by Tia Louise
“You’ve changed since the last time I saw you.” Beto’s voice rouses me, and I look over to see him studying me from the driver’s side of his truck. His window is down, and the wind pushes his collar-length hair around his temples.
“It’s been almost four years.”
“Yes. A long time.”
“You hardly ever called… We rarely saw you. Why?” I’m old enough to know.
He tilts his head to the side. “I was working, taking care of business, protecting our interests.”
My eyes fall to the holstered gun on the console.
“Why do you have a gun?”
“Because I live in Texas.”
“Jesus said if you live by the sword, you’ll die by the sword.”
He exhales a chuckle. “I have no intention of dying any time soon, mija.”
He keeps saying that. No one has called me mija since my mother passed.
“Did you visit Mamá’s house?”
“Yes.” His brow lowers. “I saw the pit you lived in at Villa de Santa María.”
“It was not a pit!” I shift in my seat to face him.
Granted, I was only a kid when I left my mother’s ranch, but it was a beautiful place full of art and light and happiness.
“It’s a broken-down shack with no air conditioning, no Wifi. I’m surprised it had indoor plumbing.” Disgust permeates his tone. “Our family are not peasants.”
“It was a lovely place. The night breezes kept us cool, and we didn’t need the Internet. We talked and sang songs.” My eyes go out the open window to the brown, dusty road, and I remember the colors, the joy I felt as a child in Mexico. Everything here is brown and dusty, and the wind never stops blowing.
His nose curls. “You should have lived like queens.”
“We’re not royals, Beto, no matter how proud you are.”
“All that changes now.” He pulls into the driveway of the small studio. “Tonight you’ll pack your things. You’re coming to live with me.”
“Live with you where?”
“Lakeside Estates.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Lakeside!” It’s one of the richest gated communities in the city. “How?”
“I bought a house there last week.” His eyebrows rise, and he looks proud but also a bit smug—like he had something to prove, and he did. “Closed on it this morning before I came to get you. You’re not working at that coffee shop anymore, either.”
All this new information has my head spinning. “I like working at the coffee shop.”
“If you owned it, that would be one thing. You’re not working as a waitress. It’s beneath you.”
“It helps pay my bills. And the schedule is flexible so I can do my art—”
He leans towards me, holding up a finger. “End of discussion.”
Fat chance of that.
“I’m not quitting my job.” I jerk the door handle and slide out of his truck.
Just before I close the door, our eyes catch. Anger flashes in his, but I flash right back. I’m not afraid of Roberto. He’s my brother, and while we might not be close, we’re still family. He won’t hurt me.
“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
“I’ll catch a ride like I always do.” My heart’s beating fast, but I’m doing my best to hold my ground.
“I’ll be here in an hour.”
“Let your inner child play.” Professor Roshay circles the small room, giving feedback as we work. “Relax… Set her free!”
Every year, one of Farrell Roshay’s students wins the Arthaus “Artist in Residence” award. It’s a massive, twenty-thousand-dollar gift that includes six months to create, culminating in a private show at the Palladium Gallery in downtown Dallas.
Uncle Antonio has helped me pay for these studio classes since I graduated from community college two years ago, and I want that award so badly, it hurts.
I’m standing in front of my latest piece, a four-foot canvas covered in energetic swirls of red-orange and coral with yellow and white, brown and forest green cast highlights and depth.
Rising above it all is a black charcoal outline of a horse with its tail fanning out. Its mane swirls up and around its powerful, bowed head. In the foreground is the rear and back legs flexing and stomping.
The horse is in a gallop, consumed in the colors like a cyclone.
I’m lost in the movement of the piece, a spiral curl falls onto my cheek, and I push it back, leaving a smudge of paint across my skin. I don’t care. My spirit is free, running wild, eating up the miles, chasing the sunset. I’ve shaken off the scars of my past. My fear is gone, and I can do anything I want. I’m invincible.
“Angelica!” Professor Roshay stops behind me, holding out her arms. “I feel the energy radiating from this piece. Tell me what you’ve done here.”
My breath catches. We have two classes left before graduation, and every piece, every class feeds into consideration for the award. Every interview is a judgement, every answer a step closer or a strike back.
Swallowing my nerves, I ignore the smear of paint on my face, the messiness of my hair, and I speak from my heart. “I’m calling it Spirit. The horse is the spirit of the west, but he can also be the spirit of the viewer. He’s a mustang, free to run the grasslands, swept up in the fire of the desert, the glow of the setting sun.”
“I see it. Now tell me about your technique.”
My heart is beating so hard—deep breaths… “I knew the colors and the movement of the sketch would dominate the canvas. For the highlights, I wanted to do something special. I dipped my fingers in the paint and made these smudges, these glows around the nose and jaw with my hands.”
“Finger painting?” Her eyebrow arches, and my stomach drops. “A primitive and unexpected choice.”
“It felt right.”
She nods, taking a few steps, tapping her finger against her lips. “Inventive. I like it.”
I swallow the squeal bubbling in my throat, and answer calmly. “Thank you.”
She continues down the row, and I close my eyes, fighting tears. Spirit is one of my favorite pieces. I can’t wait to show it to Deacon. I can’t wait for Uncle Antonio to see it. I’ll include it in my portfolio when I apply for the award.
“Our time is at an end.” Professor Roshay claps, and it’s the signal to clean up. “Our last meeting is next week, then the Arthaus application opens online. Good luck.”
I float through cleaning and wrapping my brushes, stowing my palette, wiping the paint off my face, and head out the door with a smile on my lips, visions of winning that coveted award in my head. Not even my scowling brother in his truck can dampen my mood. He’s on the phone the entire drive to Valeria’s small house, so it doesn’t matter.
“Beto!” Valeria’s happy cry echoes through the tiny house as we enter. “You’re here!”
She’s in the kitchen holding out her arms for a hug. Valeria is five years older than my brother, ten years older than me, and she’s always treated us like her children.
“Hi, Beto.” Lola is her oldest daughter. She’s at the bar arranging tortillas in baking dishes. “Hey, Carmie.”
“Hey.” I go to where she’s standing. “Need some help?”
“Sure.”
“Damn, I’m hungry.” Beto steps over and steals a pinch of shredded cheese.
The kitchen smells like sizzling chicken and steak and tomatoes and peppers. The whole place is mouthwatering.
“Get a drink out of the cooler and go see your uncle.” Valeria is beside me, pulling down plates. “We’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
An hour later, we’re all on the side patio of my cousin’s house, bellies full of enchiladas and guacamole and pico de gallo and so much good food. I’m leaning against the wall of her brick patio under a stream of white twinkle lights. It’s beautiful, and I’ve got to go inside and pack my things and call Deacon. The men sit at the table finishing their drinks, and it’s so familiar, a life that brushed past me like an e
cho.
“At some point, Beto, you have to make peace with the world.” Uncle Antonio pulls on his cigar.
Uncle Antonio owns a used car dealership and makes a good living. Valeria owns this house off what her father earns, and she doesn’t have to work as a nurse. She just wants to.
Her husband was a Marine who died in Afghanistan. She keeps his American flag in a glass case on her mantle.
“Don’t be like your father, driving everyone away.”
My uncle’s words catch my attention. I barely remember my father. Mamá left him when I was so little, and while they never divorced, they never lived together again. All Mamá ever said was she couldn’t be like him, vengeful, bitter.
“I can make peace with a world where justice has been served.” My brother’s hand is on a tumbler of Mezcal.
“That’s not how the world works, my son.” My uncle tilts his tumbler of whiskey back and forth. It’s the same glass he’s had all night. “At least not the real world.”
Valeria and Lola have cleared away the plates and serving dishes, and they’re inside finalizing plans for Lola’s quinceañera on Saturday. I had planned to bring Deacon as my date, so I could introduce him to everyone as more than a friend, show them he’s good and not our enemy.
Now I’m worried my brother will cause problems.
“It’s how the real world should work.” Beto seems relaxed, but his voice has an edge in it. “It’s how my world works.”
“Such attitudes lead to trouble.” My uncle’s eyes level on my brother, and anxiety is sticky in my chest. “We’ve had enough violence to last a lifetime, Roberto.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s been buzzing with texts from Deacon all through dinner, and I’ve been sneaking replies, doing my best to hide my smiles. I’m so happy he’s home.
Meet me at the park at ten? His latest text sends a flutter in my stomach. I want to see him. I want to kiss him and hold him.
During the summers, Deacon and I would meet at the park just down from Valeria’s house, then he’d drive us to the Yellow Rose lookout tower just outside of town.
It’s a beautiful old stone structure on a hill overlooking a lake.
When I don’t reply, he texts again, Park… ten.
My chest clenches, and I ache for him. I wish I could touch the number and call him, let him hear my voice so he can know how I feel…
Instead, I tell him what’s happening, I’m moving to my brother’s tonight.
Where?
Lakeside. Not sure the address. Will send when I know.
I can only imagine his surprise at this news. I’m still surprised, but I can’t linger. In the kitchen, Valeria and Lola are at her laptop looking at photos on Pinterest. Valeria’s baby daughter, four-year-old Sofia pushes between them, doing her best to be a part of what’s happening.
Lola pushes her back like an annoyed big sister, so I swoop Sofia onto my hip so she can see over them. We watch a minute, then I kiss their heads.
“I’d better get packing.” I’m about to put Sofia down when she squeezes me tighter.
“I can help!”
“Okay, little monkey.” I’ve taken care of Sofia since she was a baby, since the day she emerged in the delivery room, and I was there holding Valeria’s hand. It’s possible I’ve spoiled her a little… although not enough to be bad.
“I don’t want you to go.” She puts her light brown head on my shoulder, chewing on her thumb. “I’ll miss you, Cee-cee.”
“But you’ll have your own room. No more sharing with Lola.”
“I don’t want my own room.” Her little voice is so sad, it tugs at my chest, but I know there’s no turning back from this.
“You’ll love it! You can decorate it however you want. It’ll be special.”
The small room where I spent the past eight years is not special. It’s decorated in the same pale green and pink flowers Valeria put here before I arrived. The twin bed where I slept is covered in a quilt, and the only decorations are my mother’s photos. I have two hung on the walls, but the rest are stored away in albums.
I deposit my little cousin on the bed, and she looks up at me with wide eyes. “Are you scared to live with Uncle Beto?”
Beto’s not her uncle, but I don’t bother correcting her. I’m sure it’s what Valeria told her to call him.
“He’s my brother.” I give her caramel ponytail a gentle tug. “I’m not scared of my brother.”
I am annoyed at being passed around like a football. I wish I’d have gotten a little forewarning about his plans, but that’s not something I can get into with her. I’ve made my choices, and my choices have left me with very few options financially.
“Maybe one day soon I can get my own place.” If I win that award.
“Mamma says girls shouldn’t live alone. She says it’s not safe.” Sofia watches me pack, and I keep my opinions about Valeria’s old-fashioned notions to myself.
Loading my toiletries into a backpack, I heft it onto my shoulder, catching Sofia’s hand and rolling my suitcase to the kitchen. It seems I should have more than one suitcase after eight years, but I grew up simply. I haven’t changed.
“I’ll come back for the rest of my art supplies tomorrow.”
“I’ll bring them over in the morning.” Valeria smiles up at me from where she sits at the table beside her daughter. “Is that all you have?”
“That’s it!” I deposit Sofia into the chair beside them.
My cousin stands, pulling me into a hug. “It’s going to be strange not having you here.”
“I’ll have my own room at last!” Lola bounces in her chair, and Sofia falls back, crossing her arms.
“I will, too.” Her voice is pouty.
I turn to Valeria. “I didn’t know Beto’s arrival would change so many things.”
After our short conversations in his truck, I don’t know what to expect of living in my brother’s house, and while I hope for the best, I don’t know if I should be happy or afraid.
Valeria gives me a tight smile. “Try to remember he only wants what’s best for you… for his family.”
“Apparently what he thinks is best is acting like it’s the 1950s.”
She laughs, light filling her eyes. “You two are so much alike. You’re going to be fine.”
My brother takes the suitcase from my hand, inspecting it with a frown. “That’s all you have?” I shrug, and he waves me to the truck. “We’ll take care of this later.”
Whatever Valeria says, I’m not sure this is going to be fine.
3
Deacon
“Seeing you, sitting there… You’re the spitting image of your father.” My aunt Winnie smiles at me from the head of a long, ranch oak table in the dining room of our family mansion.
She’s wearing a sleek, emerald-green dress, and her straight white hair is swept back in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She’s a stern old broad, an elegant beauty, but she’s always been sweet to me. Dad would say it’s because I’m her only nephew. I’m the only anything, since she never had any children, and they have no other siblings.
A fire is burning in an oversized hearth behind me. She runs the air conditioner so she can have a fire at dinner. It’s pretty much the height of old Texas overindulgence.
“That’s what everybody says. With my grandmother’s eyes.”
She lifts a glass of red wine. “Your visits give me such joy. I’m sure you’ll never know. I’m so glad you’re finished with school. I hope to see you more.”
That last bit is a passive-aggressive dig, but I let it pass. One of my late father’s last requests was I take care of his sister, so I have dinner with her once a week when I’m in town and do my best to tolerate her outdated notions about life and politics.
I love my aunt, but she’d rather fight than evolve. It’s not how I want our relationship to be—if I can help it.
“I’ll always make time for our weekly dinners.” I return her smile, doing my
best to tamp down my frustration over how this day played out.
My plan when I left Harristown this morning was not to be having dinner with my aunt. I drove two and a half hours, straight to La Frida Java, in the hopes of being in Angel’s arms right now.
Then her brother appeared.
Then it all went to hell.
My jaw tightens. I’ve wanted to meet Angel’s family for years. She always said no. She always had a reason we needed to wait. Now I’ve been texting her all day, wanting to see her, and she’s moving to Lakeside? I’m happy, but I’m confused.
“Do you not like your salad?” Winnie eyes me from above the rim of her heavy crystal goblet.
“It’s fine.” I stab at the plate of purple and dark green lettuce in front of me. Yellow beets, pecans, and balls of goat cheese adorn the center. “I like this cheese.”
“Chèvre, Deacon.” She shakes her head as if I should know better. “What would your mother say?”
I have no idea. My mother died before I ever had the chance to know her. Winnie doesn’t allow for follow-up.
“I must know…” She tilts her head to the side. “Why do you insist on having an apartment downtown? Why not move in right here? There’s plenty of room for the two of us.”
I glance around our family’s one-hundred-year-old estate. Ten bedrooms, eight and a half bathrooms, it’s an imposing structure with a grand foyer and a balcony that runs the entire square length. Everything smells of leather and furniture polish and age.
“I’m an adult, Win.”
“So what?” She acts offended. “Many of the old families live together in compounds. The house affords plenty of privacy. Besides, who’ll look after me if I were to fall or become ill?”
“You’re in no danger of that. Even if you were, the butler, the maid—”
“The hired help.” Her expression folds like a deck of cards. “How horrifying.”
She holds up the bell, giving it one ring, and immediately servers appear to remove our salad plates. They’re replaced with dishes of steak and garlic shrimp with potatoes on the side.
