffee, the way his abuela made it. He smiled. Nobody made coffee like his grandmother, but these guys … just the smell of the stuff put a gleam in their eyes and a blissful grin on their faces. But it was watching them consume the liquid that opened his eyes.

  True coffee lovers didn’t just drink the stuff. They lived for the whole crazy experience.

  It was the one thing that Thales, Monroe, and Green shared. Those three were hooked, big time. A fact proven the day Thales came back from a street market with a package stuffed with bags of coffee. It wasn’t long before the three men disappeared. When they showed up again, it was with one of those fancy coffee makers—the kind that makes coffee and espresso.

  Thales and Monroe handled the machine with a reverence usually reserved for their weapons. Sabada watched over their shoulders. “How much did that thing cost you guys?”

  Monroe’s eyes went wide. “Who cares, man. It’s coffee!”

  Rafe frowned. The kid might have pro
blems keeping his temper, but he was a pro at not letting his money get away from him. “You can get coffee free at the mess.”

  Green opened the bag of beans like it was some sacred, long-awaited treasure. He held the bag beneath his nose and inhaled, drawing the fragrance in like it was purest oxygen. Monroe held out the grinder as Green poured beans in, then pressed down the button. “That’s not coffee, Asadi.” Monroe held up the grinder. “This is coffee.”

  “Not just coffee, Farm Boy.” Green took the grinder and dumped the grounds into the holder and tamped it down. “We’re talkin’ great coffee.”

  As black liquid flowed into a mug, Thales poured milk into a small pitcher, stuck it over a protruding tube, and turned a knob. The machine responded with spitting and hissing.

  Rafe sat back, torn between laughter and amazement. There were these three big Marines, men he’d seen take fire with total calm, acting like little kids waiting for the go-ahead to tear into the gifts beneath a Christmas tree. When the rich, dark liquid was perfectly doctored with cream and bottled syrups, they drank.

  No, not drank.

  Savored.

  Rafe’s eyes were opened that day. Suddenly he saw coffee hounds everywhere. From every branch of the service. And the amount of money they forked over for what they considered good coffee? Unbelievable.

  “Tell Mamá and Papá you should all invest in coffee companies,” he wrote Olivia a few weeks later.

  After his honorable discharge, when he was wondering what to do with his life, Olivia reminded him of that letter, and something clicked. He started looking around, and sure enough—you couldn’t swing a dead cat in Portland without hitting a new coffee kiosk. But there were only a few true coffeehouses. And his sister was an amazing cook …

  Opportunity wasn’t just knocking. It was driving a Humvee through the door. Within the year he’d found the perfect location, and Cuppa Joe’s opened to its first customer. But Rafe’s place wasn’t your usual coffeehouse. Sure, he offered the usual—mochas, lattes, blended drinks, and just plain coffee—but he also let himself create, making personalized concoctions to match people’s personalities. And Olivia provided his customers with amazing pastries and sandwiches. Then there were her desserts. Several men had proposed to Olivia when they tasted her creations. A number of his women customers told him they should be outlawed.

  All of which confirmed what Rafe had known for years. His sister was an artist in the kitchen.

  But while those things gave Cuppa Joe’s a foot up on other coffee places, what really set it apart from the rest was the décor. Rafe decided providing coffee and sweets wasn’t enough. Not for him. He wanted his place to show people the military. The real military. The people—men and women in uniform—from the inside out.

  Olivia thought he was nuts. “Rafa, the war polarizes people. They hate it or they love it. No middle ground.”

  “This isn’t about the war.” He stepped back from the picture he’d just hung—a desert sunset–framed Rashidi, in full combat gear, head bent, deep in thought as he read a small Bible. Rafe had snapped the shot because, despite a rifle strapped to one shoulder and a knife on the other, the man’s features had shone with peace.

  Rafe turned to face his sister. “That’s the point. It’s about people. Good people. And what they do for all of us, whether we support them or not.”

  It took awhile, but his sister finally caught his vision. Which was good, because she was far better at creating the look he’d hoped for. Soon the walls held perfectly grouped displays of paintings and pictures, textiles, and artifacts from all the places Rafe and his team had been. And she didn’t stop there.

  Olivia was a genius outside the kitchen too. Especially when it came to finding what she wanted for next to nothing. Rafe never knew what would show up next. One day he was lugging in bistro tables and chairs; the next, overstuffed chairs; the next, fabric for what she called “window treatments.”

  The final effect was more than he’d hoped. The day before his grand opening, Rafe and Olivia stood together, surveying what she’d created: a warm environment that welcomed his customers, inviting them inside to ample seating for groups as well as private corners for conversation. Rafe’s pictures and mementos complimented the ambience. And then there was Olivia’s pièce de résistance—a communications corner, complete with computers and a Web site for customers to send e-mails to the troops. “You really are brilliant.”

  Olivia’s smile was more than smug. “Si. I am.”

  Rafe walked around the shop, finally stopping in front of a photo of him and his team, just before they’d headed out on their last mission together. He pressed his palm to the cool glass covering the picture. “Thanks, guys. I owe this to you.”

  It felt good, being surrounded by his buddies like this. It felt right. All he needed now was for customers to agree.

  Happily, they’d done so.

  “Earth to Rafa. Time to stop daydreaming and get to work, ’manito.”

  Pulled from his thoughts, Rafe touched a finger to his sister’s smooth cheek. “Thanks, Livita.”

  She pursed her lips. “For what?”

  “Everything. I couldn’t have made it these last few years without you. Your encouragement and support …” Emotion clogged his throat and he looked down.

  “And my pastries, eh? Don’t forget my deliciosa pastries.”

  Her teasing words eased the tightness in his throat, but before he could thank her, the bell above the door jangled.

  Rafe turned, ready to serve the customer, and found instead a friend. “Fredrik.” He moved forward, hand extended. “Have you finally decided to take up the fine art of coffee drinking?”

  “I should be so crazy? And if I were”—his hand swept toward the menu board behind the counter—“I should spend so much on hot water?”

  The old man’s insults were belied by the twinkle in those blue eyes. Rafe took the proffered hand in his own. “Ah, but what wondrous flavor lies in that water.”

  The old man’s white brows waggled. “Narishkeit.”

  “No, Fredrik. What’s foolishness is that you come to a place with such delectable treats and don’t partake.” Now it was Rafe’s turn to waggle his brows. “I thought Jews didn’t do self-denial.”

  “There’s more here to enjoy than your flavored water, my boy.” He lowered himself into one of the overstuffed chairs. “The company of friends …” A cloud passed over his features, and all merriment melted away. “And sound counsel from a man of God.”

  Rafe could count on one hand the number of times the old man had been troubled in all the years he’d known him. It didn’t sit well to see disquiet on a face so accustomed to joviality. He turned to signal Olivia, letting her know he was taking a break, and then took the chair next to Fredrik. “What troubles you so today?”

  Sorrow was an ache in his friend’s aged eyes. “Our contractor quit.”

  Rafe leaned back. “But … I thought this one just got started.”

  “So he did. But the obstacles, they were too many. A number of his men were injured. Accidents that no one can explain.” The stooped shoulders lifted in an eloquent shrug. “We’ve tried and tried, but everything seems against us doing what God has called us to.”

  Rafe debated voicing his question but decided it was better to ask now than wish he’d done so. “You’re still sure it’s His call? Renovating the church into a youth center?”

  Fredrik stared down at his hands, lips pursed. Then his head moved in a slow, weary nod. “You know the people who live in this neighborhood, Rafael.” His gaze met Rafe’s. “And you know the opposition.”

  Rafe’s lips compressed. Yes, he knew them. When he left the military he’d thought his days as a warrior were over. Then God brought him to Fredrik’s little church. Rafe thought it was to join the congregation. But he soon discovered that wasn’t his only purpose.

  “The 22s?”

  Fredrik’s forehead creased. “The who?”

  “I’m
sorry. The Blood Brotherhood.”

  “Oh yes, of course. They do call themselves the 22s, don’t they? I’ve never quite understood why.”

  Rafe shrugged. “Simple. B is the second letter in the alphabet. BB for Blood Brotherhood becomes 22. So …”

  “The 22s. See? That makes perfect sense.” Fredrik steepled his fingers. “So, are the 22s involved? That I don’t know for certain. I didn’t think so, but others? Well, they’re convinced the gang is working with Ballat to stop us.”

  “How so?” Rafe braced himself for the answer, disappointment gnawing deep in his gut. When God called him to involvement with the gang, he’d argued long and hard. He just wanted to run his coffee place and be at peace. But God didn’t turn loose. He kept putting members from the 22s in his path. First a young kid he caught stealing from the construction site. Then two thugs who tried to intimidate him as he left the church one morning. Rafe smiled at the memory. They’d found themselves on their backs, staring up at the sky.

  And, of course, Tarik.

  That’s when Rafe finally gave in. Accepted that he was being called to build some bridges, to help the 22s understand the church wasn’t a threat. He’d worked so hard with these kids, been so sure they were going to leave the church alone. “What makes the elders think the 22s are involved?”

  “The elders at the church believe the gang is being used. Hired thugs. But have I actually seen them do anything? No.”

  “Well, if not the Brotherhood …”

  Fredrik tapped his two index fingers together. “Ballat.”

  Of course. No one else had more motivation for stopping the renovation. “What can I do to help?”

  “Pray.” Fredrik let his hands fall into his lap. “And suggest a good contractor. One who won’t be frightened away by opposition.” He heaved himself out of the chair, laying a hand on Rafe’s shoulder as he passed by. “But mostly, pray. That’s what will see us through this.”

  “You got it.”

  “Thank you.” Fredrik blessed him with a fond smile, then made his way to the door. “Now, it’s home for me. I need to spend time with the Father. I may not know what the next step is, but He does. I just have to listen so He can share that knowledge with me.”