by LAURA GALE
As Diego smeared honey on a sopapilla—a kind of flat pastry best eaten slightly warm—his eyes refocused on Lucas. Lucas knew then that Diego was again ready to speak. He could not, however, have anticipated Diego’s next words.
“How is Rachel?” Diego’s voice was quiet.
Lucas hesitated in spreading jam on his own sopapilla and eyed his friend. “She’s…well,” he offered. “We separated quite some time ago.” Lucas had become accustomed to this truth, yet he felt shame in admitting it to Diego. It smacked of failure, or at least it did when presented to a man like Diego.
“I know you are separated, my friend. I am very aware of that. What I am wondering is why you say she is well?” He regarded Lucas levelly, his eyes hooded, his opinion disguised.
Lucas shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve seen her recently. Several times lately, and she seems well. Well enough, anyway. As lovely as ever.”
“Sí, she is beautiful, that one. On the inside, too.” Diego poured another glass of iced tea from the pitcher on the table and began preparing another sopapilla. “She lives in one of our communities, you know, one of the inner-city revitalization areas designed to bring families back to the city. She and Michaela. Did I mention that these are very inexpensive compared to other homes and that there is an upper ceiling on the income level of people allowed to live there?”
Lucas’s only response was a sharply indrawn breath.
“Sí, amigo, you perhaps understand what I am telling you. You’ve had it very comfortably with money, no? No worries for you. Rachel has not had it so easy. She struggles with many things, raising her little girl by herself. Many people would wonder what kind of scum the child’s father is. I wonder that myself.”
Squeezing more lemon juice into his tea, Diego’s smile was slightly mocking. “I’ve surprised you this time, no? I haven’t seen you in many years, amigo, but I continue to know Rachel. She, too, is my friend. She is familia.”
That simple statement explained so much, carried so much weight.
Lucas’s eyes widened. Diego seemed especially intense, making the comment.
“Why so surprised, Lucas? You surely know that I couldn’t hold Rachel in any higher regard than I do.” He paused, his eyes not wavering from Lucas’s face, daring him to challenge or deny the truth of his words. “You know that. Did you know that she is very well known in the Hispanic community? She is well regarded. She is a good woman and has worked hard, not just for herself and Michaela, but for her people, too.”
He swallowed a mouthful of iced tea, then went on. “Traditionally, Mexican people can be suspicious of modern medicine. I don’t mean they neglect getting treatment, but maybe they are skeptical sometimes. Certain techniques, they can be seen as interfering with God’s will, that kind of thing. So our people don’t always think to see a doctor when they should. There are people who only do it because Doña Raquel is suggesting something, because Doña Raquel can help them trust the doctors and the procedures.”
“Doña Raquel? I heard someone call her that at the hospital.”
“Naturalmente. Raquel is Rachel in Spanish. But doña, that is a sign of respect.”
Lucas pondered this—Rachel hadn’t mentioned that it was a respectful title—only that it was a title.
“I think,” Diego continued, his eyes narrowing as he sought to remember the history, “it came from Spain, as a title, you know, for the noble people. But now, in Mexico, it is used to show that someone is honored. Rachel is. When Michaela became sick, when we knew she needed a bone marrow donor, Rachel organized a bone marrow drive. She put special attention toward the Hispanic community, hoping Michaela’s match would be there. It wasn’t. But many, many people came, hoping they would be the one to help the niña of Doña Raquel. The result, even though it didn’t help Michaela, was to greatly increase the number of Hispanics in the donor registry, so that they can help themselves a little quicker when it’s necessary. Rachel could help the people understand it was a way of supporting their community, a way of rallying behind one another. She understands the way tradition works among Hispanics. Of course, many of us noticed that you did not participate, even when your daughter’s life was at stake.”
Lucas felt the accusation pierce through him. “I didn’t know about Michaela. I only found out she existed—” he calculated the days “—a couple of weeks ago. Rachel…left before I ever knew there would be a baby.”
Diego emitted what Lucas knew was a Spanish curse, understanding its meaning despite the language barrier. “How could you not know?”
“She disappeared. She left. She didn’t tell me. I didn’t know. I never saw her again until she showed up at my office several weeks ago. But for five years, we’ve been leading separate lives.”
“You have been doing that, sí.” Lucas saw the glittering in Diego’s eyes, and was reminded forcefully that he had seen the same look in Rick’s eyes not too long ago.
“Rachel asked me then to be tested as a donor. I did and I matched. The transplant is in progress. They’ve actually done the main portion.”
“I know.”
Diego smiled, seeing Lucas’s expression. “Sí, Lucas, I told you this is my family. Little goes on with Rachel that I do not know about. Would you imagine that I, myself, have not been tested as a match? Of course I was. I just wondered what you would tell me.”
Diego became silent then, returning momentarily to his lunch.
So I’m being tested, Lucas realized, in a way that has nothing to do with being a bone marrow donor. He could sense that Diego was drawing some conclusions, very likely about him. No point in rushing anything. Lucas waited for Diego to continue.
“About Fuentes de la Juventud, it is not just me, you know, amigo,” Diego resumed. “I have partners, cousins, who also would have to approve such a decision. As for myself—” he shrugged “—of course, I have my doubts about you. But I also remember you from many years ago, I remember your talent and the potential you had. But the others—” he shrugged again “—they will say, ‘Dime con quién andas y te diré quién eres.’ You know, in English—” Lucas could feel Diego translating the expression “—you would say something like ‘A man is known by the company he keeps.’” He smiled sheepishly. “I don’t always translate so well, and some of the expressions say it better in Spanish, I think. The Spanish comes to me first. I have to think of the English.”
He paused, apparently thinking of another expression. “A better one is, ‘Quién mal anda, mal acaba,’ which would be—” again he thought for a moment “‘—If you spend time with bad men, you will become one of them.’” Satisfied with his translations, he sat back in his chair.
“And that, my friend, is the real problem. You see, amigo, your father—” there was that shrug again “—he is known, comprende, and not because he is a good man. You have been with him a long time and you have done nothing to improve your own reputation. You have not separated yourself from him, comprende? You have been his instrument. People see this, they see what you did to Rachel. The reputation it creates is not so good. It doesn’t suggest that you are a man of integrity.”
Lucas felt himself blush, stunned and horrified that he could. He recalled easily what Rick had said about other people witnessing what he had done and having an opinion about it. Diego seemed to feel the same way. “Maybe it’s better late than never,” Lucas suggested.
Diego inclined his head. “Perhaps.”
Suddenly Lucas remembered something else Rick had said to him. “Diego, what does casa chica mean? And pela-something?”
Diego smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Where did you hear these words, amigo?”
Lucas suspected they weren’t nice Spanish words. Rick had hurled them at him in anger, after all. But he wanted to know, nevertheless. “It was something Rick said to me.”
“Ah, sí.” Diego nodded his head, his laugh crinkles deepened. “Rick would have reason to. Bueno, let’s see, I think you mean pelado?”
/> “Yeah, that sounds right.” Lucas tried to replay the conversation in his mind.
“Pelado, it means plucked chicken really. But we use it to talk about men who, inside, are weak, but try to show that they are strong by being…obvious, rough, crude, immoral. They are puffed up about themselves, comprende? They treat women very badly, without respect, thinking they are showing their strength. Sometimes they are violent, given to revenge over nothing. Mexican men like to be thought of as macho, maybe that is not so different from men in other cultures. But with our machismo, there is a certain attitude. Pelados think they show their machismo, their masculinity, by their behavior. They try to strut, comprende, with their pride. But because they are weak inside, no one believes their displays. To be called such a one is nothing to be proud of.”
“No, I had figured that much out.”
Rick certainly doesn’t see me in a flattering light, Lucas had to admit. But, then, why would he? He’s Rachel brother, after all.
“What was the other?”
“Casa chica. He said something about turning Rachel’s home into one.”
“Ah, yes, and you did, too. A little house of love.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” Lucas said, relieved.
Diego smiled thinly. “Except that it is what a man arranges for his mistress. Normally the wife never sees it, never knows about it. Certainly a man does not set up his mistress in his wife’s home. Surely Anglo culture doesn’t encourage that?”
Lucas was vaguely aware that he was shaking his head in denial. He didn’t know what to say.
He’d never thought of it that way. He couldn’t say that anything that had occurred with Rachel was actually encouraged by white culture. The results hadn’t been intentional. Not that it excused him, he knew.
“But you did do this, sí? Once Rachel left, you put the other woman there. Rachel couldn’t have come back to you if she’d wanted to—there was no place for her to go. And she owned the place, too, didn’t she? Is she, since you’re still married, is she also still paying for your mistress’s home?”
Lucas knew that the color was draining from his face. Diego clearly knew there had been no divorce. What would Diego think if he told him that Alana had chosen the condo, that Lucas had given Rachel no choice but to live there? Then again, maybe Diego knew that, too.
“You show no class, amigo. No honor. And Rachel deserves better than this.”
A sudden surge of suspicion—and anger—shot through Lucas. “How well do you know Rachel, Diego?”
Unconcerned, Diego shrugged and responded, “I told you she is familia. I know her very well. But never well enough. I care for her deeply. I think you should not insist on more answer than that.” His voice had turned hard. “Rachel is a changed woman, Lucas. She was always calm, gentle—but she had fire, too. Now too often she seems…subdued. Not unhappy exactly, but not happy, either, not in the full sense of the word. It reminds me of what you see with nuns.”
“Nuns?” Lucas regretted that his voice squeaked, but Diego’s comparison bewildered him.
“Sí.” Diego had a faraway look in his eyes, almost seemed to be talking to himself. “I suppose nurses have it, too, but I think of it with nuns. I am Catholic, comprende?” He shrugged, smiled slightly. “She is serene, solemn. Dedicated to something that brings her joy, but the happiness seems—I don’t know how to explain it—as if it is distant, not touchable. As if she has given up something else that might have also been joyful in order to devote herself to what she has chosen. For Rachel, that would be her daughter and her work. Both make her happy—I don’t question that. It is that Rachel is too solemn, too often. The fire doesn’t show itself like it used to.”
Lucas thought he had seen the fire lately, in the form of anger. Rachel—at least the Rachel he had known—tended to be calm and serene, not easily ruffled. She tended toward passion and laughter. Anger was very out of character for her. He knew what Diego meant. Rick had mentioned it, too. Rachel had always felt things deeply and thrived on it. She now seemed…untouchable at that deeper level. Or as if she wanted to be untouchable. Truly untouchable, Lucas reflected.
Wounded. That was the word he’d chosen. It seemed more accurate than ever.
“I suppose the question is really whether the change is temporary or if she has lost part of herself that she can never get back.” Diego hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. He cleared his throat, changing the subject. “I will speak to my partners, amigo. I will think on the matter. I can promise you nothing. Your reputation is such that we may not be willing to take the risk. But I will consider it. As for you—” he pointed at Lucas “—you also have much thinking to do, no? Sometimes a man must take a chance, he must risk something, to do what he believes is right. You have been careless, amigo. You have not thought of anyone but yourself. To help your daughter, that is a good step. But you have many others to take. Think, Lucas, and do the right thing.”
With that, Diego stood, dropped money on the table, and left the clubhouse. Lucas sat transfixed. The conversation with Diego had covered many topics, even if Lucas had started it by asking for a job. Not that he had intended to do that, but it had broken the ice, so to speak. He was incredibly relieved that he was finally pursuing a career move—just admitting he needed to make one was helping. But Diego was right. He did have some loose ends to take care of. He suspected they would be more complicated than his job preference.
All in all, Lucas decided as he pocketed the keys to his Lexus, it was turning into a productive day. A satisfying day. He was making decisions and found that it felt surprisingly good. He wondered why he had always avoided decision making before, preferring instead to just let things happen. Today he knew the glow of taking charge of his life.
Of course, Diego hadn’t promised him anything beyond “thinking about” Lucas’s business proposition. Still, Lucas felt inexplicably hopeful about his chances.
The thing was that simply admitting he wanted out of Neuman Industries, letting someone else know, had taken a significant load off his shoulders. Lucas knew a big, dumb grin was spreading over his face just thinking about it.
His step felt lighter. His mood, too. Making a good decision could do that to a man. It was a new experience for Lucas.
Which brought him to the next decision he had made today. It had been remarkably easy, really. It was just a matter of doing it.
He’d spoken to Charles Toliver, company attorney for Neuman Industries, who had pulled out a couple sheets of paper. Lucas had signed them where Charles indicated and, just like that, Lucas was no longer listed as the owner of a certain condo in Scottsdale.
Neuman Industries had already been named as the secondary owner—had actually been paying for it—so signing over his individual interest in the property had not been at all complicated.
Lucas had wanted to tell Alana about the change of ownership right away, give her the key he still carried. He was washing his hands of this particular thing immediately. However, Alana had not been in the office. No one had been sure where she was, so Lucas decided to stop at the condo and either give Alana the key and paperwork or leave them for her. He could let himself in with his key one last time if it came to that.
Yes, his step was lighter than it had been in years.
He practically skipped up the stairs to the front door, ringing the bell excitedly.
When no one answered, a wave of disappointment washed over Lucas. He really had wanted to do this face-to-face. Still, all that really mattered was that he got it done.
He slipped his key in the lock and opened the door. He stepped inside, noting the cool white-and-gray interior.
No, he thought, not cool—it’s cold. Why did I ever let Alana convince me it was perfect?
He knew why. He wasn’t proud of it. But the simple truth was that it had been easier to let someone else make the decision, to follow what they stated to be the truth. Because it was easier than thinking for himself.
He walked from the tiled entry toward the living room, which was straight in front of him. He glanced around, wondering when he had last been inside the place. He had never really lived here. Of course, he and Rachel had lived here for about a year, but he’d been gone as much as he’d been here. Unpacking and repacking a suitcase. That was about the extent of it. Then, once Rachel had left, Alana had arrived. Lucas hadn’t wanted to live there, with or without Alana, so he’d left. It could never have felt like home to him. Yet, he had never bothered to legally disown the place.
This place still didn’t feel like a home to him, though. It didn’t feel like anyone really lived here. More like they just stayed here.
A rustling behind him made him turn around.
“Hello, Lucas,” came the purring voice that now grated on his ears rather than arousing him. “Change your mind after all? Do I have something you want?”
Alana, obviously emerging from her bedroom down the hall, was enfolded in something sheer and frothy and black. Lucas knew it was intended to tantalize but found he could only wonder why she was dressed like that at three o’clock in the afternoon. Her perfume wafted in his direction, smothering him from all sides as she drifted past him, continuing toward the kitchen.
Lucas followed her, eager to finish the business of relinquishing his claim on the condo. “No, Alana, not at all,” he called after her. “But I do have something to give you.”
“A gift?” She half turned back toward him, letting her wrap fall open so that her bare flesh was revealed.
“Not exactly.”
Alana’s movements were sure and precise. Lucas was slow to realize she had placed a bottle of champagne and two glasses on the counter.
“So, Lucas—” her eyes gleamed “—where shall we start?”
Soft thuds behind him caused Lucas to turn around again, bringing into his line of view the unmistakable sight of his tousled father clad only in a bathrobe.