Chapter Thirty-Seven: East Harbor

East Harbor reminded him a bit of his old neighborhood in Los Angeles. A little rundown, a little loud. Colorful. Alive in the way places trying to survive often were. The kind of place that smelled like car exhaust, fried dough, and possibility.

Vendors lined the sidewalks with folding tables and crates, homemade candles, knockoff cologne, and bootleg DVDs. A man was shouting about car alarms while two kids darted between cars mid-stickball game. A cluster of teens sat outside a bodega with speakers blaring early-2000s reggaeton.

There were more slice shops than taquerias. That hurt. He missed good tacos. New York had shit tacos. He’d said it before, and he’d keep saying it.

But the signs of gentrification were creeping in like rot under glossy paint. A juice bar with reclaimed wood furniture. A yoga studio with a rainbow-painted façade and corporate hashtags scrawled under a peace sign mural. A pet spa. And prices on corner store chalkboards that were more for show than sale.

He didn’t think gentrification was all bad. Sometimes you needed a Starbucks. A place with air conditioning and Wi-Fi and bathrooms that weren’t locked with a key the cashier tied to a hubcap. But even he knew what followed: the tenants disappeared. The bodegas turned to boutiques. And the heart of the place, the noise, the grit, the people who built it, got priced out.

And that was the way of all neighborhoods wasn’t it?

The church was near the end of the block. Anglican. Not Catholic, which surprised him. The neighborhood read more Afro-Caribbean and Latino, and he’d expected saints and candle altars and Spanish hymns. But there it was: modest, old, faded brick with white trim and a squat steeple like a placeholder for something grander that never came.

The paint was peeling. The steps were cracked. But the stained glass still caught the light.

Daniel stood at the edge of the sidewalk for a second, reading the plaque.

ST. THOMAS ANGLICAN – EST. 1972

EVERYONE WELCOME

He pushed the gate open. It creaked like it hadn’t been oiled in years.

Inside the courtyard were volunteers handing out food: brown paper bags stuffed with groceries, staples, canned goods, maybe diapers if you got lucky. It was loud, organized chaos. Kids yelling. Mothers shouting over one another. English and Spanish overlapping like brush strokes.

“¡A la izquierda, señora! No, la izquierda—left!” someone called. Another volunteer laughed.

A girl, maybe twenty-one at most, spotted him from the shade of a pop-up tent. She wore an oversized City College hoodie, hoops, and had her hair tied up in a pineapple bun. She cocked her head and gave him a once-over, charcoal suit, leather briefcase, too clean shoes.

“Hey!” she called out. “Line’s over there, papi.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the familiarity. “I’m not here for groceries.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” she said with a scoff. She was young and pretty, her accent in Spanish had given her away as Caribbean. “You’re either with housing, or you’re the lawyer. Depending on your answer, I either give you an empanada or throw you into traffic.”

Daniel raised his hands in mock surrender. “Lawyer.”

She gave a slow, theatrical nod. “Mm-hmm. Thought so. You’re too pretty to be with housing.”

He cracked a smile. “You always threaten public servants?”

“Only when they wear suits in East Harbor,” she said, grinning as she sized him up. “Y’all walk around looking like you charge rent just by existing.”

She turned and whistled toward the church doors, sharp and loud. “Rev! Your shiny lawyer’s here!”

From inside came a gentle voice, touched with an English accent, dry and amused. “Rosa, are you scaring the guests again?”

Daniel turned to see someone step out from the church.

She was younger than he’d expected, mid-thirties, maybe. Pale skin, short blonde hair tucked under a soft linen hat, and kind blue eyes, that seemed almost painted on. Freckles were dusted across her nose and cheeks like an afterthought. Her clerical collar peeked from beneath a neatly pressed black button-down, and she wore grey slack. Clean, practical. Modern.

The Reverend approached with an easy grace, extending her hand. “Georgia Thompson. I’m the vicar around here.”

Daniel shook it. “Daniel Reyes. Thanks for seeing me.”

“Don’t mind Rosa,” Georgia said with a small smile. “She believes sarcasm is a spiritual gift.”

“It’s gotten me this far,” Rosa quipped, already kneeling back beside the rosebush. She didn’t look up as she tossed a cold bottle of water toward him. “Here, lawyer. You look thirsty. You men always show up overdressed.”

Daniel caught the bottle, slightly off balance. “Thanks.”

Georgia turned back toward the church steps, waving him along. “Come on. We can talk in my office.”

“Try not to convert him, rev. We need someone to sue the city, not find Jesus.”

“No promises,” Georgia replied over her shoulder, her tone bright. “He looks like he could use both.”

“More than you know lady.”

He’d be saying Hail Marys for years after his night with Vivian and Elena.