Once Upon a Sunset

by Tif Marcelo

  It wouldn’t be the last time that night.

  part five Night

  When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.

  —Charles A. Beard

  Marysville, California

  April 17, 1944

  My dearest Antonio,

  I’m writing this letter under the pecan trees at the Ludlows’ orchard. When Onofre found me with your letter in hand, I ran straight to this spot and tried to remember us here months ago, before you left for the Army. I know it’s only been two weeks since you left San Francisco, but every minute without you is a hundred days.

  Things are different without you here. I am different, though the strikes have continued and the entire city is feeling the pressure. The tension is thick, but all I can think of is the last time you held me, before you left. Is that foolish? Do you find it silly that while there is so much fighting in our little town, all I can hold on to is my sadness? I’m convinced everything would be better if you were here. That you and I could find a place where it’s okay to be us, without the jeering, without the quiet side conversations from our friends. Without fearing my father’s disapproval.

  Onofre and I have made a plan for your letters. Mrs. Lawley’s shop is on his way to the barbershop, where he works, and on the days he receives a letter, he will slip it under the big rock behind the house.

  Your letter arrived wrinkled and dirty, but I have read it time and again. I want to write you about everything that’s going on, but the newspapers say we have to keep our letters cheerful. They remind us that what you need to know are the little things going on in our lives, the comforts of home. They say that we shouldn’t burden you with our thoughts and fears. I definitely don’t want to do that.

  I miss you, though. I want to hear you laugh, or see your crooked, dear smile. I picture it at night. While I tend to Mrs. Lawley or try to sew a seam, I think of you. My father asked yesterday if something was wrong, and I wish I could have told him. This secret between the two of us was fine when you were here. I could talk to someone about it—you. But now that you’re gone, I feel full to bursting.

  I want to get this letter out to Onofre soon, so I will have to end it here. I will write when I can. I love you with all of my heart, with every sunset.

  I remain here, and yours,

  Leora

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Margo glanced at the list of individual unread texts from Roberta and Cameron and in their collective group text while on the balcony at Las Cruces Hotel. It was already a balmy ninety degrees, but the sun was positioned just right so the balcony above her provided shade. She was still working on her first cup of tea. This would have been a perfect time to catch herself up, to read through not just her texts but also her emails and social media responses. This would have been the perfect moment to call Cameron to discuss their kiss and where that would go. But she couldn’t do it. She hadn’t been able to engage online since she left the United States, with not one shared photo, not one text.

  The outside word seemed irrelevant, and the virtual world more so. The only thing on her mind was this glaring hole in her identity that’d always been covered with excuses and acceptance. She’d reread her mother’s letters to her father again this morning, and while the words were legible, she couldn’t comprehend their meaning. What struck her was Leora’s neat, straight penmanship, the flair of a curlicue when she crossed her t’s. The flow of her sentences, such a familiar cadence. While she read those letters, Leora’s spirit was ever more present, and for a moment, Margo could take joy in pretending that her mother was still alive. And then, just as quickly, the feeling dissipated.

  The grief she thought she had begun to manage after Leora died had returned in full force, doubled now that she was grieving over what could have been with her father, too.

  But she couldn’t stop there. Because those letters didn’t tell the entire story.

  In front of her, next to her cup and saucer, was a pad of paper embossed with the hotel’s logo, scribbled with dots and petals, stems, and leaves. A field of daisies in blue ink. Now, she picked up a pen, and in between flowers, wrote out questions:

  Why did he choose you and not me?

  Did he love me?

  Did he love my mother?

  Her pen stilled at what she’d written. Since she and Diana had found her father’s letters, she had only harbored these questions within herself, never expressed them. There was a misconception that an artist always bared their soul in their work. Margo, despite years of photographing people at their most vulnerable, always kept a little of herself away, tucked behind where she hid her deep-seated fear of rejection. That fear was probably why she shielded herself behind her camera, pointing the lens at others to keep herself out of focus.

  Now it was time to face these questions, and quite possibly, receive unwanted answers.

  A door closing woke her from her thoughts. She saw the outline of Diana walking through the room, preparing for the day. The plan was for them to meet Colette and Joshua at the dock for the tour of Corregidor Island, a national historical marker of World War II. Though her father was still in the United States when MacArthur left the Philippines as the Japanese occupied Manila, the island was a memorial to both Filipino and American soldiers.

  After wincing at the sheer number of text messages, she opened a new one to Colette.

  Split up this afternoon? You and me to Sunset Corner and J&D to Corregidor?

  We are on the same wavelength.

  I will tell Joshua that I will stay?

  I will break the news to Diana.

  Good luck!

  “I’ll need it,” she whispered, then entered the hotel room. Margo folded her written note and popped it into the wide opening of her bag.

  Steam billowed out of the bathroom. While outside it was humid and muggy, inside it was a constant sixty-eight degrees, and it still warranted a warm shower.

  “I needed that.” Diana’s hair was ensconced in a towel, body shrouded in a fluffy white robe. She walked to Margo’s side. “But I’m ten out of ten going to end up falling asleep during the car ride.” She tipped her head down, and the towel spilled open, tresses tumbling out. “I’m starving now, though. Want to grab something to eat at the bar before we head out? I’m not planning on blowing out my hair—just going to scrunch it with gel and go.”

  Margo waited a beat, then another. “Diana, I think we should change our plans.”

  Diana flipped her hair up; tiny droplets of water hit Margo in the face and made her giggle. “Change them? Why?”

  “I want to see Flora. I don’t think I can wait the day to discuss the letters with her.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.” Diana’s lips pursed in disdain, likely as much at the change in plans as the fact that they were changing for Flora.

  Margo shook her head. “I mean, maybe I should go alone.”

  Diana walked into the bathroom and shut the door with her change of clothes in her arms. From the inside her voice echoed. “She doesn’t like me; I get it. I drank too much champagne yesterday and was probably really sassy, but when I’m around her, I get so angry.”

  “She never said she didn’t like you, so don’t assume that.” Margo checked herself in the mirror and readjusted her polka-dot bubble-sleeve top, eyeing the bathroom door, choosing her words wisely. “I think a more intimate conversation alone will suit her better. It might suit me better, too, so she and I can have a good heart-to-heart. Understand?”

  “I do, I guess.” The door opened, and Diana walked out wearing a black-and-white floral-print romper.

  Margo couldn’t help but smile. “You’re so adorable in that.”

  Diana looked away, bashful. “Well, you did get it for me.”

  “It’s perfect on you.” Margo scoured her daughter’s face. Diana seemed different today. Light, loose. It could have been the warm shower, or simply, because she wasn’t in her usual scrubs. “What do you say? We wouldn’t want your outfit to
go to waste. You can go out, and I can handle the old lady.” She winked.

  Make it like it’s her idea, Leora had said once. Diana had been at the sour age of four—because the terrible twos had been a misnomer in Margo’s experience. Twos were glorious. At two, their words weren’t quite as formed, unlike the fours, where they had enough logic and will to create chaos on purpose—and Diana had decided in the middle of the market to throw a tantrum over the wrong kind of apple. Only the red varieties were acceptable to Diana, and Margo had reached for a Golden Delicious.

  Leora had been there, and in a whisper reminded Margo that her little one wanted choices—that was all. Choice was its own power. Leora had picked two green apples, and presented them to Diana. “We have to have green apples for the dessert, Di, but you can pick which green apple you want. Will you do that?”

  And her daughter, hiccupping from the last of her tantrum, chose the Granny Smith.

  Right now was the green apple choice.

  Diana leaned against the bathroom doorway. “How will I know you’re okay? Do you have a plan on what to say? I know how you are, Ma. You’ll get around Flora and fall for the trap—you’re too nice to people.”

  Margo winced at the implication that she was a pushover. “Well, I figure, I’m okay now, aren’t I, and I feel like the worst part has passed. And I … I’m going to go with what feels natural to say. Though I promise to demand the truth.” She lifted her eyes to her daughter slowly.

  “Hm … we’ll definitely the get the answer faster if Flora feels comfortable, and she is most comfortable with you. And I don’t want to waste these tour tickets. Joshua, Colette, and I can still make a good day of it,” Diana began. “But I want you to promise me that you’ll bring your A game. Practice these words, Out with it. It’s what I tell my med students and interns. Like, bottom line up front.”

  Margo scrunched an eyebrow down. “Okay, but that’s not really my style. I’m more like a ‘Can you clarify?’ kind of woman.”

  “Nope. Just say it, Ma. I won’t leave until you do. Out with it.”

  “Out with it,” Margo said, in a normal voice, feeling silly.

  “Louder. Out. With. It.”

  “Diana, this is—”

  “Out! With! It!” Diana yelled. “Out! With! It!”

  “Okay! Fine, fine! Out! With! It!”

  Her daughter’s grin was smug and refreshing. “See, that wasn’t so bad, right?”

  Margo’s heart was pounding so hard from all the yelling, but Diana was right. It wasn’t bad at all. She laughed. “No, no it wasn’t.” She swallowed a breath. “Though our neighbors are probably calling the front desk as we speak.”

  She shrugged. “We know the owners, so … but remember, that if you feel weird at all—”

  “I’m out of there. Promise.” Margo held a hand up like a Girl Scout.

  “Okay.” Diana clapped her hands together. “I guess I’d better text and update Colette—”

  “Actually, she mentioned accompanying me if I felt the urge to see Flora earlier.”

  A knock on the door caused Diana to turn. She headed toward it. “Oh?” She opened the door to that handsome Joshua on the other side.

  “But there’s always you and Joshua.”

  Her daughter turned to her and rolled her eyes. “Sneaky, Ma, sneaky.”

  To that, Margo simply shrugged. “Caught red-handed.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Margo had arrived at Sunset Corner to find that Flora was napping.

  “Tita, do you want to go to the mall so you’re not bored? You’ll be impressed at how big it is. You can get your steps in, maybe buy some souvenirs? Whatever you’d like,” Colette said.

  They were standing in the kitchen, and Colette had just handed her a cold glass, frosted and filled with ice and what Margo suspected was lemonade. It wasn’t lemonade, though; it was citrus and sweet and woke her palate.

  “Oh my goodness,” she said, delight rushing through her. “What is this?”

  Colette beamed. “Calamansi juice.”

  Margo stared at the magic drink. “I need to find a way to grow calamansi. Anyway, no, I don’t want to miss Manang Flora when she wakes. I can walk around the grounds or read a magazine, anything, really. I’m not the kind of woman who gets bored.” Although, a tingle of guilt ran up her spine from her ignored work and communications with her friends that she should be responding to.

  “Hm.” Colette gnawed on her lip, looking deep in thought. Then her face broke into a smile.

  “What?” A smile burst from Margo’s lips, too. Colette was a joy, and Margo couldn’t help but be enamored by her. Was her half sister, Marilou, Colette’s mother, just as charming?

  The thought brought tears to her eyes. A sister. She’d cherished her friend-sisters. How much more would she have loved Marilou? She took a drink of the calamansi juice to steer her thoughts away, and thank goodness that Colette had turned to the refrigerator.

  Colette dug into the fridge with both hands. “Remember when I mentioned that you should show us your version of arroz caldo? Would you mind doing it now? I have chicken, ginger …”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Margo hedged. This woman was a restaurateur. Surely, in comparison, Margo’s food would taste like it came out of an Easy-Bake Oven.

  “I know it’s going to be delicious!” Colette turned around with ingredients in her arms. “Thank God for my belly. It’s like a little perch!”

  Margo giggled and helped her unload ingredients onto the wooden kitchen island: bone-in chicken, ginger, fish sauce, onions, and garlic.

  “Oh, and of course we have rice.” She gestured to a waist-high receptacle with buttons labeled 1, 2, and 3.

  “What is that?”

  “A rice dispenser. So will you do it? Not only is this Lola’s favorite dish, but the baby is hungry.” She splayed her hands against her tummy.

  Margo acquiesced, never one to say no to a pregnant mama. “Fine. C’mon, let’s do this before I lose my nerve.”

  It wasn’t that she was a horrible cook; Margo was a great cook, in fact. But Margo had never questioned if what she was making was authentic. She’d trusted her mother’s taste buds and then her own, and gradually morphed her recipes. For example, she used teriyaki and oyster sauce to liven up her chicken adobo, and she used sweet potatoes instead of regular potatoes in her picadillo. She didn’t want to insult Colette.

  But when she began to cook, and the scent of ginger and garlic frying in the oil hit her nostrils, Margo relaxed. She was back in her mother’s kitchen. She worked with ease, adding the chicken to brown on both sides, and then taking it out, then pouring in the rice to be coated in the seasoned oil.

  “Interesting, so you don’t cook the chicken in fish sauce first?” Colette asked.

  “I don’t. Honey, when you get old, you have to watch things like sodium,” Margo admitted. “But I have it available at the table, along with lemon.”

  “We add hard-boiled eggs and green onions to garnish.”

  “What a great idea. I’ll do that next time,” Margo said. Finally, she added water to the brim of the stockpot and covered it to boil.

  When she turned, Colette’s smile was gone, though her hands were still on her belly.

  “Are you okay, Colette?”

  “Yes and no.” Hesitation lined the sides of her eyes. “This is so … so wonderful. I love spending time with you, but in doing so, it highlights the precarious situation we’re in. Lola isn’t doing well, and our lives feel so upended with you here. The briefcase—Joshua said you were able to open it, and you found letters—goodness, it’s like everything I thought was … really isn’t.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I just totally upchucked my emotions right there, didn’t I?”

  “It’s okay; it is,” Margo reassured. “I’m a mess, too. Diana is feeling all kinds of emotions, too, though she is not quite as expressive. And those letters: they give us more of what happened, but not everything.”

 
There was a big question that had yet to be answered, though Margo kept that to herself. Margo didn’t reiterate that Colette’s grandmother was the reason Antonio steered away from Leora, and she would not blame Colette for that.

  “Can I say something else? Something that I hope doesn’t offend you?”

  “Colette, I don’t think there’s anything you could say that could offend me. I think we’re past it.”

  She smiled briefly. “I’m not sure how I feel about Joshua and Ate Diana. Not only because of the whole ‘he’s my adopted brother’ thing, but because I’ve never seen him so riled up and excited about anyone in such a long time. I’m a bit sad for him that she’ll be leaving soon.” She sipped on her juice. “But, Tita, I’m sad that you have to go, too. I guess I’m realizing this all might not end well.”

  “This trip doesn’t have to be my last,” Margo said. She was decades older than Colette and felt like she should say something wise, but at the moment, the tables could have been turned.

  Colette’s eyes glistened. “I want you to come back. You remind me so much of … my mom. It’s just the little things; you might find it silly.”

  “Tell me more,” Margo said, intrigued now. “What was Marilou like?”

  “She was smart, funny, and beautiful of course.” Colette smiled. “I only remember all the good things. Her laugh, the way she hugged—she used to wrap me in her arms so tightly and rub my back. She also loved chocolate.” Her smile faded, and she heaved a breath.

  “I’m so sorry, Colette. I know you must miss her.”

  “Thank you—God, it was so long ago. The car accident was just that, an accident. But seeing you is a little like having her here.” She sniffed. “Lola feels it, too; it’s in the way she looks at you. Since she’s gotten worse, she hasn’t wanted to speak to anyone. In fact, I don’t know the last time we had a meal together in her wing. We were all quite excited yesterday that she invited us for an after-party. You have given her energy. We don’t like to say the d word, but she is dying. And I think—I think she was waiting for something to give her some peace. Peace that might be you.”