by Susan Wiggs
This was his ex-wife’s weapon of choice. She used the kids to manipulate him. “Trini is troubled because we’re not doing a good enough job making this work for her.”
“How can it work when all she wants is to be a family? God knows, I hated growing up without a father. I feel like a monster, passing that along to my kids.”
“We tried, Lourdes,” said Dominic. “I gave it everything I had for the sake of the kids.”
“Then let’s try again. Don’t you think our kids are worth it?”
“They’re worth everything,” he said. “We’ve always agreed on that. They deserve the best life we can give them. I can’t do that with you. I can’t go back and fix something that wasn’t right in the first place.”
“Dom—”
“We don’t have to be together to help them be happy and feel loved. We just have to work at it. Tell you what. Let’s go back to that counselor we used in the divorce. She was really good with the kids. She’ll give us some fresh strategies.”
“You want to go into counseling?” Her eyes lit with a hope he wished he didn’t see.
“For the kids. Yeah, I’m willing.” He was frustrated. There was a part of him—no small part—that wanted to love this woman again. She was the mother of his children. Staying together as a family had an appeal that reached the deepest part of him. Yet he couldn’t manufacture an emotion that simply was not there. What they’d once had was gone, as empty as the wine bottles she used to try to hide from him. In the early days, crafting the perfect wine had been a shared love, but when she became an alcoholic, all that had changed. Now, his passion was his ex-wife’s poison.
“We can’t keep having this conversation,” he concluded. “The four of us will never be the family we once thought we’d be.”
Trini appeared around the corner from the backyard, her face pale and chin trembling as she glared from one to the other. “You promised,” she hurled at them both. “You said you’d fix things and we’d be a family again.”
“Sweetheart, we didn’t make you any such promise,” Dominic said. It was so hard to make the kids understand. There was no way to explain what had really happened, that Lourdes couldn’t handle the loneliness of separation while he was away, that she’d turned to other men and to drinking. It wasn’t fair to saddle the kids with that. “We are a family, but your mom and I can’t live together anymore.”
“Why not? That’s what moms and dads do. Mom said.”
He regarded his daughter, his heart feeling ripped in half. She’d been so little when they’d divorced. She didn’t remember the chilly, strained silences, the heavy fog of discontent that had hung over them all.
“I tried, baby,” Lourdes said, standing up and giving Trini a hug. Lourdes was antsy now; Dominic could practically see her craving. “But I have to go now, okay?”
Trini stood stiffly, watching Lourdes get in her car and take off. Then she turned accusing eyes on Dominic. “I just want to be a real family again.”
“We are a real family.”
“I hate the way we are.”
“Ouch.”
“Well, I do.” She kicked at a tuft of grass. “What’s for dinner?”
“I don’t know. What do you feel like? Want me to fix you something?”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay, how about you fix me something,” he suggested.
Just for a moment, a flash of interest lit her eyes but was quickly shuttered. “I only know how to fix toast.”
“Cool, then let’s make toast.”
Her chin trembled, and the look in her eyes tore at his heart. “Trini,” he said. “It’s going to be all right. Swear to God it will. Maybe not right now or tomorrow, but it will.” He gathered her into his arms, feeling a wave of emotion. When she was a baby, he used to hold her and gaze down in wonder into her precious face. She’d seemed so fragile and vulnerable to him, all he’d wanted was to protect her. Now she felt fragile in a different way, and he simply didn’t know how to make things better for her.
* * *
Charlie had taken to sleeping in Tess’s room. She didn’t know why. She’d never had a dog and never considered herself a dog person, but that didn’t seem to matter to the gangly German shepherd. She had no objection to his company, however. Some mornings were rough; she’d wake up with her heart racing in a generalized panic, and the sight of the big dog, curled up on the braided rug beside the bed, had a calming effect on her. He generally loved his sleep, but this morning, he awakened her with a tentative woof and trotted to the door.
“What?” she mumbled, blinking at the clock. “It’s six-thirty in the morning.”
He woofed again, so she got up, shrugged into a hoodie and tennis shoes and followed him down the stairs. He headed straight for the kitchen, nails clicking on the tiles, leading her straight to a pair of intruders.
“Hey,” she said. “What are you two doing here?”
Trini and Antonio Rossi stood inside the back door. “It wasn’t locked,” said Antonio.
“Isabel never locks,” Trini added.
“That doesn’t answer my question. Does your dad know you’re here?”
“He doesn’t mind,” Trini said.
“We’re hungry,” said Antonio.
“There’s no food at your dad’s house?” Tess helped herself to a glass of water and regarded them skeptically. They were so darn cute. But more than that, just the sight of them, the sound of their voices, even at the crack of dawn, lifted her heart. She let the dog out the back, into the chilly fog of early winter. The landscape was muted by mist in the windless air, the empty trees skeletal against the dun-colored grass.
“The food’s better here,” Antonio said.
“The food here is better than anywhere,” Tess pointed out.
“What a nice thing to say.” Wide awake and dressed for the day, Isabel breezed into the kitchen. “Hello, you two. You’re up early.”
“They’re hungry,” said Tess.
“My favorite kind of kids,” said Isabel. “Hungry ones.”
“What do you like for breakfast?” Tess asked them.
“Everything,” said Trini. “Just not Dad’s shredded wheat.” She wrinkled her nose.
“We can do better than shredded wheat.” With smooth efficiency, Isabel put a kettle on for tea, then handed each kid an apron. She tossed one to Tess. “Do you mind pitching in?”
Within a few minutes, the biscuit-making had begun. “This is the first thing my grandmother taught me to bake,” Isabel explained, “because it’s the simplest. But don’t be fooled. A lot of things can go wrong with biscuits, and they could turn out like hockey pucks.”
“Yeah, I hate when that happens,” said Tess.
“I take it you’ve never made biscuits from scratch.” Isabel demonstrated her techniques, letting them in on her trade secrets, such as sifting the flour from a height of at least a foot and grating the cold butter into the bowl. Within a few minutes, the kids were dusted with flour and giggling, and Tess forgot that mornings were supposed to be hard. Her heart was opening up, almost of its own accord. Bella Vista had woven a spell on her, and she no longer even tried to resist.
“Can you show me how it’s done?” she asked Isabel, following a crazy impulse.
“What, baking biscuits?”
“Not just baking. Fixing a meal.” All right, she told herself. Say it aloud. “I want to cook like a grown-up, not like I’m stuck in college.”
“Say no more.” Isabel took a pastry cloth from a hook on the back of the pantry door.
Tess joined in the lesson, surprised at how enjoyable it was to roll out the dough and place the dusty biscuits on an old, weathered pan.
She slid a sheet of biscuits into the oven and stood back, watching as Isabel coached the kids through cutting up apples, slicing grapes and celery and chopping walnuts for a fruit salad. Isabel had some kind of dressing to toss it in, made with honey and cardamom. It was nice, observing her sister’s gentle gu
idance.
“You’re good with kids,” she said. An olive branch, extended to bridge the gap after their quarrel.
A smile glimmered on Isabel’s face. “I’m good in the kitchen.”
“It’s more than that. You’re a good teacher.”
“Yeah? Thanks.”
And that was all it took to get over their quarrel, Tess realized. A look, a kind word. She was getting to like having a sister.
“Cooking’s fun,” said Trini. “Baking, too. We bake with our mom at Christmastime.”
Tess vibrated to attention like a struck tuning fork. She pictured the beauteous Lourdes, sweetly presiding over the holiday traditions.
“I bet that’s fun,” said Isabel.
“Not as much fun as presents,” said Antonio.
“And decorating the tree. Every year, we put up the tree in honor of our grandpa who died,” Trini said, her expression softening.
“You mean your grandpa Carlos?” Isabel said.
“He died a long time ago. It’s sad for our mom. She has a box of special ornaments that used to belong to her dad. Keepsakes, she calls them.” Trini used her finger to draw a K in the flour on the countertop. “Dad doesn’t have any keepsakes.”
Tess’s heart went out to the little girl, to both kids. “That sounds like a nice tradition,” she said.
“This year in school we made 3-D snowflakes,” said Antonio. “I wish it would snow. My favorite ornament is a mouse on a sled.”
“Mine’s a big gold one that opens up,” said Trini. “Sometimes Mom puts candy in it, and we’re supposed to think the treats are from Santa.”
Tess smiled. She was very comfortable with Dominic’s kids. “When I was your age, I had Christmas at my grandmother’s house in Dublin. My favorite ornament was a little bell made of white Belleek china. It had shamrocks on it.”
“This one’s all gold with swirls.”
Tess felt the smallest nudge, but she tamped it down. “Swirls, you mean like a color?”
“Yep. It’s really pretty.”
The phone rang, jangling into the morning. Isabel went to answer it. Trini ducked her head, but not before Tess read the guilt in her eyes.
“That’s your dad, isn’t it?” she asked the girl.
Trini nodded, gave the fruit salad a stir.
“You didn’t tell him you were coming here, did you?”
Without looking up, Trini shook her head.
“He’ll be here in a few minutes,” said Isabel, putting the phone back in its cradle.
“Are we in trouble?” asked Antonio.
“That’s up to your dad,” said Tess. “I’m guessing it’s not okay to take off at the crack of dawn without permission. Just a wild guess.” She hurried upstairs to get dressed, running a comb through her hair and brushing her teeth with a vengeance. Dominic arrived, looking tousled and put-out in a V-neck sweater and jeans, his glasses slightly askew, which Tess found wildly attractive.
He gave her a brief, smoldering look, but quickly turned his attention to the kids. “Not cool,” he told them both. “Not cool at all. What the h— What were you thinking?”
“It was Trini’s idea,” Antonio protested.
The timer rang, and Trini rushed to the oven. “The biscuits are ready!”
“Let’s all sit down to breakfast and talk about it,” said Tess.
“We have a rule,” Trini said. “No arguing at the breakfast table.”
“I wasn’t suggesting an argument.” She helped Isabel lay the table with warm biscuits, butter and jam, bowls of fruit salad and a pot of tea. There was something about the rhythm of the morning that felt right, despite the fact that it was horrendously early, and Dominic was ticked off at his kids. It made Tess feel as if she had a family. That was the part that felt right.
The kids dug right in. “Best breakfast ever,” Antonio said. “But it was still Trini’s idea.”
“If you didn’t like breakfast at home, you should have spoken up,” Dominic said. He slathered a biscuit with butter and sampled it. “You’re right. It is the best breakfast ever.”
“The kids made the biscuits,” Tess said. “They did a good job.”
“Fine,” said Trini, “I’m speaking up now. Breakfast is better here. So is lunch and dinner.”
“You can’t have breakfast, lunch and dinner here,” said Dominic.
“No offense, Dad, but the food’s way better here,” Antonio said.
“I never did learn to cook,” Dominic confessed to Isabel and Tess. “Went straight from home to the navy.”
“Mom doesn’t cook, either,” Trini mumbled.
Tess saw Dominic stiffen. “You’re a smart guy,” she said quickly. “You make the best wine I’ve ever tasted. Fixing food’s got to be easier than that. How about you let Isabel teach you, same way she taught the kids this morning? Could you do that, Isabel?”
“Definitely.” Isabel served more fruit to the kids.
“I’m eating celery, Dad,” said Antonio. “See?”
“I thought you didn’t like celery.”
“I thought so, too.”
“It’s all in the execution,” Tess said. She’d found this morning’s cooking lesson ridiculously charming. It made her feel closer to Dominic’s kids, filling her heart with a kind of warmth she hadn’t felt before. Isabel’s kitchen was a magical place in that way, she was discovering.
“Who knew?” asked Dominic.
“We can have another tonight, then.” Isabel pushed back from the table. “You can come over after work.”
“Yeah, Dad.” Trini jumped up and helped clear the table. “It’ll be fun.”
He shot a look at Tess. “I have you to thank for this.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And you’re not going to get out of helping.”
“I already had a turn cooking with Isabel,” said Tess.
“Ah, but cooking is like any other fine art,” Isabel reminded her. “There’s always something new to learn.”
Part Nine
RUSTIC TOMATO SAUCE WITHOUT ANY BITTERNESS
People go to too much trouble to chop things fine. It’s also not necessary to oil the pan for fresh tomatoes. Let the food keep its own character.
6 pounds beefsteak or heirloom tomatoes
4 star anise pods
1 vanilla pod
sea salt & cracked black pepper to season
white sugar—a pinch, if needed
2 sprigs of fresh thyme
1–2 bay leaves
Infusion fresh garlic one bunch fresh basil extra virgin olive oil
Heat a heavy gauge pan. Place a heavy cast iron pan to heat up on the rangetop. Wash the tomatoes and cut into rough halves or quarters. Place into the hot pan and season with salt, pepper and a touch of sugar. Add the anise and vanilla. As the tomatoes start to cook, press them gently with a masher to release their juice. Reduce the heat to a simmer and slowly cook to a thickened paste. This should take 1–2 hours. The slow evaporation of moisture will produce a deep flavor without any bitterness.
Meanwhile, prepare the infusion. Warm the olive oil in a pan. Crack the garlic with the flat of a knife and add along with the basil. Combine with the warm tomatoes and finish with a good amount of oil. Serve over pasta or bread, with a grating of cheese on top.
Twenty-Five
Tess spent the day exploring the many rooms of Bella Vista. In her profession, the act of seeking something often yielded information she didn’t know she needed—a repair stub, a letter, a receipt from a pawn shop. That was her hope, anyway. The two upper stories were a maze of bedrooms and linen closets, none of them used in what appeared to be decades. She found herself wondering about the families that used to live here, inhabit these rooms. What had become of them? What other secrets did they hold?
“I try to dust every few weeks,” said Ernestina, parting the drapes of one of the rooms to reveal tiny particles drifting in the sunshine. “It gets away from me, though.”
&nbs
p; For the most part, the rooms were orderly, crammed with vintage furnishings, shelves of books and collectibles. Tess noticed a rare Limbert turtle-top table with curved ends, a Gustav Stickley bookcase and an impressive collection of Rookwood pottery vases worth thousands of dollars. The liquidation sale, once the foreclosure went through, was going to be remarkable, she thought, her heart sinking.
“Which room was Erik’s?” she asked Ernestina.
The housekeeper started down the hall. “On the far end, here. I’ll show you. There’s not much to see,” she cautioned.
Tess wasn’t sure what she’d feel, seeing the room where her father had grown up. It was spare, a twin bed with a plaid coverlet of boiled wool, a desk and bureau. Everything was perfectly neat, as though frozen in time for a teenaged boy. There was a Berkeley Bears pennant and a Pink Floyd poster on the wall, and a few framed photos of Erik as a boy. But she saw nothing telling, nothing that would fill in the blanks of the missing egg. And certainly nothing that would fill in the blanks Tess had carried around inside herself forever. She felt absolutely no connection to this long-gone person.
There was a collection of postcards on a tack-board. She picked it up and studied the images—Las Vegas in all its kitschy 1980s glory, Big Sur, the Santa Monica Pier, the horse racetrack at Santa Anita Park.
“Those are from Carlos Maldonado,” said Ernestina. “He and Erik were best friends.”
“Would it be all right if I read them?”
“Of course. He was your father. I’ve heard it said that the dead keep no secrets.”
“That’s not been my experience,” murmured Tess. “What was he like?”
Her eyes misted. “He was bright and charming. He made everyone laugh. He was not perfect—who is? He was young and reckless and made mistakes. But everyone loved him.”
Including his wife and mistress, thought Tess.
In a desk drawer amid old papers and dried-up markers, she found a small framed needlepoint phrase: Live This Day. She took a quick, cautious breath. “Do you remember when Erik was born?”
Ernestina smoothed her hand down the coverlet on the bed. “Eva had female troubles. She and Magnus went to the city to see a specialist, and she spent months there. Erik was tiny when they brought him home, but he grew fast. Before long, everyone forgot how he’d started out.”
