by A. L. Woods
Behind the house was an oversized barn my father had converted into a workshop. I used it as extra storage now for supplies and work tools I didn’t have space for at my own house—my mother’s suggestion, of course; it was the only way she could still feel like she was involved in micromanaging my life in some small way.
“You sure you can’t just run in and grab the lens?”
“Turn off the Jeep, Sean.”
I spat out a curse as I reached for the keys and silenced the ignition. Trina hopped out first, and I took a stiff breath before following her lead. She went to the garage door and punched in the code. The doors lifted at a tortoise’s pace. Trina, ever impatient, ducked her head and stepped into the garage before the doors had cleared enough to accommodate my height, seeing as I wasn’t interested in doing squats or the limbo.
“Hey,” she called to me, “Maria’s here.”
I frowned, catching sight of my older sister’s white BMW 328i parked in the garage. It was unlike Maria to just spontaneously drop in. She and Ma got on about as well as two betta fish in the same tank. All right, I was exaggerating, but they seldom saw eye to eye on anything. They were more interested in snapping their jaws at one another to assert their dominance.
Trina placed a foot onto the concrete step, her hand turning the garage door.
A distinct mouth-watering spicy aroma immediately hit me as I tucked my head inside. Trina met my eyes, and we exchanged a knowing smile. It didn’t matter how sullen and stubborn Ma could be; her food was a gastronomic love affair that even her worst enemy would have partaken in. I kicked off my shoes, waiting as Trina did the same. We left our coats on the washer in the mudroom that the garage led into before stepping into the hallway to head for the kitchen.
We made it all of ten footsteps before we were stopped.
“Oh, good,” a voice called with more enthusiasm than was appropriate for ten o’clock in the morning, “You’re here.”
I looked up to find my middle sister, Olivia, looking down at us from near the top of the stairs. I swallowed a laugh that was stuck in my chest when I caught sight of her getup. “I’ll be right down.”
“What…is…she…” Trina’s voice trailed, looking up at our sister with mystification that mirrored mine.
Livy descended down the stairs sideways, lace-gloved hands clinging to the railing, chin looking over her shoulder, a fuzzy socked foot—the only thing from the twenty-first century—searching for every tread before she moved. Her hair was pulled back into a tidy chignon at the base of her neck, a red felt bonnet tied with a lace ribbon under her chin. The hoop frame that was obviously under the full plaid evergreen skirt she wore made it impossible for her to climb down the stairs facing the front—it made her wider than the stairs.
Trina broke first, her hyena laughter carrying through the house. She clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to suffocate the giggles, eyes welling with tears.
Livy’s cognac-colored eyes tapered in Trina’s direction when she cleared the last step, turning to face us head on.
“What the hell have you got on?” I said with a snort.
Livy’s spine lengthened, her gloved hands knitting together, pointed chin jutting out in my direction. “For your information, I’ve been cast as Belle for the ETG’s rendition of A Christmas Carol.”
Livy had always been a theatre kid, but she preferred working with the Eaton Theatre Group over the companies in town—“less competition,” she had explained. The truth was, my sister was good, but she had an ego that made it hard for her to fit onto a stage, so no one in Fall River wanted to cast her in shows anymore. We all knew it, but we pretended that it had been entirely her decision to work with the smaller theatre group in Eaton. She was twenty-two, and like Katrina, still had a fucking ton of growing up to do in order to check herself. On the flip side, she had acknowledged that furthering her education was a must and was starting theater classes in the new year at the New England College.
“Belle?” I asked, feigning ignorance.
Livy tsked, lips pinching together. “Belle is Ebenezer Scrooge’s love interest.”
“Right,” Trina tittered. “So, why the costume?” She wiped tears from under her eyes that had formed from laughing so hard.
Livy elongated her neck, looking proud. “It helps me get into character.” She moved in front of the mirror over the console table that served as dumping ground for car keys and mail. “Do you like it?” she asked, watching me from the mirror as a smile hit her eyes, a glint of unadulterated glee sparkling in them.
“You look like a life-sized mop,” Trina remarked with ease, answering for both of us while her eyes worked over the costume.
A scowl snatched the joy from Livy’s face. She turned on the ball of her foot, smacking Trina’s bicep with an open palm. “You do not say that to an actress,” she said, her fair features twisted into an unbecoming snarl. “And just for that, you’re helping me run lines.”
“I’m only here to grab my camera lens,” Trina protested, waving a hand in front of her face as if to pacify Livy. “I don’t have time for that.”
“Shoulda thought about that before you ran your mouth.” Livy pinched a nub of flesh under Trina’s bicep and twisted it between her fingers, eliciting a plea of mercy from her. “My room. Now.”
“Jesus,” Trina snapped, yanking her arm free, her footsteps begrudging as she made her way up the stairwell as if a firing squad waited at her back, Livy marching sideways behind her.
A heavy sigh left me as I watched them disappear. So much for making this visit quick.
I followed the aromas in the air into the dated kitchen my mother refused to let me renovate for fear it would upset my father’s spirit. The floor tiles in here were the original powder white, cabinets an unfortunate orange-ish oak color, with Formica countertops. The upper cabinets had glass panes, displaying clay dishes my parents had brought with them from the motherland. A signature rooster, the universal mascot for all Portuguese immigrants, preened proudly on the island.
Ma’s back was turned to me, body facing the gas stove that may as well have been from the early 1800’s. A checkered kerchief tied around her head kept her wavy shoulder-length hair out of her face. She caught me from the corner of her eye, a smile touching her lips.
“João.”
I shook my head at the sound of my legal given name, the same as my late father’s. That had been one of the first things I ditched when I started my American assimilation. João was too difficult a name for most people to pronounce properly, and it made me an easy target for the likes of Peter Filch. I adopted Sean after the wrestler Shawn Michaels, my favourite WWE star as a kid, effectively giving birth to a whole new identity.
My mother was the only one who refused to call me that, and it wasn’t worth the argument for me to try to convince her otherwise.
“Ma a bênção.” I placed a kiss on her outstretched cheek, the skin warm against my mouth.
“Deus te abênçoe,” she murmured back to me, offering me the blessing I had asked her for out of custom and habit. I looked into the pot she was working at with a wooden spoon, where collard greens swam in a thickened potato broth. I knew chouriço (not chorizo, don’t get them mixed up) was at the bottom of that pot, releasing its fat content into the soup. My mouth salivated as the scent made its way through my brain, unleashing a slew of memories of my childhood. The times I had stood on a chair alongside her, looking into different pots and pans that simmered, stewed, and boiled, watching her with curious wide eyes as she transformed simple ingredients into meals that always tasted like back home.
Her cooking had been what inspired me to go into the culinary arts to begin with; I wanted to create dishes that fostered the same connection to my roots that her food had always done for me. Cooking and food had been our shared passion; I had spent countless hours here in this kitchen with her, observing and learning in silence. My eyes tracked her as she seasoned by instinct, not by the direction of a recipe ca
rd or measuring spoon. She made adjustments by taste, offering me a sample on an outstretched spoon, waiting for me to confirm what she had already known. Ma never gave away her secrets; she had made me learn the hard way.
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Maria’s voice was smooth as she stepped into the kitchen. Her flat-ironed dark hair was pulled into a severe-looking ponytail, and she wore a faded crimson red Harvard crew neck sweater paired with black leggings and gray knit socks that stretched over her shins—a far cry from her neutral power suits and stilettos.
“Hello to you, too.”
My older sister smirked at me, traipsing over to pull me into a hug. Maria was on the taller side at five foot nine with a sculpted face and the same dark roasted coffee eyes as me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, leaning against the island, arms folding across the expanse of my chest. “I’m surprised you could get away from the office.” Translation: You’re here out of your own volition?
“I needed a change of scenery,” she lied, her eyes flitting toward the kitchen table where her laptop was open, files carelessly scattered around it. “I have to finish a briefing.” Translation: Ma called and gave me shit about never visiting.
A laugh shook my chest. “So you thought coming back to the loudest house in the state was the answer?” Just then, Livy screamed something indiscernible from upstairs, followed by Trina’s raucous laughter, driving my point home.
Maria smiled tightly, throwing her hands in the air as if she knew as well as I did that this was all just a facade and that she had about as much interest as I did in being here.
“João, are you hungry?” Ma interrupted, speaking Portuguese. I didn’t get a chance to answer, for she was already ladling soup into a bowl. She handed it to me, even though it was too early for soup. Not caring, I took it with greedy hands and carried it to the kitchen table, where I shoved my sister’s papers out of my way to clear some space.
Maria settled in her own seat, her chin dipping, fingers breaking off into a steady rhythm against the keyboard.
“The boca grande said her son is going to have a baby.” The big mouth Ma was referring to was a term of endearment for good ol’ Eileen Patterson, Dougie’s mother. Ma got on all right with Eileen now, but that hadn’t always been the case. Ma had found her rough around the edges when I was younger, not appreciating Eileen’s boisterous tendencies and animated expressions, but Eileen had redeemed herself by shuttling Ma around when I wasn’t available after Dad died. Now they spoke a couple of days a week on the phone and Eileen went to church with Ma on Sundays, even though she didn’t understand a word of the sermon that was spoken entirely in Portuguese.
“Yeah,” I said between blowing on the soup, “he is.”
Maria’s typing ceased, disbelief settling in her face. “Douglas Patterson is going to be a father?” She rubbed her right fist as if recalling a distant memory, a faraway look touching her eyes. I assumed she was recalling the time she had deviated Dougie’s septum.
“Yep.” My lips popped.
Maria harrumphed, shoulders slouching, fingers finding their stride once more. “What woman let him of all people impregnate her?”
I pushed the spoon around the bowl. “It was a surprise for both parties, and Penelope’s all right.” Never did I think there would be a day when I defended Penelope twice in forty-eight hours, but a lot had happened in a week, and at this point I might be willing to do a lot of things to ensure she remained happy.
Maria’s eyes narrowed. “Penelope? The designer I referred to you?” She shifted in her seat, her fingers tugging on the collar of her sweater.
“The very one.”
“I see.” She cleared her throat, a hand going up to smooth her hair, even though there were no flyaways. Why was she being so weird? Maria hated Dougie. That was no secret to anyone in this house or even to Dougie himself. Before I could put her on the spot, she said, “She seems normal.”
“About as normal as you.” I chuckled, searching for levity. Maria darted me a look of warning, blowing out a heated breath. Whether Maria wanted to acknowledge it or not, I knew that beyond her hatred for my best friend, she had always been just a little smitten by Dougie when we were kids, even if she would take that fact to her grave. In the grand scheme of things, it would have never worked out between them. Maria was married to her work and had zero interest in anything long-term, and certainly not in reproducing. Dougie’s two-can-dine-for-$6.99 coupon at McDonald’s would never be enough for my sister and her desire for the finer things in life.
Her fastidious typing took off again at a blinding speed. “Speaking of normal,” she began without looking up at me, brows bending inward, eyes bouncing along her screen as she continued to type with a sense of urgency, “what’s this I hear about you pursuing some girl who won’t give you the time of day?”
At that, I frowned. How on earth did she know that already? Trina hadn’t even seen Maria yet. When would she have had the time to tell her about Raquel?
As if reading my mind, my sister filled in the blanks. “Trina told Livy and I on MSN this morning.”
After she managed to convince me to bring her here, it had taken Trina all of five minutes to change out of her pajamas, brush her teeth, and supply our sisters with an update on my love life. Un-fucking-believable.
“I’m getting real close to evicting that one.” I exhaled, looking up at the ceiling, Livy’s projected voice carrying down the stairs as she recited her lines.
“She means well,” Maria said, her eyes still transfixed on her screen, “but we’re your sisters. We all want to know what’s going on in the life of the enigmatic Sean Tavares.”
I didn’t miss the mocking undertone in her words. “Says the one who comes home only when there’s a gun pressed to their temple,” I retorted.
“I’m busy. I’m trying to make partner at the firm by thirty-five. I’ve got four years left till I’m spoiled milk.” Maria was an associate attorney at McIntyre & Nesbitt LLP, one of the largest law firms in Back Bay. Her office occupied thirty percent of The Pru. Maria’s primary focus was business litigation and private equity—very compelling stuff if you’re into numbers with a lot of commas between them and balding fifty-something men who were the primary suspects in white collar crimes. I always thought she would go for something more cutthroat and gritty, like family law, but Maria wasn’t interested in scorned lovers who had caught their partners in an illicit affair, or children who were enraptured in the maelstrom of bullshit that came with a messy divorce. She preferred to take out all her aggression on corporate bigwigs who routinely made the mistake of underestimating her by assuming she was just another pretty face.
“Right, ‘partner’.” I raised my brows, to which she slammed me with another glare.
“So, who’s the girl?” she probed, changing the subject by shoving me into the witness box.
“You mean you don’t already have a full analysis on her?” I teased, catching the briefest hint of a smile from her.
“All Trina offered us was that the girl is, like,” she lifted her fingers for dramatic effect, creating air quotes, “a thunderstorm.”
“More like a tempest.”
Maria laughed heartily, throwing her head back. “So, she keeps you on your toes?”
That was an understatement. I felt like all I had done since I met Raquel was chase her, my shoes doing the heel to toe routine, trying to break the distance between us—but she was always a little out of reach, and that left me both enthralled and pissed off. The memory of her getting into that car slammed into me, and my molars connected, jaws rocking from side to side. Maria cocked an eyebrow at me and I immediately released the tension, straightening in my seat.
“You spaced out, where did you go?” she asked, catching the distant look that flickered in my face.
“Nowhere good,” I admitted with a sigh. I was hoping Trina had managed to keep that one small detail about last night to herself. Maria would slaughte
r Raquel’s character, not even giving her a chance if she knew how last night concluded. “What exactly did Trina tell you?”
“Not much,” Maria said, glancing at notes she had made, eyes squinting to make out the eloquent scrawl of her own writing. “Just that she was a writer at the paper in Eaton and that you two are electric in a room together.”
“That is…” my voice trailed off, failing to find a word for it. Relief flanked me that Trina hadn’t mentioned the catastrophe from the night before. How about that? She was capable of keeping something to herself after all.
“One hell of an observation?” Maria interrupted, “Tell me about it.” She both looked and sounded entertained, flipping a hand through the air. “She would be wise to put all the energy she invests into people watching into something useful, like law.”
I rolled my eyes. That hadn’t been quite where I was going with this. Still, Trina’s observation left me with a small window of hope. If that had been her perception from her viewing post at the top of the stairwell the day of the interview, then that meant I wasn’t entirely crazy…that there was something beyond logic and explanation happening between Raquel and I.
I just needed to get her to see it that way, too.
“Are you going to offer me anything else, or do I need to call in the big guns?” I narrowed my eyes at Maria, who gave me a cursory look that reminded me that she wasn’t above calling in a favor or two with the right people. It was hard to know what side of the law she was on, but I knew the answer to it: she was on whatever side made her the victor.
“All right,” she said, losing her patience. “She’s a writer?”
“Columnist,” I amended.
