several oncoming vehicles in the two-lane highway to go by, and pulled out to pass the truck. He eased the car back into their lane and finally spoke, his voice whispery. “No, it’s not me. I’d probably want to crawl into a hole and not talk to anyone.”
“Like Eliot.”
“Yep.”
“And if you were married, what would you want from your wife?”
They sped another distance down the highway before he replied. “I’d want her to stay right beside me.” Again he put words to Eliot’s attitude.
“But why?”
“Because she would be my only link with sanity.” He rasped as if the words strangled him.
His rare display of emotion dismayed her. She protested. “But you said he’d be all right.”
“He will be. He just won’t have an easy time of it.”
“No way. You can’t lay that responsibility on me, that I’m his only link with sanity.”
“I’m not. It just is.”
She sank back against the seat and looked again out the side window. Men. She should have been a nun.
For a time she had pondered the option. It was her mother’s influence, of course. Ysabel’s impassioned voice had echoed after her death, a rhythmic throb in Sheridan’s teenage heart. “Jesús is calling . ” Ba-boom. “Jesús is calling . ” Ba-boom.
But there was another theme that Ysabel had instilled into the life of her youngest. Time and again, through her actions and words, she reminded Sheridan, Remember to help the helpless women who live in poverty. Give them tools; give them hope.
Ysabel had never shared details from her own experiences growing up in poverty in Venezuela, scraping by as a young adult by working in a café in Caracas because there was no other option. In what was left unsaid, though, Sheridan understood that for her mother, being poor and without education led to unspeakable horrors. It was a common story repeated in every language, in every nation.
Sheridan went to college in Chicago and lost herself in the field of social work and volunteerism. The voice of Jesús and the convent idea faded, replaced by the flesh-and-blood reality of helping others.
It was easy to follow in her mother’s footsteps of social activism. Ysabel had loved the Hull House museum and its association’s outreach programs. Founded in the late 1800s as a settlement to serve the needs of immigrants in Chicago, it remained a viable force in the city. As a child, Sheridan accompanied her mother, a model volunteer. As a college student, Sheridan plugged into the House located on the campus where she earned degrees. As a graduate, she taught at the university and created job-training skills programs for women.
She’d taken on her mother’s dream and made it her own.
Then she met Eliot Logan Montgomery III, and suddenly she wanted more. She wanted a partner in every sense of the word.
Eliot was nothing like the men her own age, those self-absorbed, narcissistic thirty-year-old dullards. In two minutes flat, he had tuned into her heartbeat, connecting with her passion to make a difference in the world because it was his own. On their second dinner date, he offered her all of Latin America in which to live out her dream.
Not to mention . . . She smiled to herself and murmured, “He did look good in a tux.”
“Hm?” Luke said.
“Nothing.”
He glanced at her, brows rising above his sunglasses.
She really needed to lose the verbal self-talk. “I was reminiscing about how I got here. It was like I was Fed Ex’d overnight from single in Chicago to married in Latin America.”
“If I remember correctly, you met Eliot in Chicago and married not too long after. Right?”
“Yes. We met at a fund-raiser. He was in town on business; a friend told him about the event. Eliot was all about giving to worthy causes, so he came.”
“Love at first sight, then?”
“Not exactly. Maybe love at about third sight. First sight was more of a gelling. I was a serious thirty-year-old, teaching and trying to save the city
“Like Eliot.”
“Yep.”
“And if you were married, what would you want from your wife?”
They sped another distance down the highway before he replied. “I’d want her to stay right beside me.” Again he put words to Eliot’s attitude.
“But why?”
“Because she would be my only link with sanity.” He rasped as if the words strangled him.
His rare display of emotion dismayed her. She protested. “But you said he’d be all right.”
“He will be. He just won’t have an easy time of it.”
“No way. You can’t lay that responsibility on me, that I’m his only link with sanity.”
“I’m not. It just is.”
She sank back against the seat and looked again out the side window. Men. She should have been a nun.
For a time she had pondered the option. It was her mother’s influence, of course. Ysabel’s impassioned voice had echoed after her death, a rhythmic throb in Sheridan’s teenage heart. “Jesús is calling . ” Ba-boom. “Jesús is calling . ” Ba-boom.
But there was another theme that Ysabel had instilled into the life of her youngest. Time and again, through her actions and words, she reminded Sheridan, Remember to help the helpless women who live in poverty. Give them tools; give them hope.
Ysabel had never shared details from her own experiences growing up in poverty in Venezuela, scraping by as a young adult by working in a café in Caracas because there was no other option. In what was left unsaid, though, Sheridan understood that for her mother, being poor and without education led to unspeakable horrors. It was a common story repeated in every language, in every nation.
Sheridan went to college in Chicago and lost herself in the field of social work and volunteerism. The voice of Jesús and the convent idea faded, replaced by the flesh-and-blood reality of helping others.
It was easy to follow in her mother’s footsteps of social activism. Ysabel had loved the Hull House museum and its association’s outreach programs. Founded in the late 1800s as a settlement to serve the needs of immigrants in Chicago, it remained a viable force in the city. As a child, Sheridan accompanied her mother, a model volunteer. As a college student, Sheridan plugged into the House located on the campus where she earned degrees. As a graduate, she taught at the university and created job-training skills programs for women.
She’d taken on her mother’s dream and made it her own.
Then she met Eliot Logan Montgomery III, and suddenly she wanted more. She wanted a partner in every sense of the word.
Eliot was nothing like the men her own age, those self-absorbed, narcissistic thirty-year-old dullards. In two minutes flat, he had tuned into her heartbeat, connecting with her passion to make a difference in the world because it was his own. On their second dinner date, he offered her all of Latin America in which to live out her dream.
Not to mention . . . She smiled to herself and murmured, “He did look good in a tux.”
“Hm?” Luke said.
“Nothing.”
He glanced at her, brows rising above his sunglasses.
She really needed to lose the verbal self-talk. “I was reminiscing about how I got here. It was like I was Fed Ex’d overnight from single in Chicago to married in Latin America.”
“If I remember correctly, you met Eliot in Chicago and married not too long after. Right?”
“Yes. We met at a fund-raiser. He was in town on business; a friend told him about the event. Eliot was all about giving to worthy causes, so he came.”
“Love at first sight, then?”
“Not exactly. Maybe love at about third sight. First sight was more of a gelling. I was a serious thirty-year-old, teaching and trying to save the city
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