“No meeting.” Malcolm tried to figure out why his grandfather would show up with no warning, then reminded himself the exercise was futile. He would never guess. Alberto didn’t like talking on the phone—if he felt he had something important to discuss during the workday, he would simply drive himself to the office and find the person he wanted to talk to.
The fact that he was here and not at their warehouse in the SoDo—south of downtown—district meant it wasn’t about packaging or food, and wasn’t that lucky. Malcolm still remembered the rotini-fusilli incident from three years ago when Alberto had discovered packaging that had used the two pasta names interchangeably, which might be fine for some but not for a company that prided itself on selling authentic Italian food.
The entire marketing department had been forced to listen to a twenty-minute lecture on the importance of knowing the different types of pasta as they prepared their campaigns. Information they needed to have, but perhaps not delivered by a man in his eighties who still occasionally broke into passionate Italian.
Malcolm set down his mug, then made his way to the elevator bank to wait for his grandfather. Alberto Carlesso had been born in Italy and brought to America when his parents immigrated in the 1930s. During the Second World War the then teenager had put his cooking skills and family recipes to good use in their Seattle neighborhood. Food was scarce and Alberto’s ability to create delicious meals out of whatever was on hand had made him popular. Every summer, he’d made his own marinara sauce with the fresh ingredients grown on neighboring farms. Some of the bottles had made their way to New York where a few Italian grocery store owners had sold them at a tidy profit.
The elevator doors opened. Malcolm smiled at the slightly bent, white-haired man in a suit and tie who walked toward him.
“Hello, Grandfather.”
“Malcolm, they still warn you when I’m coming, eh? What is everyone so afraid of? I’m an old man who no longer runs the company. I’m a pussycat without claws.”
“I think you’re more bobcat than house cat.”
His grandfather grinned. “A bobcat? I like that.”
Even though they’d seen each other at breakfast that morning, they hugged. Alberto was a toucher. Thank goodness he’d retired before the new standards for sexual harassment had come into law, Malcolm thought. Not that his straight-as-an-arrow grandfather would ever make a pass at anyone, but he would hug and occasionally clasp hands with whomever he was talking to—regardless of gender. While most of the employees understood that was just his way, a few were less accommodating.
“I saw the new catalog,” Alberto said as they walked toward Malcolm’s office.
Malcolm held in a groan. Catalog releases were always stressful. Would the customers respond favorably? Would the new products be successful? Would his grandfather want to know why they were offering a line of gluten-free pasta?
“Very nice,” his grandfather continued. “I don’t agree with the macarons but I understand they’re very popular and have an excellent profit margin. You have to keep up with the times.”
“We do.”
They walked into Malcolm’s office. The huge space had been Alberto’s, before the old man had retired. Malcolm had replaced the old-fashioned wood paneling and the carpeting but otherwise had kept the room much the same. The desk and credenza, monstrosities from the 1970s, were a reminder of the heritage inherent in the company and Malcolm liked that.
They passed by the desk and made their way to the seating area at the far end of his office. Malcolm preferred to use a conference room when he had a meeting, but he kept the sofas for the same reason he kept the desk—because they belonged.
Malcolm’s assistant walked in with a tray. She smiled at them both, set the tray on the coffee table and left. His grandfather picked up one of the two mugs of steaming black coffee, along with a piece of biscotti. After dipping the latter in his mug, he said, “I found her.”
Resignation, irritation and inevitability battled for dominance. Malcolm realized it didn’t much matter which won—it wasn’t as if he was going to change his grandfather’s mind about any of it. To Alberto, family was everything. A trait to be admired, even if it occasionally made everyone’s life more complicated.
About the time Alberto had decided to cut out the middleman and sell his food directly to the public, through a mail-order catalog, he’d met, fallen in love with and married the pretty Irish girl who lived next door and they’d had one son—Jerry.
Alberto’s Alfresco had been successful, with steady but modest growth. Jerry had little interest in managing the company, a disappointment to both his parents. Instead he’d taken over corporate sales, traveling all over the country. He’d never married, but he had managed to father a few children. Three, to be precise, all by different mothers.
When Malcolm had been twelve, his mother had brought him from Portland, Oregon, to Seattle and had demanded to speak with Alberto. She’d presented Malcolm as Jerry’s son. Alberto had taken one look at Malcolm and had smiled, even as tears had filled his eyes. Malcolm was, he declared, the exact image of his late wife.
Jerry had been more reticent, insisting on a DNA test, which had proved positive. Within the week, both Malcolm and his mother were living in Alberto’s huge house.
Malcolm remembered how confused he’d been at the time. He’d been ripped from the only home he’d ever known and moved to Seattle. His grandfather had been adoring, his father indifferent, and Malcolm had taken a long time to accept that the large house by the lake was his home. Back then he’d been unable to figure out why his mother had suddenly decided to change everything and for the longest time she wouldn’t say. When she finally confessed she was sick and dying, he’d been forced to accept there was no going back. It would never be just him and his mom ever again.
When she’d died, Alberto had stepped in to take care of him. Jerry had remained indifferent—something Malcolm had come to terms with eventually.
Then two years ago, Jerry had died leaving—everyone had presumed—only one child. A few months ago, Alberto had finally brought himself to go through his son’s belongings. There he’d found proof of two additional children—daughters. Keira, a twelve-year-old living in foster care in Los Angeles, had been easily located and moved into the house six weeks before, but an older daughter, Callie, had been more difficult to find. Until now, apparently.
Malcolm gave in to the inevitable and asked, “Where is she?”
“Texas. Houston. She’s twenty-six.”
Eight years younger than him and fourteen years older than Keira.
“She’s living off the grid, as you young people like to say,” Alberto told him. “That’s why it took so long. The private detective had to trace her from Oklahoma. The lawyer will speak to her and confirm everything using DNA.”
“Do you want me to go meet her and bring her home?”
Because like Keira, Callie would be invited to come live with her paternal grandfather. While the twelve-year-old hadn’t had much choice—Alberto and Malcolm were her only living family—Callie was an adult. She could tell her grandfather to go pound sand. Malcolm honestly had no idea what she would do. But the promise of inheriting a piece of Alberto’s Alfresco would be difficult to resist.
“I’m sending a lawyer,” Alberto said. “That makes it more official.”
Malcolm wondered if that was the only reason.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about the sudden influx of siblings. Keira confused him—he knew nothing about twelve-year-old girls. After enrolling her in a quality private school that was conveniently across the street from the office building, he’d asked Carmen, their housekeeper, to keep tabs on her. Every now and then he suffered guilt, wondering if he should be more involved in her life, but how? Take her shopping and listen to teen music? He held in a shudder.
“I’m hoping she’ll move here,” Alber
to told him. “We’ll be a family.”
Before Malcolm could respond, his grandfather shifted in his seat. The late morning light caught the side of his face, illuminating the deep wrinkles. Alberto wasn’t a young man. Yes, he was in good health, but at his age, anything could happen. Malcolm didn’t want to think about what it would mean to lose him and he sure didn’t want his last years to be unhappy.
“I hope she does, too,” he said, wondering if he was lying, then telling himself it didn’t much matter. When it came to his grandfather, he would do what Alberto wanted. He owed him that for everything that had happened...and everything he’d done.
chapter two
At six thirty on an unexpectedly sunny Saturday morning, the condo building’s impressive gym was practically a ghost town. Santiago Trejo split his attention between the display on his treadmill and the small, built-in TV screen tuned to ESPN and a list of games scheduled for the first Saturday of the year’s baseball season.
Santiago enjoyed sports as much as the next guy, but the thrill of baseball eluded him. Seriously—could it move slower? Give him a sport where something happened. Even if the score was low in hockey or soccer, the players were always doing something. But in baseball entire innings could pass with literally absolutely no action.
The show went to commercial just as the treadmill program ended. Timing, he thought with a grin. He gave the machine a quick disinfectant wipe-down before grabbing his towel and water bottle and heading to the elevators.
His condo was on an upper floor with a view of Puget Sound and the peninsula beyond. He could watch the ferries and cargo ships making their way to port, have a front-row seat to Fourth of July celebrations and admire the storms as they blew through. When the weather was clear—not something that happened all that often in Seattle—he could see the Olympic Mountains. The gorgeous views and accompanying sunsets were very helpful when it came to the ladies—not that he needed props, but a man should have plenty of options in his arsenal.
After showering and dressing in jeans and a Yale Law School sweatshirt, he went down to his two parking spaces in the underground garage. A sleek, midnight blue Mercedes SL convertible sat next to a massive black Cadillac Escalade.
“Not today,” he said, patting the Mercedes. “I have the munchkins.” Not only would their mother not approve of them riding in a convertible, there wasn’t any back seat.
Santiago made his way to his favorite bakery. Unlike the gym, the bakery was jammed with people out on a Saturday morning. He took a small paper number from the machine up front, then waited his turn. When seventy-eight was called, he walked up and grinned at the short, plump woman wearing a hairnet.
“Good morning, Brandi. Is your mother here? You know how I enjoy saying hello to her.”
The fiftysomething woman behind the counter rolled her eyes. “You know it’s me, Santiago. No one is fooled by this game you play.”
He clutched his chest and feigned surprise. “Valia? Is that really you? You’re so beautiful this morning, even more so than usual and I didn’t think that was possible.” He held open his arms. “Come on. You need a hug and so do I.”
She groaned, as if the imposition was too much, but made her way around the counter. Santiago picked her up and spun her around until she shrieked.
“Put me down, you fool! You’ll break your back.”
He set her back on her feet and kissed her cheek. “It would be worth it,” he whispered.
She laughed and slapped his arm. “You’re incorrigible.”
“That’s why I’m your favorite.”
“You’re not my favorite.”
“Liar.”
She chuckled. “How’s your mama?”
“Well. I’m going to see her right now, then take the rug rats to the zoo.” He’d promised them a trip on the first sunny Saturday. Both of them had texted him yesterday with links to the weather report.
“They’re good children.” She eyed him. “You should be married.”
“Maybe.”
“You need a wife.”
“No one needs a wife.”
“You do. You’re getting old.”
“Hey, I’m thirty-four.”
“Practically an old man. Get married soon or no one will want you.”
He held his hands palm up and winked. “Really? Because hey, it’s me.”
Her lips twitched. “You’re not all that.”
“Now who’s lying?”
She handed over a box with his name scrawled on the top. He’d placed his pastry order online after hearing from his niece and nephew.
“My cousin has a daughter,” she began.
He passed her twenty dollars. “Uh-huh. So you’ve mentioned before. I love you, Valia, but no. I’ll find my own girl.”
“You keep saying that, but you never do. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” he called as he headed for the door. “I’ll know when I know. Of that I’m sure.”
He crossed the street and got two grande lattes from Starbucks before driving just north of the city to a quiet neighborhood of older homes. Most were either remodeled or in the process of being upgraded, but there were still a few with the original windows and tiny, one-car garages.
He wove through narrow streets until he reached his destination and pulled into the long driveway.
The lot was oversize and had two houses on it. The front one was large—about three thousand square feet, including the basement, with a nice backyard and plenty of light. Behind it was a smaller house—with just a single bedroom—but it was comfortable, private and quiet.
Santiago would never admit it to anyone but every time he came to visit, he felt a flush of pride. He’d been able to do this for his family. Him—some farm worker’s kid from the Yakima Valley. The property was paid for and in a family trust. His brother Paulo and his family lived in the front house and Santiago’s mother lived in the smaller one.
He parked by the latter and walked up the front steps. His mother answered before he could knock.
“All your cars are loud,” she said with a laugh. “You were never one for subtle, were you?”
“Never.”
He gave her a hug and kiss before following her into the bright kitchen decorated in various shades of yellow. As usual, it was scary clean, with nothing out of place. His condo was clean, too, but only because he was rarely there and he had a cleaning service. He handed his mom one of the lattes before opening the pastry box. He got in a single bite before it began.
“How’s work?”
“Good. Busy.”
“Are you eating right? Do you get enough water? You’ve never liked to drink water, but it’s good for your kidneys and keeps you regular.”
“Mom,” he began, not knowing why he bothered. What was it about women over fifty? They just said what they wanted. He tried to summon a little indignation, but he couldn’t. Not about his mom. She’d earned whatever attitude she had now through years of pain, sacrifice and hard work.
She sipped her coffee and leaned against the counter. “Are you losing weight?”
“I weigh exactly the same as I did last time you saw me and last year and the year before.”
“Are you getting sleep? You stay out too late with those women. And why don’t I get to meet any of them? You never bring a girl home.”
“You told me not to unless I was serious.”
“That’s because you go through them like you’re in a revolving door. Look at Paulo. He’s your younger brother and he’s been married twelve years.”
Santiago took another bite of his cinnamon roll, thereby avoiding answering the question. He loved his brother, and his sister-in-law was one of his favorite people on the planet, but there was no way he wanted his brother to be his role model. Paulo had gotten his girlfriend pregnant when they’d bot
h been seniors in high school. They’d married quickly, had their kid and another one two years later.
Paulo had gotten a job on the assembly line at Alberto’s Alfresco and never left. Santiago had tried to talk to him about going to college, or learning a skill but Paulo said he preferred to work the line. He’d moved up to supervisor and that was enough for him.
Hanna, Paulo’s wife, had stayed home with the kids until their youngest was five and then had gone to community college. Now she was in her final year of her nursing program and would graduate in a few months.
“We each have our own path, Mom.”
“You don’t have a path,” his mother grumbled.
He winced. “Please don’t say I have to get married. Valia already lectured me when I stopped by the bakery.”
“Good for her. I worry about you.”
He stood and crossed to her, then kissed the top of her head. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m fine.”
The sound of running feet on the walkway offered salvation. Santiago released his mother just as the front door flew open and his niece and nephew raced toward him.
“The zoo opens at nine thirty,” twelve-year-old Emma said. “I have a list of all the baby animals we have to visit. I’m monitoring their development.”
“Of course you are.”
Noah, her ten-year-old brother, scoffed, “She thinks she’s so smart.”
“I am smart,” Emma told him. “I’m going to be a veterinarian. What are you going to be?”
“I’m going to play football!”
Santiago eyed his skinny frame. From what he could tell, Noah took after his mother in build, but maybe the kid would blossom. Or learn to be a kicker. He grabbed them both and squeezed tight enough to make them squeal.
“We’ll look at the baby animals and the bears and the lions,” he said. “Maybe one of you will misbehave and the lion can have you for dinner.”
“Oh, Santiago.” Emma shook her head. “You always threaten to throw us in but you’d never do that. You love us.”
When We Found Home Page 2
