by Tia Louise
It’s dark as I pick my way through the open floorplan, and the rain grows stronger. I pray Deacon is still running ahead of the storm as I make my way across the first floor.
I’m unfamiliar with the layout of this giant place. I have no idea if my brother’s bedroom faces the street or if it faces the lake. Hell, for all I know he could’ve been looking down at us the whole time… That’s a creepy thought.
A stairway leads from the kitchen, which is all stainless and stone, and I follow the steps curving up like something out of an old castle.
Chairs covered in cow hide patters, heavy leather sofas with brass studs, and chunky wooden tables fill the rooms. Paintings of horses and cattle drives are on the main walls. It’s a beautiful place, if not very warm.
My room is cozier than the rest of the house. Instead of stone, the floors are dark wood with a thick white rug covering the walk from the door to the queen-sized bed. It’s made up in red-orange with cream pillows.
“I remember when you were little your favorite colors were the sunrise.” Beto had said when he showed me the room.
He was almost hospitable, and I felt guilty for thinking he couldn’t be nice. He cares enough to decorate my room in colors I like.
I hung Mamá’s black cross photo above my bed. It’s the one thing that helps me feel like she’s still with me, even after all these years.
Her smaller prints are in the albums, but this image she blew up and stretched like a canvas. It’s very similar to an O’Keefe painting, even though it’s a photograph. I’ve spent the last year trying to create something of my own to compliment it.
Mamá worked in intensely dark, cool colors, but my palette is the exact opposite. Eye popping, warm yellows and beaming orange-reds are the spectrum I prefer. I’ve been experimenting with a technique of adding glaze and baking them to create a thick, glassy coating.
Shedding my dress, I go to the bathroom attached to my room and quickly shower. Restoring my panties and pulling on a long tee, I crawl into my bed, memories of Deacon humming under my skin.
A motorcycle ride, no panties, my arms around his waist, my body pressed against his… It’s a potent aphrodisiac. I was practically coming at his first kiss, his first touch. After all the weeks of separation, I couldn’t get enough of him. I thought, This is what freedom feels like—this glorious man in my arms. This is pure joy.
My phone buzzes under my pillow and I pull it out to see his text. Home… dreaming of your beautiful smile, soft lips…
Smiling, I slide my finger over the face. Dreaming of your ethereal eyes.
Ethereal… Good one.
I exhale a laugh as I tap my reply. Thank you for rescuing me, handsome prince.
Goodnight, beautiful Angel.
Closing my eyes, I drift into a relaxed sleep, the scent of Deacon in my hair, the memory of his kiss warming my lips. Dreams of my mother’s place float in my mind, the trees full of dark green leaves, the black-gray mountains rising in the distance, the little cottages dotted along the slopes… so beautiful, so colorful. I long to take him there, to live there with my love in the place where I knew so much love.
It’s going to work out.
It’s got to.
“Anybody home?” Valeria’s voice echoes through the house, and I hear the scuffing of little feet on the stone stairs.
“Carmie?” Sofia’s voice bounces off the stone walls of the second-floor hall.
Rolling onto my back, I groan, rubbing my eyes and trying to hold onto the last remnants of a dream. I was wrapped in Deacon’s arms, lying in a warm blanket in my mother’s home.
“Carmie!” She grows more insistent, her tone touched with worry.
“In here Soph!” I throw the blanket back and walk over to pull on my black yoga pants.
Swift scuffling precedes the rattling of my doorknob. I’ve just dropped a long-sleeved tee over my head as she opens the door. She’s dressed in purple leggings and a white shirt with a mermaid on the front. On top of all of it is a green, purple, and white tulle skirt.
Her dark brown hair is up in two ponytails that hang in ringlets on each side of her head. She’s the cutest thing. Wide brown eyes meet mine before looking around my impressive new bedroom. It’s twice the size of the one I had at her house.
She walks in slowly. “Is Uncle Beto a king?”
“He thinks he is.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice as I go into the attached bathroom to wash my face.
It’s the same beige travertine as the rest of the house, and Sofia is right behind me.
“Does that mean you’re a princess?” She slides an empty drawer open before going to the next empty one. Looking up at me, her nose wrinkles. “You don’t have any stuff.”
“You know what that means?” I pull a knock-off brand Neutrogena wipe from a package.
“You need to go to the store.” She nods, rolling her eyes like, duh.
“It means I’m just the same as I always was.” I tap her nose lightly, tossing the wipe into the trash can under the sink. “Only the house has changed.”
She walks into my bedroom again and climbs onto my big bed. “It’s a nice house.”
“It’s just a house.” I know as well as anyone how fast circumstances change.
She’s perched on my bed thinking, her cute little head tilted to the side. “But don’t you like Uncle Beto?”
“I want to like him.” Walking into the room, I hold out my arms and she stands so I can bounce her onto my hip.
“Don’t you have to like him? Cause he’s your brother?” She shakes her head when she talks, causing her ponytails to sway.
“Well… I haven’t seen him in almost four years. And just because someone is your brother doesn’t mean he’s a nice person.”
She presses her rosebud lips together and nods slowly as if she understands completely. I trot down the landing with her on my hip, straight into Valeria’s waiting hug.
“It was so weird not having you at the house this morning. Beto might have to let you sleep over a few nights until we get used to it.”
The idea we have to ask my brother’s permission like he’s my dad or something bristles my skin, but I let it go. “Did you bring the rest of my stuff?”
“I put your art there.” She gestures to the tall canvases and paper-covered items leaning against the wall in the foyer. “I wasn’t sure where you wanted it. Beto says we’re not having Lo’s Quince at the KOC. We’re having it right here.”
I expected as much, but I think my brother is probably right on this one. “It’s better this way. We have plenty of room, people can stay as long as they want, and best of all?”
“It’s free.” We both say it together and laugh.
“Not entirely free. We still have to buy all the decorations, the food, drinks…” Her voice trails off, and I know she’s worried about money.
Growing up in her house, we were always worried about money.
“I’m pretty sure if my brother told you to move the party here, he’s planning to help with everything.”
“How do you know that?”
“Trust me. I’ve been around Beto less than twenty-four hours, and I have a pretty good idea how his ego runs. Now where’s the dress?” I follow her across the large entrance to the dining room where my younger cousin’s elaborate ballgown is spread over a table.
Lola saved a pin on Pinterest of a dark red gown with a gold-embellished bodice and a tiered, floor-length skirt made of layers of dark red tulle.
Valeria complained loudly a thousand dollars for a dress is too expensive. Lola almost burst into tears, but I secretly ordered the pattern with Valeria’s help, and I’ve been sewing it in my spare time. It’s almost done, and it’s spectacular.
It’s almost finished, but we still have some beading to do and the final tier of tulle in the skirt. I spread the fabric and thread on the table.
“I hope I measured correctly. I wish we could have her try it on.”
Valeri
a makes a sad face. “It would ruin the surprise.”
“Yeah…” I exhale, fluffing the enormous skirt over and over. “It’ll be more ruined if it doesn’t fit.”
That pulls her up short. “You make a point.”
“Ah, good morning, Valeria, good morning, Carmelita.” Beto’s deep voice interrupts everything. “What’s this?”
He’s dressed in black jeans and a white undershirt. His arms are covered in tattoos of snakes and skulls and an eagle crushing bones in its talons.
“I’m finishing Lola’s Quince dress.” Lifting it by the hanger, I shake it so the skirt moves in all its queenly glory.
Looking at it now, I can’t believe I did it myself, and a rush of sentimental pride warms my chest. Smiling over at my brother, all I see is his disapproving face.
“Why are you sewing her dress?” He says it like it’s distasteful, and my smile melts.
“Beto!” Valeria scolds. “Carmie has been working on this dress for weeks! It’s a wonderful thing she’s doing for Lo.”
“Poor people make their own clothes. Why didn’t you buy something from a store?”
“This dress would be more than a thousand dollars in a store.” I don’t even try to hide my annoyance.
“I’ll buy her dress. Where should she go? Neiman’s?”
“She is not going to a store.” Valeria’s wide eyes meet mine, and she shakes her head. “She will wear this beautiful dress. Carme has worked hard… Lola will wear this, and it will be something to treasure. An heirloom.”
“Whatever.” My brother waves his hand before going out the kitchen door to the garage. “Just remember I offered to buy her a real dress.”
“Don’t worry.” I won’t forget it. I have to fight every instinct in my body not to grab the oversized pepper grinder off the table and throw it at him.
“What’s his problem?” I say under my breath, blinking back a tear. “Why is he so… awful?”
Valeria puts her arm around me, pulling me in for a hug. “Just ignore him. Men doesn’t understand these things. Having you make this dress is so much more special than buying it from a store.”
“I’m glad you think so. It’s my gift to Lo.” A knot is in my throat. “But if you think she’d prefer a dress from the store, from a real designer, and not something homemade—”
“She’s going to love this dress.” Val gives me another firm squeeze then releases me and takes out her tape measure. “Your brother is proud and a little arrogant. He’s like your father… and your grandfather.”
I watch as she trails the tape along the waist of the gown, making a note of the measurement.
Leaning forward, I lower my voice to a whisper. “How does he afford it all?”
She shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “Apparently he did well in Mexico.”
“Did well in Mexico?” I can’t hide the surprise in my voice. “What does that mean?”
“Not what you’re thinking, I’m sure.” Dark eyes cut up at me, and I feel my cheeks heat at the scold in her voice. “Your brother is an honest man, Carmelita.”
“I didn’t mean that. I don’t know him very well. I don’t know what he does for a living. It’s like he’s a big mystery to me.”
“Beto’s no mystery.” She takes out one of Lo’s old dresses and lays it on top of the one I’ve made, holding the seams to see if they match. “He’s just caught up in the past.”
“What past?”
She shrugs, tossing the dress over her arm. “Things that don’t matter now. Your mamá took you to Mexico to get away from the drama.”
“What drama? Why do I feel like everyone’s keeping secrets from me?”
“No one’s keeping secrets!” She waves her hand as she pushes out of her chair. “I’m just not repeating gossip. Anyway, you’re right. I need to get Lo to try this on. It would be awful if it didn’t fit. Especially after all your hard work.”
My curiosity is on overdrive, and I want to stop her, make her tell me what she is clearly hiding from me. Front and center in my brain is the promise she demanded I make all those years ago.
But Valeria is out the door before I can stop her. “Watch Sofia for me, okay?”
“Yay!” My little cousin climbs into my lap, and Val is gone before I can say another word.
“They can’t keep me in the dark forever.” My eyes are on the mahogany front door, but my thoughts are miles away.
“I don’t like the dark.” Sofia is on my lap tracing her little fingers through the tiers of her sister’s skirt. “Lo’s going to be a princess.”
I wrap my arms around her and give her a squeeze. “She should be a princess. A girl only gets one quinceañera.”
Although, I never had one—not that I’m bitter or complaining. Mamá was too sick, and by the time she died, my birthday had already passed. Even if it hadn’t, I wouldn’t have felt like celebrating without her.
Sofia nods quickly. “Like Princess Aurora.”
I lean to the side to catch her brown eyes. “You sure know a lot about the princesses all of a sudden.”
She tilts her head like a little expert. “Mamma put Disney plus in my bedroom to help me sleep.”
“Is that so?” I bite back a grin.
“Yes. I know all the princesses.”
I pinch her little chin. “Who’s your favorite?”
“Well…” She exhales heavily. “Elena looks the most like me. She likes the ocean and adventures and she has a sister named Isabel… but she doesn’t have a movie.”
Not going to lie, I’m not familiar with Elena, but I wasn’t a princess type of girl. “I bet she gets one.”
“You’re babysitting now?” Beto’s return interrupts our conversation. “Where’s Valeria?”
Sofia shrinks against my chest, and I cut my eyes at him. “Spending time with family isn’t babysitting.”
“Seamstress… babysitter… waitress…” He shakes his head. “My sister doesn’t do these things.”
My littlest cousin’s arm goes around my waist as if she’s trying to hide, which pisses me off. “Your sister does what she wants. Don’t you have anything better to do than stalk around here insulting people?”
“I haven’t insulted anyone. Where’s Valeria?”
“She went to get Lola to try on her dress. Why?”
“We need to discuss parking for the party, food, drinks. What is this?” He’s at the front door inspecting my bags of supplies and the large canvasses leaning against the wall.
“It’s my art.” My tone is sharp, and I brace for his next rude remark.
To my surprise, his chin rises—apparently this is acceptable to Mr. Proud Treviño. “I’ll take these to the cottage in the garden. You can use it for a studio.”
My anger cools a fraction, and I watch him gathering my stuff. I really don’t know my brother at all.
“Thanks.”
“You can park in the garage…” He looks around as if just realizing. “Where is your car?”
I pick at the hem of Lo’s skirt. “I don’t have one.”
“What? How do you get around?”
“I catch a ride with friends or I call a Lyft or Uber. If it’s late or I want to save money, I ride the bus.”
Black eyes flash, and he stalks over to where I’m sitting with Sofia in my lap. “My sister does not ride the bus.”
“You know, for someone who just got back in town, you sure have a lot of ideas about what your sister does and doesn’t do.” Sofia squirms, and I let her down. “Cars cost money. Car insurance is expensive. Driving is dangerous—”
He starts for the door. “I’ll get you a car.”
“I don’t like to drive.”
Pausing at the doorway, he fixes me with a dark gaze. “Do you have a license?”
“Yes, but I haven’t driven in… weeks.”
“I’ll pick something for you.” It’s the last thing he says before he’s gone, carrying my art out the back door.
I stand, exhaling a
frustrated noise. “Of all the pig-headed, stubborn…”
“Uncle Beto is like King Triton.”
“What’s he like?”
Her eyes widen. “Grumpy.”
Catching her hand, I start for the door, following my brother. “Well, your Uncle Beto’s got another thing coming if he thinks he’s going to keep this up. Let’s check out this garden cottage.”
I don’t like secrets and I don’t like being treated like a child. More importantly, I’m frustrated I haven’t had a chance to mention my date for Saturday. It’s time King Triton and I had a sit-down.
5
Deacon
“Damn, it’s been a while since we’ve done this.” Rich grips my shoulder as he leans back on the leather barstool, a whiskey in front of him.
He’s wearing jeans and a plaid button-down, and his dark blond hair is a shaggy mess. A ball cap sits on the polished-wooden bar beside him. I’m in my usual, custom suit, but my tie is in my pocket. We’re having drinks at the Fillmore, a historic, wood-paneled pub in the heart of downtown.
“So you’re back for good?”
“For now.” I’m nursing a vodka, and my mind is miles away, wondering what Angel did today, missing her. Last night wasn’t enough. I want to see her again. “You must’ve been in the field.”
“Yeah, had to meet with a rookie BP head in Arlington. He wants me to research some land out past El Paso for them to drill. It could take a month.”
Rich’s job as a landman sends him all over the state researching mineral leases, working for the big oil guys. He’s damn good at his job and set up to make a killing, and the better he gets, the longer he’s gone.
“How does Maggie feel about that?”
He tosses back the rest of his whiskey and signals for a refill. “She’s working on her journalism career.” A hint of bitterness is in his voice.
“Give me a break.” I exhale a laugh before sipping my vodka. “You two love each other.”
