by Earl Sewell
“Oh, I don’t know.... Your family might not appreciate—”
“My family will haunt me to the grave if they catch wind I left you in the clutches of Aunt Regina and her Ricola drops.”
She yanked the pencil free, her hair tumbling in messy waves that partially obscured her face. Instantly recognizable as Phase One of her usual M.O. Phase Two went into effect almost immediately as she twisted a long lock around one finger, her lips pressed together, clearly still deliberating.
Oh, for God’s sake.
“Come on, Peyton. You can’t leave me alone to deal with the craziness. Not to mention, leave me subjected to sure hauntings.”
A half giggle, half snort escaped her. “So you’re saying I’d be providing a service?”
“Invaluable.”
It was hard for her, I knew. Peyton Chaffee was one proud girl, and the last thing she’d stand for was being considered anyone’s pity case. At the same time, though, I could see the longing to be, I don’t know, part of something. Seriously, what good did it do to be able to trace your roots back to the Founding Fathers if you had nothing to show for it? And I’m sorry, but an empty house at Christmas—even if it was a historic Beacon Hill row house filled with priceless antiques and the ghosts of long-dead relatives—qualified as nothing.
“Well, in that case, far be it from me to leave you in the lurch.”
“So we have a deal, then?”
“Deal.”
I considered her petite frame as she slouched back into her pillows. “By the way, be prepared to get fed. A lot.”
Her eyes widened. “Uh...okay,” she said slowly, an Oh-my-God-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into? expression taking over her face.
And all of a sudden, the Abreu Family New Year’s Shindig slash Potential-Breeder Inspection was looking a whole lot more interesting.
one
“Ay, ¡que linda! Pero que delgadita. ¿No te dan comida en esa esquela?”
I almost felt sorry for Peyton.
Almost.
The only thing keeping me from feeling full-out sympathy was the knowledge that my turn was sure to come.
“Of course they feed us, Abuelita. Quite a lot, actually. And FYI, Peyton’s fluent in French, not Spanish.”
“Pero ¿por que no?” The outrage came through loud and clear, regardless of language. French was perfectly acceptable, of course, but in terms of universality...
“Ah, bueno,” she went on, barely pausing for breath as she switched languages. “There is still time, m’ijita, especially if you’re already fluent in another language. We will talk more later.”
Poor, poor Peyton.
Behind Abuelita’s back I bit my knuckles, trying to stifle a giggle. But you know, I had to hand it to Peyton and that sturdy New England stock. She merely smiled, leaned in and gave Abuelita a kiss on each cheek—how very Continental of her—along with a brief hug, already having gotten the hang of things after four days’ worth of exposure to the immediate family.
Now, though, came the trial by fire: Christmas lunch with the extended family. I’d told her to think of it as New Year’s with training wheels.
“Feliz Navidad, Señora Abreu,” she murmured, her Boston accent giving a charming overtone to her Spanish. “Thanks so much for allowing me to be part of your family’s celebrations.”
“Pero mira que linda,” Abuelita repeated, this compliment meant for Peyton’s impeccable manners. She turned to me, eyebrow raised.
And away we go...
“Mi niña, ¿cómo estás?”
“Fine, Abuelita.” I leaned down and offered my cheek for her kiss. “Felicidades.”
The eyebrow rose farther as she took a step back and gave me the requisite inspection. “Black again? At Christmas?”
“I’m wearing red shoes,” I offered mildly, extending one of my feet, clad in red patent-leather flats so I didn’t tower over too much of the family.
“Claudia, por favor—”
“Abuelita, how’s it hangin’?” Eddie said as he blew through the open front door.
“Oye, Eduardo, how many times have I told you how disrespectful that is?”
I breathed a sigh of relief as Eddie smacked a noisy kiss against Abuelita’s cheek that left her frowning, even as she fought a smile.
Another reason to be glad Eddie was my escort for the New Year’s Nightmare—Abuelita’s major weakness for him meant he got away with antics the rest of us would be crucified for. Mami always said it was because Eddie, of all the boy grandchildren, was the one who bore the closest resemblance to our late grandfather in both looks and temperament. Ergo, having him as my escort meant I had the Abuelita Seal of Approval and no one, and I mean no one, in the family dared contradict that.
While Abuelita was busy scolding Eddie—to whom I sent an appreciative “thanks” wink—I herded Peyton back toward the expansive family room, its wall of glass doors thrown open to the covered, brick-paved veranda that spanned the entire back of the house. There, an enormous table comprised of several folding tables placed end to end was set for lunch, a small, festively wrapped gift at each place setting, while other tables laden with enough food to feed a couple of small, independent nations were set up buffet-style around the perimeter. Only one table remained empty, waiting for the pig—the crown jewel of any proper Cuban celebration—to be carted up from Papi’s custom-built, brick-lined pit at the back of the property, where it had been roasting since before dawn, tended to by the menfolk because that’s How Things Were.
“This is amazing,” Peyton murmured for what seemed like the thousandth time since we’d ventured downstairs this morning into the typical Christmas chaos. My mother had been scurrying around, joined throughout the morning by my aunts and sisters-in-law, then me and Peyton and, ultimately, anyone else who wandered through and paused long enough to be shanghaied into service. This was one of those days where we did everything ourselves, since my parents refused to have any employees come in on Christmas day. After all, there was really no need, since it was just family and extremely close friends, and the day my mother couldn’t handle a meal for thirty people...maybe forty, depending on whether any stragglers showed up...
Needless to say, we could handle it.
But still, the look on Peyton’s face as we’d been handed a case of yuca, a pair of knives and a giant pot had left me wishing I’d had my phone handy to take a picture. You know, though, girl had just gone with it, watching as I’d shown her how to peel the tough skin off the ugly tubers that would be transformed into some of the tastiest food known to mankind, before settling into a groove any decent Cuban cook could be proud of.
“I hope you like garlic,” I said to her as we dug cans of Diet Coke from the many aluminum tubs filled with ice and drinks placed at strategic points. We turned to survey the patio, swarming with people as more of the family arrived, the chatter growing to alarming levels as it competed with the Christmas carols and salsa music streaming from the surround-sound speakers.
Business as usual.
Judging by how wide Peyton’s eyes were getting, though, definitely not the sort of Christmas she was accustomed to.
“And hope you brought the heavy-duty mouthwash for after all the garlic,” Eddie added as one of his arms snaked past me to snag a Coke from the tub.
“Oye, descaradao, that’s beyond rude.” I smacked his arm, my goodwill toward him evaporating as I watched Peyton’s worried gaze range over the food, trying to discern what might not have garlic in it.
Yeah, good luck with that. The white rice. Maybe. Oh, and dessert.
“I swear to God, if she doesn’t eat and Mami and Abuelita and the tías notice, I’m totally outing you,” I said.
“Relax. Not like all of us ain’t gonna have nasty-assed garlic breath.” Eddie popped the tab on his so
da and took a long drink followed by a raucous belch.
“Bruto.” I reached out to smack him upside the head. With the ease of long practice, he evaded my smack with the familiar shit-eating grin that made my palms practically itch to slap him for real.
“You must be Eddie,” Peyton said.
Keeping a wary eye on me because this could be a diversion leading to a trap, Eddie spared Peyton a quick glance along with a brief “I must?”
“Yes.”
“Why’s that?”
Peyton continued studying him, kind of like he was a bug under a microscope, her hazel stare steady and dispassionate.
“Because it’s only when she’s talking to you that Claudia intersperses Spanish with English.”
My “I do?” collided with Eddie’s “She does?” making Peyton’s solemn expression devolve into a grin that actually made her look seventeen. And pretty cute, too, especially if the shift in Eddie’s expression was to be trusted. Which—when it came to girls—it could be.
Note to self—make certain Eddie does not act like a total asshat with Peyton.
“When you talk to your parents or your grandmother,” she explained, “you tend to speak fully in Spanish or fully in English. Only with Eddie do you regularly scramble the two languages.”
“Eddie has that effect on people,” came a familiar voice from behind me. “And, dude, why you gotta be such a pig? They’re not going anywhere—and it’s not like Tía Mari doesn’t have at least six more trays just like this one.”
While Eddie stood alongside a pastry tray, cheeks bulging, the owner of the voice stepped fully into view, mournfully shaking his head before meeting my gaze and smiling.
“Hey, Claudia.”
“Hey, David, I didn’t see you come in.”
“Dad and I came in a little while ago. Been hanging out down by the pit.”
“By which you mean you were sneaking bites from the pig,” Eddie said just before he inhaled another pastel.
“Dude, like you’ve got room to talk,” David retorted even as he surreptitiously wiped at the corners of his mouth.
I grinned at the routine they’d been perfecting since we were all practically in the cradle.
“You missed a spot,” I said, pointing at the corner of his mouth. Reaching past him to grab a couple of cangrejitos before Eddie completely decimated the tray, I handed one to Peyton. “Savory ground beef in a sweet glazed pastry,” I explained. “Sounds bizarre, but they’re seriously one of the best things you will ever eat.”
“You’ve said that about everything we’ve eaten since we got here,” she replied as she took the pastry.
“And have I been wrong?”
She took a bite, her eyes widening. “Nope,” she mumbled as she went in for a second, larger bite. “Oh, my God, WASPs have no idea what they’re missing,” she said with a happy sigh as she finished off the pastry and reached past Eddie and David for another.
“I’m Peyton Chaffee, by the way,” she said to them before she bit into the cangrejito with an enthusiasm that rivaled Eddie’s.
“Figured you for the roommate,” Eddie said, having thankfully chewed and swallowed before speaking. “And I am, as you guessed, Eddie.” His grin broadened to stupid proportions that left me mentally groaning and making yet another note to make absolutely certain he didn’t act like a total asshat around Peyton. Although it would likely be an exercise in futility. Some things were just too deeply embedded.
“And I’m David Levy.”
With much better manners than Eddie, David extended a hand.
“Pleased to meet you.” After wiping her hands on a festive, poinsettia-emblazoned napkin, Peyton took his hand, her gaze once again narrowing into that assessing stare.
I decided to help her out. “He falls under the heading of super-close family friend, not blood kin.”
Her expression cleared. “Oh. I wondered.”
I nodded while David and Eddie exchanged puzzled glances.
“Wondered what?” Eddie asked before popping another cangrejito in his mouth.
“Why David doesn’t look like most of the rest of us,” I replied while Peyton took the opportunity to also stuff another pastry in her face. Girl was gonna go back to Warrington a good ten pounds heavier, which would still be a good ten pounds underweight by my mother’s estimation.
Eddie glanced around at the sea of dark hair and dark eyes that formed the overwhelming majority of our genetic makeup before looking back at David. “Huh,” he grunted. “Guess I never really noticed.”
David rolled eyes that were even bluer than I remembered. “That’s because I’ve been around since we were all babies, dude. I might as well be part of the furniture.”
“Wallpaper.”
As the two of them resumed snarking, Peyton leaned in and murmured, “Is he really that unaware of his looks or is it some act?”
I lifted a shoulder. “He knows he’s good-looking. Or should.” Especially judging by the rumors surrounding his dating life that I got, even up in the wilds of Massachusetts. The beauty of social media, right?
“Empirically, he’s not as good-looking as Eddie,” Peyton said in the clinical way she used for everything from science experiments to, well...guys, “but he’s definitely not chopped liver.”
I glanced over to where he and Eddie were still doing their Superbad bromance thing. As the son of Papi’s lawyer and longtime best friend, David had always sort of been...there. Maybe not furniture, but...yeah. At least, until he started getting into baseball and disappeared to practice and tournaments and touring teams and whatever else. And the only reason I knew that much was because Eddie was on those same teams with him. At one point, David and I had been pretty tight, maybe even best friends, but the nanosecond he shot up to six-two and got a haircut that kept his curly dark blond hair under control—with the side benefit of showing off the blue eyes and broad cheekbones bequeathed from the Eastern European ancestors who’d long since made their way to Argentina—he’d quit hanging with me and turned his attention to the girls who were paying him attention. Attention he returned enthusiastically and with great variety—that is, if social media was to be trusted.
As far as I knew, baseball and girls were the only things David Levy was interested in, rendering me the furniture.
Not that I was bitter or anything.
Nevertheless, I kept my response to a mild “He’s okay,” because empirically speaking, he was okay. At the very least.
Thankfully, “He’s okay” was enough for Peyton as she shrugged and said, “Yeah, you never have been much about the blonds, have you?”
Easy enough to leave it there, especially as I fought back an old—and surprising—pang.
Once upon a time, David and I used to have fun, able to talk about any and everything, even as little kids. He’d been one of my few real friends, never shying away because I was the weird girl with my nose always stuck in a book. Without fail, he and Eddie would gang up on the miserable twerps who’d tease me and pull my braids and try to take off with my backpack—at least, until I got taller than a lot of them and Eddie taught me how to aim a well-placed elbow or knee where it really hurt, and I learned not to give a shit what others thought.
At least, most others.
Much as I hated admitting it, David had mattered—a lot—and why was I thinking of this now? It wasn’t as if I didn’t see him every time I visited. We chatted like normal people and ganged up to tease Eddie, the way we always had. Basically, we’d achieved this détente where he pretended we hadn’t once been as close as...well, best friends, and I pretended his indifference didn’t matter.
Or hurt.
A piercing whistle cut through my thoughts. Glancing up, I saw Papi heading up the procession carting the lechón asado up from the pit. I couldn’t help but gr
in as I watched my father, clad in his best pale blue guayabera and straw Panama hat, directing my brothers and uncles to put the roasted pig on the empty table before he grabbed Mami up for an impromptu salsa. And even though she smacked at him and protested, “José, por favor, ¡estoy preocupada!” she still laughed and shook her hips to the music, serving spoon in hand.
My grin only grew broader as I took in Peyton’s wide-eyed expression.
“You’d never know he’s a sober, respectable businessman who wears suits and ties and sells jewelry to some of Miami’s biggest movers and shakers, would you?”
“If I hadn’t seen it for myself, no,” she replied, slowly shaking her head.
“Welcome to our world,” David said.
Surprised, I glanced up to find him standing beside me, while Eddie flanked Peyton’s opposite side.
In a softer voice he added, “It’s kind of like they’re free here to be completely different people from who they present to the outside world.”
I couldn’t help but think there were a few more layers beneath what appeared to be a superficial observation. Also, I couldn’t help but feel David’s comment strike a surprising chord, except for me, it was the inverse. It was out in the world—at school—where I felt most truly myself. Here, I’d spent a lifetime fighting to hide who I was behind who they expected me to be.
“What do you think it’s going to be like when it’s our turn?” Eddie asked as we watched people gather plates, the adults helping the little kids, a mix of Spanish and English blending with the music and the scents of roasted meat and garlic and gardenias and pine. The mélange was so evocative of my childhood, yet with each passing year, it seemed more and more foreign. A neat place to visit, but not somewhere I wanted to live.
“I don’t know,” I replied slowly. “And I don’t expect to find out. I don’t ever really expect it to be my turn. At least, not like this.”
A sidelong glance revealed Eddie nodding, not shocked, while Peyton looked...wistful, I guess. Which left David. Glancing in his direction, I was surprised to find him looking down at me and downright stunned by what I saw reflected in his eyes.