“Always. We’re here for you. No matter what,” Larry said.
Beatriz watched from the front door as Carlos finished loading up the kids in the SUV. Carlos was happy. The conversation he had had with his parents wasn’t so hard after all. Larry finally got it. Their son wanted to be a chef, and Carlos promised to be the best one he could possibly be. With a few keystrokes on the computer, Carlos’s first term was paid in full, thanks to Beatriz and Larry’s hard work and determination to send their son to college. It wasn’t exactly how they thought it would turn out—definitely not what Larry had planned for his son—but Carlos was going to do what he loved, what he was good at, and that was the thing to be thankful for. Beatriz began to remember her boys playing like puppies in the backyard. And now, here was her oldest, behind the wheel of his father’s SUV, ready to leave and start his own life in a few short weeks. Carlos waved as he pulled away, and Beatriz waved back, smiling through glassy eyes.
When she closed the door, the house was eerily quiet. She walked into the living room, looking at the photos of the kids and smiling wanly at their toothy grins from over the years. She paused when she reached the photos of her and Larry assembled for their anniversary party a few weeks earlier and picked up a wedding photo, taken back in Ann Arbor: Larry with a full beard and Beatriz with her wild tangle of curls. They were smiling like they didn’t have a care in the world, like anything was possible. Everything was fresh and new then.
The clatter of pots rousted her from her thoughts and she went into the kitchen to investigate.
“I think Carlos used every pot and pan in the house,” Larry said. He had just gathered and piled all the dirty dishes near the sink for washing. As soon as he finished, he went to the liquor cabinet above the refrigerator and poured himself a whiskey and returned to the sink, where he took a sip, then set down his glass on the counter, wondering where to dig in first.
“Can I help you?” Beatriz asked.
“Sure.”
They could have loaded up the dishwasher and left it at that, but instinctively they knew they had to sort through their dispute like their messy kitchen, slowly and by hand.
“I wash, you dry?” she offered.
“Okay,” he said.
They didn’t speak for a long time. At first, they were clumsy, as if they had never washed dishes in that kitchen before. But as they continued, there was something about the rhythmic motion of their work, the running of the water, and the gentle clink of plates and glasses that calmed them. When everything was washed, dried, and put away, Larry finished off his whiskey and then poured some more and took a sip. Beatriz absentmindedly picked up Larry’s glass to take a drink. But she suddenly felt self-conscious.
“Can I?” she asked.
“Sure.”
She took a long sip of his whiskey and delicately put the glass down near the sink.
“Oh, do you want me to pour you one?” he asked politely.
“Can’t we share?”
“Sure.”
They were still unsettled; hurt feelings still needed to be soothed, and a balance of wills needed to be restored. Being surrounded by people and distractions made it easy to avoid each other. Now they had no excuses.
Larry poured some more whisky into the glass and handed it to her. As she took a sip, she looked up at her husband, and those huge, dark eyes of hers caught his and made him swoon. He took the glass from her and put it on the counter and then turned and took in every feature of his wife’s face.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’m sorry, too.”
“I shouldn’t have—I didn’t know you had all those feelings about when Perla disappeared, and of course you would want Celeste to be here. Of course! It’s just—”
“I know. I never talked about it. I should have talked about it with you. And it’s a big decision, taking in Celeste. If you would have done that to me—”
“But I did do that to you!” Larry said. “I brought the boys in and you didn’t say a thing, you didn’t flinch. I was so wrapped up in the trip-to-France thing, and our life after the kids are gone, and how I thought it was all going to work out…” Larry sighed. “I’m a boob.”
“You’re not a boob.”
“I’m a boob.”
“Well, then, you’re my boob,” Beatriz teased. Larry put his hands on Beatriz’s shoulders and pulled her close to him and inhaled her hair.
“I can’t believe we inherited three kids. We send one on his way and get three in return. And the munchkin is how old? Seven? We’re never going to get out of this house,” Larry sighed.
“N’ombre!” Beatriz said. “Something will work out.” She took another sip from the glass they were sharing and passed it to him. He drank, put the glass down, then wrapped his arms around Beatriz’s shoulders.
“I’m kind of… scared,” he said.
“Me, too.”
Larry and Beatriz began to sway in rhythm to each other’s breath, the effect of the whiskey settling over them like perfume.
“I don’t even know where to start tomorrow,” Larry said. “I mean, should we wait and see if Lucy reappears? Should I empty their apartment? Should I try to find her? Should I…” He picked up the glass to take another sip, but Beatriz took it from his hand and set it on the counter.
“You know what? Why don’t we start right here?”
She leaned forward and kissed Larry on his chin. “And here,” she said, as she kissed his cheek. Larry kissed Beatriz on her forehead, then slowly ran his hands alongside her face, stroking her temples with his thumbs, then leaned down to kiss her tenderly on the mouth. It was a kiss full of want and hope, forgiveness, and understanding; as sweet as a first kiss, but as familiar as the lingering scent of a loved one on bed pillows. The sultry flavor of the whiskey was still on her tongue, and Larry swallowed it and immediately wanted more. Beatriz pressed herself into her husband, wanting more of him. He lifted her up to sit on the counter and ran his hands over her hips and thighs. They began kissing with an urgency that said what was unspoken: I want you. I won’t leave you. I am yours.
He moved his hands under her top, ran them up her torso and over her thick breasts. Beatriz could feel herself stir, that sudden, luscious ache deep inside. She untucked his shirt and reached beneath to caress his nipples with her thumbs. She knew he liked this. It made him catch in his breath, and he smiled that tranquil smile, full of pleasure. He began to kiss the arch of her neck, and she bit her lip to keep from gasping too loudly. He knew she liked that.
“I think we better get upstairs,” she whispered.
Beatriz and Larry moved as fast as they could through the house and up to their bedroom. Larry closed the door as Beatriz pulled off his shirt and covered his chest with kisses, working her way down. Larry fumbled to lock the door and pulled Beatriz up and led her to their bed, where they finished undressing each other. They faced each other, kneeling on the bed, naked, panting, and frantic with desire. Her aroma made his body scream, and he thought he might explode. He pushed her onto the bed, and just as he was about to climb on top of her, she pushed him over onto his back. They giggled as Larry lifted his naked wife over him. She sat there a moment, gazing into her husband’s face.
“I missed you,” she said.
“I missed you, too,” he said.
They exchanged a long, silent smile, and then Beatriz slowly rose and fell, rose and fell, as their hearts raced and their skin flushed. In that moment, there was no one else in the world but them.
NINETEEN
No one could have picked a more perfect day for Celeste’s quinceañera. It was unseasonably cool for July. The sun was bright, the sky was crystal clear, and all living things—plants, animals, humans, and spirits—were lively and lush. The typically oppressive Texas heat had miraculously disappeared, as if the sun had sent its boorish companion away for the weekend, off to the gulf, where the ocean dwellers welcomed an excuse to be near the water and slurp raspas lazily by the sea.
Bea
triz was surprised by how easy it was for her and Celeste to plan the quinceañera. When Beatriz began to go overboard, Celeste would find a way to rein her in. When Celeste became too detached, Beatriz would find a way to remind her that celebrating her life, the fact that she mattered, that she was part of the family, was at the core of the celebration. Sometimes it was a touch. Sometimes it was a glance. But ultimately, they both came to understand that the event they were planning represented something larger than they could express. All the things attached to the ceremony were just small, tangible representations of a much deeper sentiment.
“What do you think your mother would think?” was the question Beatriz asked her niece when they came to a fork in the decision making. This often launched them into stories of Perla as a mother, a sister, a girl, a community leader—stories shared with laughter and tears, but always with great affection and curiosity.
Carlos had found his own special role in those few weeks before the quinceañera. He decided it was his mission to plump up Celeste with a series of “exploratory meals” he made to test out new techniques in preparation for culinary school. “Damn, girl. We need to get some meat on those bones!” he claimed. But he also wanted every opportunity to learn how to make the perfect batch of tortillas from Celeste. He was a diligent student, and she was an eager taste tester. Like Celeste, and her mother, and her mother before her, Carlos was soon able to take those few ingredients and turn them into something that would not only fill an empty stomach but would nourish a body the way only a meal made with real affection could. After a month mastering rouxs, clarified butters, cream sauces, and finely marbled meat dishes, Carlos considered it a personal accomplishment when some curves appeared on Celeste’s slender frame, so that when she wore her quinceañera dress, it was clear she was not a little girl but a lovely young woman.
The lavender dress they found for Celeste’s quinceañera wasn’t a formal, but it was perfect. The linen halter dress buttoned behind her neck and the bodice hugged her, the skirt flaring from her hips and falling to her ankles. Celeste worried about having to walk around the yard in high heels, so when she and Beatriz found leather flip-flops that were the exact color of her dress, they marveled at their good luck.
“Can we wear flip-flops, too?” Wally asked. That was the one concession Beatriz made to the boys. She’d asked them to wear matching guayaberas for the occasion, and the response was mixed. Wally didn’t give it a second thought, but the vivid shade of green made Seamus balk.
“I feel like a gecko,” he said, looking at himself in the mirror.
“It’s not so bad,” Raúl said. “It’s comfortable.”
“Whatever,” Seamus sighed.
Beatriz had kept close watch over Seamus since Lucy left. It had been several weeks, and still no word from her. Larry tried to contact her several times at all hours of the day and night, until one day her cell phone service was disconnected. Although Wally was finally told of his mother’s departure, he held on to the hope that she would return, explain herself, and all would be forgiven. He was the one who slept with the note she left behind under his pillow. He was the one who always carried it, shoved deep in his pocket. The note survived at least one wash, but as long as it remained intact, no matter how grimy and tattered it became, it was the one thing that gave the little boy assurance of his mother’s return.
Seamus was more difficult to gauge. Beatriz wasn’t sure how he was taking the new changes in his life and worried that Celeste’s quinceañera would make him feel neglected.
“So you’re okay with all this?” she asked Seamus the morning of the event.
“The shirt? I said I would wear it.”
“No, I mean the quinceañera.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?
“Well, I don’t want you to feel—I don’t know. Left out,” she said.
Seamus thought a moment. Although his mother had still not bothered to send word about where she was and when—or if—she was coming back, compared to Celeste, he didn’t have it so bad. Seeing his mother again might not be likely, but it was at least a possibility. Seeing her mom again was more than Celeste could hope for.
“Just remember, estas en tú casa,” Beatriz said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means this is your home, no matter what.”
That was enough for Seamus. “It’s cool,” he said.
Beatriz took him at his word.
It was a small ceremony, made special with simple, homey touches. The night before, Beatriz invited anyone who wanted to help to come by the house and make paper flowers from stacks of wide tissue paper drenched in oranges and reds, hot pinks, and soft yellows. Connie and Sara had offered roses from their shop, but Celeste said she liked the homemade look of the paper flowers. Raúl and Wally helped and—to Beatriz’s surprise—even Larry offered to help. When Wally got upset because his flowers were crooked, Celeste assured him they were beautiful and wore one on her wrist for the rest of the night. Carlos boiled crawfish and corn on the cob for the flower makers, which they ate in the backyard under the loquat tree. Afterward, everyone hung the cheery flowers on the backs of chairs, around the food table, and around the perimeter of the riser Beatriz had her brother Tony reassemble for the day.
Late into the evening, people told stories about other family events, and everyone seemed to have a “the time Beatriz tried to cook” story. The tales always ended in a laughable disaster. Celeste learned a little something about her aunts and uncles, her cousins, and family friends, but when Beatriz got on the subject of her own quinceañera—a preposterous tale of a fallen cake, broken high heels, and lost trousers where everyone played their own wacky part—Celeste began to understand why her mother loved her big sister so much. Beatriz could hold her own among her bellowing, back-slapping brothers with firecracker responses that were as pointed as they were affectionate.
Everybody came to Celeste’s quinceañera. Ana and her kids were there. Her gift was a guest book where she would later attach photographs, so Celeste could remember who was whom. Carlos made all the food, of course, and Marisol made a luscious pound cake with buttercream frosting that looked like a giant daisy with pale lavender petals around a sunny dot. Bumblebees were suspended above it, and Wally decided they represented him and his cousins because they were the ones who were always buzzing around Celeste.
“Sure, that works,” Marisol grinned.
Carlos got keyed up when he noticed his father spending time talking to Marisol on the day of the quinceañera. He watched them through the patio door as he finished setting up the food table. She was in the kitchen, assembling the cake and frosting it, as Larry stood nearby asking questions and making comments. Carlos tried not to stare, but when he heard his father explode with laughter, it unnerved him so much that he had to go inside to find out what happened. Larry had already left the kitchen to take care of something elsewhere when Carlos entered. Marisol was chuckling to herself as she continued working.
“What happened? What was he laughing about?”
Marisol gave Carlos a quick peck on the cheek and shook her head. “Your dad is a cupcake. I don’t know what you were worried about.”
All the aunts and uncles and their kids showed up for Celeste’s quinceañera, too. Norma was appalled that they didn’t have a quinceañera mass, even after Elaine reminded her it was wedding season. The church Norma suggested was booked and everything else was taken. Beatriz prayed for patience as Norma pointed out all the ways it was not a “real quinceañera” like her Angie’s until Celeste herself said it didn’t matter. The cathedral of the trees arching over them in the backyard was enough for her.
Finally Erasmo urged his wife to hold her tongue. Norma promised to do her best, but still let slip a few choice comments about the quinceañera’s many shortcomings. But in the end, even Norma did her part. Her gift was a Bible bound in white leather and a matching rosary that Celeste accepted graciously. Elaine gave Celeste a pair of pearl earrings a
nd a matching teardrop necklace. Celeste didn’t have a tiara—she would have felt silly wearing one. Instead, Connie and Sara made a garland for her hair from a huge basket of fresh daisies they brought from their shop.
“How about you all wear the extras as boutonnieres?” Beatriz suggested to Larry and the boys.
“Ah, man…,” Seamus scoffed.
“C’mon, Seamus. Be a sport,” Larry said. He was up for anything. Thanks to Ana, he and Beatriz were going to be able to make their trip to Paris after all.
“Not a problem,” Ana had said. “All you guys had to do was ask.” Larry and Beatriz were elated, confident they were leaving their family in good hands.
“I’ll wear a flower!” Wally volunteered cheerfully.
“Me, too. It’s dapper,” Raúl said. Everyone looked at him. “Well, a rose would be dapper, but a daisy is okay. I’ll do it.” They all turned to Seamus.
“Whatever,” he sighed. But when Beatriz went in search of some stickpins, Seamus conveniently made sure he was off somewhere else when she returned.
“So, I think we’re ready!” Beatriz said to Celeste and Ana, as they decided what to do with Celeste’s hair before the guests arrived.
“Well, there is one more thing,” Ana said. “Who’s going to present her?”
“You mean, walk her in?”
“Well that, but also present her,” Ana said.
“Well, I guess Larry could do that,” Beatriz said.
“Why not you?” Celeste asked.
“Oh! I would be honored, mi’ja, but wouldn’t you rather have your uncle Larry or Erasmo do that?”
“No,” Celeste said. “You should stand in for my mother. I think she would like that, and I would like it.”
Beatriz was touched.
“You heard the young lady,” Ana said. “And then what?”
“And then I say my speech,” Celeste said. “And then ya! We eat!”
“Is this how you want it?” Larry asked. He and the boys had just set up chairs in rows in the backyard in front of the riser. Celeste looked unsure and turned to Beatriz for guidance.
Sisters, Strangers, and Starting Over Page 24