Chapter 6

The kitchen was the warmest room in the house.

Not just in temperature, though it was that too. It was warm in the other sense, the nurturing sense. Quinn felt it the moment he came through the door and saw a warm welcoming smile from the woman who was stirring a big pot at the stove.

She was small and broad-shouldered, with dark hair shot through with gray pulled back under a white kerchief. She had turned when she heard him come in, and her face opened into a welcoming smile.

She said something in rapid Spanish and gestured at the stool pulled up to the kitchen counter, and he sat.

The soup arrived in front of him two minutes later. Tortilla soup, deep and rust-colored, with strips of fried tortilla laid across the top and a crumble of white cheese and a small dish of sliced avocado on the side that she indicated he should add himself, which he did. There was a sandwich beside it—brown bread with chicken and something green in it that he identified after the first bite as roasted poblano.

He ate.

Quinn was not a boy who showed much emotion. But the soup was unbelievable. It was the best thing he had eaten—ever. The broth had such a depth of richness and flavor that he closed his eyes in reverence. He ate with a focus that required no performance because it was utterly genuine.

He finished. He sat for a moment sadly looking at the empty bowl.

Then he got up, picked up the bowl, the spoon, and the plate, and carried them to the dishwasher. He found where the dishes went by looking at what was already loaded and placed them accordingly, then straightened up.

The woman was watching him from the stove with an expression of mild, pleased appraisal.

Quinn said, “Gracias, abuela, por la deliciosa sopa.”

The laugh that came out of her was full and genuine and filled the kitchen completely, the laugh of a woman who finds something funny all the way down. She crossed the kitchen in three steps, put her arms around him, and gave him a fierce hug. He stood for a moment basking in the hug with his arms at his sides, then he put them around her and patted her back softly, awkwardly.

“You are welcome, kid.” Pure American, pure Bronx, the accent landing like a friendly contradiction after the Spanish. She looked mischievous at his shock hearing English. “My name is Maria.”

“Quinn,” he said.

“Welcome to this house.” She patted his shoulder twice, firmly, and went back to her stove. She stirred the pot, and something in the set of her shoulders was thoughtful. She added, mostly to the pot, “I don’t know what Himself is planning, but you’re a welcome addition.”

Quinn filed Himself as a name for the Colonel that told him something about Maria’s relationship with the man, affectionate and irreverent in equal measure.

Sullivan’s voice came from the next room.

“Come on, kid. Time to get you registered for school.”

Quinn looked once at Maria, who waved at him with her stirring spoon without turning around, and followed Sullivan out.

Sullivan drove with careful attention. Hands at three and nine, his eyes constantly moving. City traffic moved past his window: school buses, delivery trucks, and people on sidewalks with their particular weekday purposes.