Free Restored (The Walsh Series Book 5) by Kate Canterbary Page B

City plans, and you should both be ashamed—"
    "I'm going to stop you again," I interrupted. "Your interpretation is wholly inaccurate."
    My hand found Tiel's under the table, and I laced our fingers together.
    "Are you a churchgoer, Sam? Which parish do you belong to in Boston?" she asked. "You don't look Greek Orthodox to me."
    "My mother attended services at Mary Immaculate of Lourdes before she passed away. She preferred the Traditional Latin Mass and I've made financial contributions to ensure that mass continues," I said. "She's interred there now and I visit her grave regularly, but I'm not an active member."
    Mrs. Desai sniffed. "You won't find a well-regarded priest to marry you in his church if you're not a member of the parish. And not with this living arrangement. I wouldn't want that in my church."
    "It's good that we've cleared this up," Tiel started. "But we aren't planning a church wedding."
    Whether this was new information to me was irrelevant; I'd marry this girl on a rollercoaster at Disney World if that was what she wanted.
    "If you're not married in a church, you're not married in the eyes of God, and you're not married in my eyes," her mother said. "I know you like everything different and non-traditional, with your pink diamonds and piercings all over your ears and all this silly music, but I can't stand by while you have another make-believe marriage."
    Mrs. Desai held up her hands and shook her head, and there was no stopping the growl in my throat.
    "I can't do it," she continued. "You're inconsiderate, and you're causing your father and I tremendous pain. All we've ever done is sacrifice, and it's never good enough for you. You're giving me angina, you know. I don't know why you do this to me, Tiel. It's selfish. You have to stop thinking of yourself all the time. You're a child playing house with a man who doesn't have the decency to ask your father's blessing, and that tells me everything I need to know about the two of you."
    There were babies cooing and crying, interchangeable cousins whispering, and utensils scraping against crockery, but the only sound I could hear was my pulse roaring in my ears.
    I squeezed Tiel's hand before I stood, and pulled out her chair.
    "Thank you for having us," I said, "but we'll be leaving now."
    "I'm going to pray for you both," Mrs. Desai said. "But honestly, I don't think it's going to help. You're impossible, Tiel."
    "I'm sorry you feel that way," Tiel said, looking between her parents. Her teeth sank into her lower lip, and she stared at the table for a moment before she stood. "We won't trouble you with an invitation to the wedding."

5
    Sam
    N ovember

    T he pseudo -global-gourmet chain restaurant near our hotel in Cherry Hill was the only place open, and that alone made it the best port in this storm. It was surprisingly busy for a holiday dedicated to home cooking, and there was something profoundly sad about the assortment of lonely people seated at the bar. Mostly men, mostly middle-aged, all focused on the banks of televisions streaming college football games. They didn't notice me and Tiel, probably because we looked as lost and empty as they did.
    There was a dry martini with extra olives lined up for Tiel, and I was staring into a gin and tonic. We hadn't said much since leaving her parents' suburban home, and we hadn't stopped touching each other. In the car, my hand was anchored on her thigh, a narrow attempt at keeping her grounded in the reality of us and away from the chaos of her family. We shared a long embrace while we waited for seats at the bar. My arm was tight around her shoulders now, and I had half a mind to haul her into my lap and promise it all away.
    But there was no panacea. Nothing could wipe away the foul film of a parent's loathing, no matter how much liquor you threw at it.
    I'd tried and quite roundly failed many times.
    "That was probably more than you bargained for," Tiel said, her eyes still trained on her glass. She