Rigo was silent. She looked his way to find his gaze still tender as it rested on her. The sweetness of having Alejo back, and the new understanding between her and Rigo was so intense it almost hurt. She shook that thought away. Now wasn’t the time.
She glanced at Rigo’s plate, where he was halfway through a bacon and onion omelet, with sausage on the side. But nothing else. “Rigo. Try these waffles. Fluffy as clouds, with real maple syrup, not that horrible fake stuff.”
Rigo smiled but gave his head a shake, and Alejo said, “Dad never eats sweet stuff in the morning—ever. I regard that as highly suspicious, except it leaves more for me.”
“Hear hear,” Godiva said, though it felt weird to not know that about Rigo. But when they’d spent nights together in the old days, she’d served whatever leftovers from the diner she could forage after her shift. And he’d eaten whatever she’d put in front of him—but come to think of it, that had never included dessert.
Well, more to learn about each other. “Listen. Something was bothering me last night, but I was too tired to figure it out.”
It was her turn to glance around, and lower her voice. “There was another person in the post office last night, sorting through her mail. I couldn’t figure out why that bothered me until this morning: no junk mail.”
“Junk mail?” Rigo repeated.
Alejo grinned. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
Godiva sighed. “Have either of you ever had a post office box? I mean, besides this one.”
Both father and son gave their heads a shake, such similar gestures that Godiva’s heart turned over again.
She drew in a deep breath. “Well, I have. I’ve had a bunch of them, what with all my moving around. Had one in Playa del Encanto until I got my house. No matter where I went, I always got junk mail.”
Alejo said, “But you haven’t given out this address to anyone except me, so no vendor or shop or whatever has had a chance to sell your address to the junk mail dealers.”
“True. But there are also political flyers and other trash that everybody gets stuck with—it goes into every box. The post office knows that. They’re paid to stuff them in, but they put out those trash cans, knowing that most of it goes straight into recycling. My box was totally empty, as if it had been checked that day. Or yesterday at most.”
Alejo shook his head. “Lance checks it when he comes down to visit his parents, but that’s half a dozen times a year or so.”
“When was the most recent?”
“I can check with him, but I don’t think it was in the past couple days. Or even the past week. Come to think of it, you’re right. That is odd,” Alejo said, in his own version of his father’s mild voice.
Godiva suspected that the mystery of the empty box no longer mattered to Rigo, and maybe Alejo felt the same, now that they had found each other. Maybe she should let it go. But all those years of silence pressed on her, and she had to have an answer.
“Look, guys,” she said. “This is a lovely place here, and I wouldn’t mind staying. I even have my laptop so I could work, and write it all off as a business expense. But I have to know what’s going on. Call it the mystery writer habit. I want to check that box until my test letter, at least, turns up. And if it doesn’t, have a talk with those postal people. Maybe even file an official complaint.”
Rigo stretched out his hand over hers, but then pulled it back again before touching her. She was surprised at the small spurt of disappointment she felt, before he said, “If it matters to you, it matters to me. I’ll stay with you.” He grinned. “Besides, where would I go? I’m your ride.”
“Well, I could get myself back home,” she retorted, but then she admitted, “though this was the best road trip ever.”
His smile widened, reflecting in his eyes, those long-lashed eyes she had once believed were so honest and true . . . and was coming around to believing again.
“Let’s do it right,” Alejo said. “I vote we keep the place under constant surveillance, rather than hop in and out. Say, three days, then we can regroup and decide if it’s worth staying longer. If there’s anything from the outside going on, we should catch it then. And if there isn’t, we’ll back you up on your complaint.”
“Done,” Godiva said, and this time she reached for both their hands. “Thanks.”
Alejo gave her fingers a quick squeeze, then loosened his hand as he leaned forward, leaving her holding Rigo’s hand. She tried not to concentrate on how it made her feel, her hand engulfed in his once again, but she was barely aware of Alejo saying, “I’ll take the night shift. I was up all night traveling, and I want to sleep now. Why don’t we take advantage of that?”
Godiva turned to Rigo. “Then let’s get started. It’s almost eight. The post office isn’t open yet, but they might be sorting and passing letters into the boxes.”
“All right,” he said.
They got up to go, but were stopped when they passed the B&B’s pretty reception area, which was done up in black and white and mirrors, looking like a set on a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers film.
The proprietor came out, a woman who looked close to Godiva’s own age. She smiled as she said, “Are you the people who belong to that fancy thirties car out front?”
“Yes,” Rigo said. “Have I broken a parking law? I can move it. In fact, we were about to leave.”
“No, no,” the woman said, waving her hands. “Just the opposite! It’s gorgeous, and it looks like it belongs here. If you can see your way clear to leaving it right there, I’ll comp you an extra night. I’ve had a dozen phone calls since morning, and my daughter texted me a few minutes ago that pictures of your car and our place are going viral all over the Twitterverse. In fact, I just got done with a booking. I don’t know if it’s related, but one thing for sure, your car is the best publicity I’ve had, including that expensive ad on Facebook. Better!”