Praise for
DAMAS, DRAMAS, AND ANA RUIZ
“A heartfelt and often humorous look at the relationship between mothers and teen daughters, love, loyalty, friendship, and the ritual of quinceañera.”
—Austin American-Statesman
“It takes a lot of hard work and a pile of talent to write such an engaging, touching book. A wonderful quinceañera of a novel!”
—Julia Alvarez, author of Once Upon a
Quinceañera and Return to Sender
“[Acosta] has created a deeper appreciation as to what a coming of age Latino celebration truly is, and then some.”
—Sententiavera.com
“A well-written family drama.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A terrific read, illuminating a specific cultural landmark as well as the universal ups and downs of family life.”
—Austin Chronicle
“One of those really delightful books that you want to read slowly, to savor the flair and the people in it.”
—RealVail.com
“Here lies the true meaning of the novel, and quinces themselves: learning how to be a woman. Even though the relationships themselves are not easy, there is enough love to fill an entire quince hall.”
—MyLatinitas.com
ALSO BY BELINDA ACOSTA
Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz:
A Quinceañera Club Novel
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by jacob packaged goods LLC
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Grand Central Publishing
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
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Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: July 2010
ISBN: 978-0-446-56599-8
Contents
PRAISE FOR DAMAS, DRAMAS, AND ANA RUIZ
ALSO BY BELINDA ACOSTA
COPYRIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
READING GROUP GUIDE
GUÍA PARA GRUPOS DE LECTURA
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For the missing, the murdered, the disappeared,
and the exploited, here and the world over.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest appreciation to all my colleagues at the Austin Chronicle in Austin, Texas, but especially Publisher Nick Barbaro and Editor Louis Black, who demonstrated that I was a member of the Chronicle family when a portion of my first novel in the Quinceañera Club series was excerpted in the newspaper. Such royal treatment! Special thanks as well to Screens and Books Editor Kimberley Jones, who was patient and supportive during my crazy-writing times, as she was maneuvering through her own crazy-writing-editing times.
I remain deeply astonished and touched by the outpouring of support from mi gente in Austin, Texas, and beyond who, upon learning I was writing this book and Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz before it, asked: “What do you need? How can I help you?”
I still thank my lucky stars that Stuart Bernstein agreed to be my agent. My continuing shock and awe at Grand Central Publishing editor Selina McLemore’s work with an editing pencil. Props to Ellen Jacob for conceiving the Quinceañera Club series and bringing the necessary players to the table.
And finally, un abrazote to my tribe of writers, especially Vince Lozano and Liliana Valenzuela, with whom I’ve shared many long talks, encouraging words, shocking horror stories, and an overall understanding that a glass of wine shared with friends is the best medicine for all the slings and arrows survived beyond the writing table.
Belinda Acosta
Austin, Texas
August 5, 2009
ONE
Beatriz was floating at the edge of sleep, where memory, dreams, and secrets flirt with the visible world. She was still tired from the day before and wasn’t ready to wake up, drifting in the haze of a dream: the sun on her naked back, bare feet in cool water, the smell of a newborn, a first kiss, and laughter. It was the laughter that stirred her—frothy and wild, the way children laugh. At first, she thought she was dreaming of her boys when they were little, wrestling like puppies let loose in the yard. But the laughter wasn’t from her boys; it was from one child—a girl. The laughter made Beatriz smile until she realized who it was. When it came to her, she tried to push it away. It was an old memory, a sad memory, and this was supposed to be a happy day. But there it was, like that box stuffed deep in the back of the closet. You can put it out of sight, but it never goes away. Beatriz closed her eyes tight when she felt a slump, as if someone had sat on the bed near her feet. The sensation kicked her from her dream, and she snapped her head up to see who was there, but there was no one.
Beatriz’s heart skittered in her chest as she looked around. The only other person she could see was Larry, sleeping like a stone on his side of the bed. Taking in the familiar jut of her husband’s jaw and the arc of his cheekbones calmed her, brought her back to the visible world. It wasn’t light enough to see, but she knew a moss of reddish-brown hair was sprouting around his mouth, over his jaw, and down his long neck. Longer locks of the same-colored hair fell over his forehead and into the corner of one eye. Beatriz leaned over and swept the hair away with her fingertip, then laid her head on top of her hands to watch him sleep. One deep breath cleared the unease she felt earlier and set her heart back to its regular rhythm. It was just a weird dream, she thought. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t even make sense.
She steered her thoughts toward the anniversary party later in the day and the long list of things to do. But what she really wanted was to enjoy the stillness, when it was just her and Larry, alone. She wanted to sway in the waves of his breath, sink into the luscious comfort of their bed, and enjoy the tantalizing closeness of him. When Beatriz saw Larry sleeping, she saw the boy she fell in love with twenty-five years ago. Twenty-five years! It amazed her. She’d seen what her comadre Ana went through when her marriage ended—a painfully grinding breakup that almost crushed her. Since watching that, Beatriz began to wonder if long-term marriages were a thing of the past. But here she was, in bed with her husband, the man she loved more than she thought possible.
Larry Milligan was the father of her children, two boys growing up faster than she wanted to admit. At nineteen, Carlos was more than ready to start his life. Especially since he met Marisol. The wide-eyed girl turned his head so quickly it made him dizzy. She was to blame (Larry thought) for Carlos delaying college after he graduated high school. Beatriz didn’t mind. She was happy to have their oldest knocking around the house a little longer, working the kitc
hen at one of the high-end restaurants on the Riverwalk. This didn’t thrill Larry. He was counting the days till it was time to proudly ship his firstborn off to his alma mater, where he would study to be an engineer, just like him, or an educator, like his mother, or maybe a lawyer. Although Beatriz and Larry both came from people who worked with their hands and backs, he wanted better for his children. He didn’t want them to work hard and die young like his and Beatriz’s parents did. Isn’t that the way it should be? Larry had always thought. And for that, it meant going to college. A good college. Carlos didn’t want to disappoint his father, but he had other plans.
As for Raúl, Beatriz wasn’t always so sure about him. He was thirteen going on ten, easily lost in his old horror movies and happily goofing off with his younger cousins. The thing Beatriz loved the most about Raúl was that his boyish imagination kept his heart open and his curiosity alive. He wasn’t surly like his older cousin Seamus, and she hoped some of Raúl’s ability to find the fun in anything would rub off on her moody nephew. And maybe Seamus could show her son how to let his feet touch the ground once in a while. He was the one who finally got Raúl to stop wearing a cape to school. Yes, their boys had given Beatriz and Larry many days of joy and aggravation, sometimes at once, and Beatriz couldn’t think of a better companion to have shared those days with. Larry was there for all of it, from the simple moments flooded with joy, to the let-me-crawl-under-the-bed blues. Beatriz felt a sudden twinge of affection for her husband and wanted to kiss him, but she didn’t want to wake him. It was going to be a long day, and they needed all the rest they could get. But when she rolled away from him and closed her eyes, it was too late. The long list of things to do began running through her mind, one thing after the next, until she was staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Beatriz sighed. She decided to get up and make sure everything they set up the night before was as they left it.
She wrapped herself in the silky emerald robe Larry had given her last Christmas. He loved how the hue gleamed against her caramel-colored skin, how her crazy curls danced on the quiet sheen of the cloth. He could barely contain himself when she opened the ankle-length robe to reveal the matching slip of a gown, exposing the voluptuous thighs he adored. When she crawled into bed last night, Larry pulled Beatriz toward him ravenously. Unfortunately, they had been working on the house all day and into the evening, getting ready for their big pachanga. Both of them were hungry for some intimacy, but the comfort of their bed was more seductive, and they began to doze off.
“I’m sorry, love,” Larry barely uttered before falling asleep. A moment later, Beatriz was also asleep, her head nestled under his chin, Larry’s hand cupping the fullest part of her rump, another favorite part of his wife’s curvy body.
Beatriz cinched the robe around her waist and padded out of their room. As she made her way through the hall, she touched the closed doors of her boys’ rooms, as if she could impart some kind of mother’s blessing or intuit their safety. All is well in Casa Sánchez-Milligan, Beatriz thought as she continued down to the kitchen.
She surveyed the backyard as she waited for the teakettle to whistle. Yes, the extra tables and chairs they’d rented for the party were there, glowing bright white against the adobe fence that separated their yard from the neighbors’. She and the boys had painted it a bright pumpkin last summer, and the color was even richer in the early May light. The small canopy set up next to the house for the bar area was as they had left it, as was the one near the grill in the far corner of the yard. The long tables that would be covered with yards of fresh Mexican oilcloth in bright reds and yellows and cobalt blue were still there, too, standing, end to end, ready for food prepared the day before, and more to come with friends and loved ones. Beatriz and Larry could have catered their anniversary party, or reserved a party room in a nice restaurant, but Beatriz was tired of formal events. She had enough of that at the university. She wanted a party where parents would feel comfortable bringing their kids, where guests could kick off their shoes, and los viejitos could sit in peace but not be ignored.
Beatriz stirred a drop of milk into her tea and then walked out onto the patio. The sun was just grazing the horizon as the wrens cheerfully welcomed the new day. Everything was in place from the night before. So why did she feel like something was not quite right? She walked off the patio into the yard and was startled when she kicked a loquat with her bare toes. Heavy with juice, the fruit fell deep into the grass, invisible until you felt that sick squish underfoot or kicked it, like she’d just done. The tree was especially fruitful this year, littering her yard with bright orange droppings. Those that weren’t collected by Beatriz or the squirrels were mashed underfoot or became a feast for the grackles, the big black birds that binged on them. Beatriz picked up as many as she could hold, reminding herself to ask one of the boys to finish what she had started. As she worked, she thought how the aroma was strangely familiar. She’d never smelled the fruit—never even heard of them—before she and Larry moved into their house ten years ago, but something about the loquats had always been as intimately familiar to her as the fragrance of her newborn babies, the scent of her husband at the end of the day, or her own skin.
As she walked through the yard, this time more careful of where she stepped, she admired the thick, shiny leaves of the loquat tree, following its trunk down toward the greenery Ana and her daughter, Carmen, had helped Beatriz plant last weekend. Her gaze hopscotched across the small openings in the adobe fence—she was happy to see bright new foliage curled around the trellises—and then over to where the boys had neatly piled firewood next to the brick grill. The grill racks and utensils sat nearby, freshly scrubbed and ready. She turned back toward the house and looked at the new jade awning Larry and the boys had installed, ready to unfurl from the edge of the roof to cover the patio if it began to rain or the sun got too mean. May in San Antonio could bring one or the other. She turned back to the yard and walked to the far end onto a low riser especially built for the party. The riser was a gift from Beatriz’s brother Tony, who assembled it with a few men from his contracting business. Smaller tables would be set on it for eating, cleared for dancing, then set back up when people were hungry again. Eating, talking, dancing, resting. Eating, talking, dancing, resting. Mexican parties seemed to follow the same rhythm, no matter where you found them. Beatriz saw that the jacaranda tree from the yard directly behind hers had showered the riser with mauve florets, and she made another note to herself to sweep them away. Other than that, every corner of the yard was ready to go.
She placed the loquats she’d been carrying on a table, then took one of the wooden chairs stacked against the fence and carried it to the riser, where she opened it with a snap and sat. What else? she thought, resting her cup on one knee. Ana was running last-minute errands. Her brother Erasmo and his wife, Norma, were bringing brisket. Carlos was in charge of keeping the bar stocked and manning the grill. Her nephew Seamus demanded that he and his little brother Wally be in charge of hanging the papel picado that would swing from the trees. Beatriz agreed, even though she knew someone else would end up doing it. Wally was only seven, and Beatriz was sure Seamus’s fourteen-year-old tough-boy act would not trump his fear of heights. But he was insistent, and she was happy they wanted to be involved. Her nephews were spending as much time at her house as their own, since their mother, Lucy, had started community college. If Larry had his way, he would have had his sister do nothing else but go to work, school, then home with her boys. But Lucy wanted more.
“Looking for love in all the wrong places,” Larry said about his sister.
“Ya, let her have her fun,” Beatriz said, but she worried about Lucy, too. She was always unmoored, always on the lookout for something better, for something big to change in her life. Maybe returning to school would finally put her on the right path. Beatriz had decided she would do all she could to help Lucy, caring for Seamus and Wally like they were her own, and letting them stay over whenever Lucy asked. But even Bea
triz didn’t know just how desperate Lucy was to change her life.
After everyone had eaten, Beatriz would make sure her nephews helped Raúl keep the smallest children entertained with a piñata and other games on the side of the house. All the bases are covered, she thought. So what’s the problem? Where did that nagging sense that something was just not right come from? It was a party, a big party, with friends and family coming from every corner of the city and beyond. If something were missing, all she would have to do is ask. Calma, mujer, Beatriz told herself. She closed her eyes. The cool morning breeze ruffled her hair and tickled the tree branches high above her. The sound reminded her of the ocean and she began to doze. So, when she felt a hand on her shoulder she lurched forward, tipping her cup and sloshing tea over her knee and down her leg.
“Dios!”
She turned to see who had snuck up on her, but there was no one.
The sun was now high above the horizon, winking through the branches of the trees, and the birds were chirping like crazy. The grackles, kept from their breakfast by the strange creature in the emerald green robe, were perched in the branches high above her, hacking in their strange, asthmatic way, their wings arched and shuddering angrily.
“Quién es?” Beatriz called out. “Who’s there?” She turned, wiping the tea from her knee and flicking the liquid from her hand. She could see she was alone, but she still couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Hello?”
This was not the first time this had happened to her. In bed, she could say it was just a dream, but the weirdness began a month ago when she was awake. One time she felt as if someone were standing next to her when she was alone in her office. Another time, she was reading e-mail at a coffee shop and was convinced the woman next to her was playing tricks on her. When the woman moved to another table to get away from her mal ojos, Beatriz decided she was probably innocent. The sensation unnerved Beatriz and reminded her of when she was a girl. Her baby sister, Perla, loved to sneak up on Beatriz when she was reading, studying, watching TV, or just lost in her thoughts, and scare the living molé out of her. Beatriz didn’t know how she did it, but every time, no matter how on guard she thought she was, somehow her little sister always got her, making Beatriz so mad, she chased the girl with balled fists and blazing eyes.
Sisters, Strangers, and Starting Over Page 1