Page 37 of Curious Hearts (The Healing Hearts #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY

Ali drove slowly past the Victorian house for the third time that afternoon, searching for any sign of Jessica’s car.

The driveway remained empty, the windows dark despite the early summer evening.

She pulled to the curb, debating whether to use the key Jessica had given her, the weight of it heavy in her pocket.

Three unanswered texts and two calls that went straight to voicemail.

Something was wrong—more than just Jessica being “busy with work.” The distance between them had been growing all week, and Ali couldn’t shake the feeling that Jessica was pulling away, retreating behind the carefully constructed walls that had been gradually coming down over the past months.

Earlier, she’d even called Hamilton Trust, only to be informed by Zachary that Jessica was “working remotely today.” The polite evasion in his tone told Ali that something more was happening than just a change of workspace.

“Where are you?” Ali murmured, staring at the silent house. She knew the cats were well-cared for—Jessica was nothing if not responsible. This wasn’t about concern for the animals; it was about the growing chasm between them that Jessica seemed determined to widen.

She reached for her phone, sending one more text: I’m outside your house. I’d really like to talk. Please call me when you can.

No response.

Ali’s finger hovered over the key in her ignition, torn between the impulse to wait for Jessica’s return and the growing certainty that whatever was happening, Jessica wasn’t ready to face her.

Letting herself in when things felt so precarious between them seemed like crossing a boundary, especially when Jessica clearly wanted distance.

She pulled away from the curb, a new destination forming in her mind.

Her tires hummed on the sun-warmed asphalt as she navigated the familiar streets, turning onto Milwaukee Street where Yaya’s Spanish colonial home sat on its corner lot, recognizable by its red clay roof and cheerful green shutters.

Ali had spent countless dinners in that house, had sought refuge within its walls when her own life had been at its lowest. If anyone could help her make sense of the confusion and hurt swirling inside her, it was Yaya.

Before Ali could even knock, the door swung open—the same heavy wooden door with the lock that always stuck—revealing Berenice “Yaya” Vargas with her uncanny sixth sense for visitors.

“I was just making lemonade,” the elderly woman said, as if Ali’s appearance on her doorstep in the early evening was perfectly expected. “Come, come.”

Ali followed her into the warm kitchen with its high wooden table that had hosted generations of family discussions.

The walls around them held decades of memories—photographs of Yaya’s seven children, twenty-six grandchildren, and numerous great-grandchildren, along with pencil marks tracking their growth over the years.

The familiar scent of citrus and sugar wrapped around her like an embrace as Yaya gestured for her to sit.

“Something is wrong,” Yaya stated, placing a sweating glass before Ali. Not a question, but a simple observation. She had always been able to read Ali with unsettling accuracy.

“It’s Jessica,” Ali admitted, wrapping her fingers around the cool glass. “Something’s happening, and she won’t tell me what it is. She’s pulling away, canceling plans, barely responding to messages.”

Yaya settled into the chair across from her, her brightly colored blouse—tangerine today—a stark contrast to her serious expression. “And you think she is tiring of you?”

The direct question made Ali flinch. “Maybe. I don’t know. There’s been this weird distance all week. It’s like one day we were building something real together, and the next... it’s like she’s halfway gone already.”

“Hmm.” Yaya took a slow sip of her lemonade. “When did this change begin? What happened before?”

Ali thought back, trying to pinpoint when Jessica’s behavior had shifted.

“It started last week. I stopped by her house to surprise her, and she was on the phone with Vikram—remember, the family friend from dinner? She got all flustered when she realized I was there, ended the call quickly, and has been distant ever since.”

“And what did you hear?” Yaya asked, her eyes sharp with interest.

“Not much. Just her thanking him for listening and saying she didn’t know what she was going to do.” Ali shook her head. “But it was the way she looked when she saw me—like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. And now she’s avoiding me, canceling plans, barely responding to my texts.”

“And you have not asked her directly what troubles her?”

Ali stared into her lemonade. “I’ve tried. She says it’s just work stress. But I know her well enough now to see when something bigger is going on.”

“So instead of demanding truth, you wait. You watch her pull away, and you say nothing?” Yaya’s tone was gentle but held a note of challenge. “This is not the Ali I know.”

“I’m afraid,” Ali admitted, the words catching in her throat. “Afraid of pushing her too hard. Afraid of hearing whatever she’s not ready to tell me.”

“Because you think it will hurt.”

“Because I know it will hurt.” Ali looked up, finally giving voice to the fear she’d been carrying all week. “I’m falling in love with her, Yaya. Maybe I already have. And I’m terrified she doesn’t feel the same way.”

Yaya’s weathered hand reached across the table to cover Ali’s. “Love is always terrifying, mi hija. This is how you know it’s real. The things that matter most are the things that scare us most.”

“What if she’s decided I’m not worth the complication? Her parents don’t approve of me. Her mother made that clear at dinner. What if Jessica has realized they’re right? That I don’t fit into her world?”

“Whose world?” Yaya’s question was simple but pointed. “The world of her parents? Or the world she is building for herself?”

Ali had no answer for that.

“Let me tell you something about love,” Yaya continued, settling back in her chair.

“When I met my Fernando, my father was a commander in the National Guard, while Fernando fought with the liberation front. Everyone said we were impossible—like Romeo and Juliet. My friends said he was too serious, too quiet for someone like me who loved dancing and laughter. Everyone had opinions about why we wouldn’t suit. ”

“What did you do?” Ali asked, though she knew the ending of this story.

“I listened to my heart,” Yaya said simply.

“Not because hearts are always wise—sometimes they are very foolish—but because at the end of life, the regrets that cut deepest are not the risks we took that failed, but the chances we were too afraid to take at all.” She paused, her eyes taking on a distant look.

“We left everything behind—our families, our home. But we built something new together. Something worth the sacrifice.”

Condensation beaded on Ali’s glass as she absorbed Yaya’s words. “But it’s more complicated than that. Jessica has her career, her family expectations, this whole life plan she had before I came along with seven cats and a charity foundation.”

“Yes,” Yaya agreed. “And these are her choices to make. Not yours. Your only choice is whether to stand in truth or hide in fear.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Yaya said, leaning forward, “that love requires courage, mi hija. Not just to feel, but to speak. To ask the difficult questions. To hear answers we may not want to hear.”

Ali traced the rim of her glass, considering. “And if she’s pulling away because she’s realized this isn’t what she wants?”

“Then at least you will know,” Yaya said gently. “The not knowing is what eats at the soul. Certainty, even painful certainty, can be faced.”

“I’m afraid of losing her,” Ali confessed.

“These past months with Jessica... it’s been like watching someone thaw, seeing these glimpses of who she really is beneath all that professional armor.

And the person underneath is... extraordinary, Yaya.

Compassionate, funny, so much softer than she lets anyone see.

The way she is with the cats when she thinks no one’s watching.

..” She smiled despite herself at the memory.

“And you worry this Jessica, the real one, will choose something else over you.”

Ali nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in her throat.

“Listen to me,” Yaya said, her voice taking on the quiet authority that had guided generations of her family.

“Whatever happens with Jessica—whether she stays or goes, whether this love grows or ends—you remain Ali. The same Ali who rebuilt her life from broken pieces. The same Ali who creates healing for animals and people who have lost hope. This has not changed.”

“It feels like it would,” Ali whispered. “If she leaves.”

“For a time, perhaps,” Yaya acknowledged. “The heart, it heals slowly. But you have survived loss before, Ali. You found your way back to yourself after Amy left, after your career fell apart. You are stronger than you believe.”

Ali swiped at unexpected tears. “I thought I was done being heartbroken.”

“No one is ever done with heartbreak,” Yaya said with unexpected gentleness. “This is the price of loving fully—the risk of losing what we cherish most. But without this risk, what is life? Just safety without joy. Security without passion. This is not living, only existing.”

The kitchen was filled with golden early evening light, the sun still high in the June sky. Yaya rose to refill their glasses, then returned to the table with a plate of sweet cajetas de coco that Ali knew were made from a recipe older than she was.

“My grandmother told me something when I was young and afraid of making mistakes,” Yaya continued, offering the plate to Ali. “She said, ‘Love is not about finding someone perfect. It is about seeing perfectly the beauty in someone imperfect.’”

Ali took a sweet coconut treat, the flavor comforting in its familiarity. “Jessica is pretty close to perfect,” she said with a small smile.

“No,” Yaya corrected gently. “She is perfectly herself. With all her fears and courage, her strengths and struggles. Just as you are perfectly yourself, Ali. This is the miracle of love—not that we find someone flawless, but that we find someone whose particular way of being imperfect fits with our own.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the wisdom of Yaya’s words settling around them like the lingering warmth of the summer day.

“I am not telling you what to do,” Yaya said finally.

“Each heart must find its own path. But I will say this: truth spoken with love is never wrong, even when the timing feels uncertain. If Jessica is struggling with something she cannot share, perhaps it is because she fears losing you as much as you fear losing her.”

Ali considered this possibility, that Jessica’s withdrawal might be born not of indifference but of the same fear she herself was feeling.

“So what do I do?” she asked, though something was already shifting inside her, courage rising to meet uncertainty.

“You go to her,” Yaya said simply. “You look in her eyes, and you ask for truth. Not accusations, not demands, just honest questions that deserve honest answers. And then, whatever comes, you face it together or apart, but with the dignity of authenticity.”

The clock on Yaya’s wall ticked steadily in the quiet kitchen. Outside, children’s laughter drifted from a neighboring yard, life continuing its rhythms despite the turmoil of human hearts.

“What if she won’t talk to me?” Ali asked. “She hasn’t answered any of my messages today.”

“Then you wait until she is ready,” Yaya replied.

“But not in silence, not in fear. You let her know that you are there, that you see her struggle, that you are willing to hear whatever truth she needs to speak. Sometimes the person we love needs permission to be honest, especially when that honesty might cause pain.”

Ali nodded slowly, something resolving inside her. “You’re right. Whatever is happening with Jessica, I can’t help if I don’t know the truth. And I can’t expect her to be open with me if I’m not willing to be vulnerable myself.”

Yaya smiled, patting Ali’s hand with approval. “This is wisdom, mi hija. The kind that comes not from books but from a brave heart.”

As Ali prepared to leave an hour later, Yaya walked her to the door, wrapping her in a fierce hug that belied her small stature.

“Remember,” she said, holding Ali by the shoulders. “No matter what happens with Jessica, you are loved. By me, by Fenna and Kristi, by those twins who light up when you enter a room. By your animals who know the goodness in your heart. This love does not depend on whether one woman stays or goes.”

“Thank you, Yaya,” Ali said, feeling steadier than she had in days. “I needed to hear that.”

“Now go,” Yaya said, gently pushing her toward the door. “Find your Jessica. Ask your questions. Speak your truth. And whatever comes after, face it with the courage I know lives in you.”

As Ali drove away from the Spanish colonial house, her headlights unnecessary in the long summer evening, she felt a clarity that had been missing all week.

Whatever was happening with Jessica, whatever she was hiding or struggling with, Ali wouldn’t discover it by waiting in silence or accepting vague excuses.

Love required courage—not just to feel, but to speak. To ask. To listen. Even when the answers might break your heart.

She had rebuilt herself once before. She could do it again if necessary. But first, she needed truth.

Her phone remained silent as she drove, determination growing with each mile.

It was time to find Jessica and finally understand what was pulling her away—whether it was family pressure, work stress, or something else entirely.

Whatever secret she’d shared with Vikram but couldn’t tell Ali, it was time to bring it into the light.