Three Wishes (15 page)

Javier sat down on a stool a few feet away from me and swept off his hat. “When I came in and heard the music…I couldn’t believe it. It…sounded like…”

“Like something your papá played?” I asked gently.

He nodded once, laid the hat on the corner of the settee behind him, and rubbed his hair. The curls bobbed around his face, partially covering one eye, but he shook it aside. “Where did a woman such as you learn to play?” His eyes slipped down to my bare shoulder, and I lifted the shawl higher up. His eyes moved down to my skirt and bare feet, and I quickly tucked my toes beneath the hem.

I didn’t feel like explaining my old clothes. I hoped he wouldn’t ask.

“I’ve always played,” I said, hoping to distract him.

“Your papá taught you? A girl?”

Again, with the girl-thing.
“Uh, no. My neighbor.”

“So you recall your neighbor?”

I saw where he was headed. “I recall it was he who taught me.”

“Do you remember his name? His house? What village it was called?”

I swallowed hard and shook my head, rising to set the guitar back on the rack.

“No,” he said, lifting his hands in alarm. “Forgive me. It’s late and clearly you are not in the mood for more questions. But please…would you play me another song? I—it would be a blessing to me, this night. I have not heard that guitar played in a very long time.”

I paused, looking down into his face, suddenly childlike with need, and slowly sank back to my stool. He leaned forward, chin on hands, waiting.

He was so handsome, so dang
electric
, he was like interference. My mind went blank for a minute. I knew a good twenty songs by heart, but could I think of another in that instant? Not so much.

He gave me a puzzled look, his lips relaxing into a slight smile. “Do you know ‘By the Water in Seville’?”

I shook my head, but the city name jogged a song loose in my head. “Not that one, but this…” And I set my fingers confidently upon the strings and began picking it out, more gradually dissolving into the music now—with him present—than I had last time.

I closed my eyes, imagining flamenco dancers moving in their magical way as I played, as my neighbor had taught me to do. “If you imagine dancers before you, your fingers will dance too,” he’d coached.

I knew Javier was watching me, absorbing every inch of my face and body and movement, almost viscerally pulling me to him. And I shared the song, fully, not holding back, finding that here, in this way, I could be open to him, bridging the gap between us.

But when the song ended, I blinked once, twice, trying to get my bearings again and yet captivated by his sober stare.

 “It is a gift you have, Zara,” he said softly. “My father never played like that, and he was fairly accomplished. I have heard such fine music only in Mexico, when I was at university.”

“Thank you,” I said, reaching for my cup of disgusting creamy milk, suddenly desperate for distraction. Anything but to look into those chocolate eyes…

“Would you play me another?”

“I…uh, it’s quite late,” I said. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me, making you tarry at this hour.”

We both rose at once, coming closer together. “No, it’s all right,” I said. “I obviously couldn’t sleep. But now…”
Now I need to get away from you. Before this is something I can’t control
…

“Here. Allow me.” He reached for the guitar and I gave it to him. Our fingers touched, sending shivers up through my elbow, my shoulder, my neck. I swiftly turned and moved toward the door, only slowing when I was a safe distance from him. “Good night, Javier.”

“Good night, Zara,” he returned, eyes thoughtful as they rested on me.

And then I pulled away, realizing only partway down the hall that I had no lantern. But there was no way I was going back in there. I’d fumble my way up the stairs and to my room in the near-dark, using only the scant moonlight streaming through a few windows.

Because deep down, I knew I had to stay away from Javier, as far away as possible, until I could find my way back home.

CHAPTER 10

Doña Elena didn’t ask me again about the lamp, either in the morning or in the afternoon. Thankfully, she was distracted by the upcoming gathering near Santa Barbara and whipped the entire household into a frenzy of preparation—baking, cooking, washing, mending, sewing. According to the girls, we would all leave early the following morning to arrive late the day after, and there would be a rodeo and festivities for two full days.

“Jacinto,” I called to the boy scampering down the hall.

He paused at the top of the stairs and grinned at me. “Yes, Señorita?”

I walked closer to him, not wanting anyone else to hear. “How are we to get to Santa Barbara?”

He squinted at me, confused. “By horse and wagon, of course!” he said, the thought of it making his eyes go wide with excitement.

“But…but isn’t Santa Barbara very far?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding.

“So…we will ride all day?”

“All day for two whole days!” he said, as if this was the best news he could possibly deliver.

I, on the other hand, felt a little sick. Two whole days on the saddle?
Santo cielo
, how was my backside going to handle that? I got saddle-sore after an hour or two. Maybe there’d be space in a wagon as well, what with all the food…

I glanced up and saw Francesca at the top of the stairs, hand around a ceiling-high post. She was watching me intently, and it was clear she’d heard my interchange with Jacinto and that she’d witnessed my displeasure over the news. “You don’t wish to go to Santa Barbara?” she asked. “There will be so much to enjoy there! The events of the charreada and dancing, food like you’ve never seen before.”

“Oh, yes. I look forward to seeing it. It’s just that…it’s an awfully long way to travel in the saddle.”

A confused smile drew one side of her lips upward. “How else would we get there?”

“I…I don’t know. No, of course. Never mind. It’s just that I don’t remember ever traveling that far on a horse. An hour’s ride, maybe two. But farther?” I gave her a rueful smile. “How does one walk after more than a couple of hours in the saddle?”

“Javier has had one of our saddlers working over an old one of Mama’s for you. It should be ready by tomorrow. It’s a good saddle—I think you’ll find it quite comfortable. But we ladies will travel part of each day in the wagons, of course.”

“Oh,” I breathed in relief. “Right.” I thought it touching that Javier had thought about my needs. In my whole life, it felt like the only one who watched out for me, took care of me in such a manner, was Abuela. I blinked back sudden tears and moved away from Francesca, down the stairs, not wanting her to see. “I think I’ll go and help in the kitchen, if I might,” I muttered.

I heard her sputtering a response. I realized it wasn’t The Thing around here, but with the hustle and bustle all about and the thought of Abuela, all I wanted to do right now was to work in the kitchen. I didn’t care what anyone thought. I
needed
it.

I heard the singing and chatter and laughter ahead of me and moved through the dining room, down the hall, past a vast pantry full of dishes, and through two swinging doors into a sprawling kitchen. At the back were two stoves and maids stocking them with more wood. I could smell seared meat, and my mouth watered. Four Indian women were rolling out tortillas on the long stone island, tossing them in succession to a catcher, beside two women manning the stovetop. Two others were kneading dough at the end of the island beside me. In the corner, on the ground, two others appeared to be grinding corn in a mortar. At the farther end, two women were chopping onions, and in another corner, a man appeared to be butchering half a cow hanging from a hook beside a metal table. Gradually, everyone came to a standstill, staring at me, until the only sound was the crackling of wood in the fire, the sizzle of oil in pans, and the burble of boiling water.

I smiled at them all and took a fresh handkerchief from the pile nearby, pulling back my hair from my face, and then slipped on an apron. “I have cooked all my life,” I said to them. “I need to cook today. How can I help you?”

They all continued to look at me, horrified. Finally, one round-faced, slit-eyed woman, who I thought might be the head cook, stepped forward. “Señorita, if Doña Elena finds you here, she will not be pleased,” she said in labored Spanish, her tone pinched with fear.

“I will tell Doña Elena that I insisted on being here. I beg you,” I said, reaching out to touch her wrist. “Please. Put me to work, just for a little while. I can make tortillas, or I can chop. Whatever would be most helpful. What is your name?”

She stared at me a moment longer, and I wondered if she would turn me away. Insist I go in order to avoid the Wrath of Elena. But she didn’t. “They call me Juana,” she said. Then she gave me a conspiratorial smile, making her eyes almost disappear. “But my real name is Jalama.” She took a rolling pin from the nearest maid and nodded her away to another task. Then she handed it to me and clapped her hands, nudging the whole group back into production.

Gradually, they all fell back to their tasks, sliding me curious glances as I formed dough into a ball and then rolled it out. The stone was perfect in temperature, the dough never sticking, and in minutes, I was moving nearly as fast as the others, tossing the disks like small Frisbees to the catcher, who placed them on the grill. There were already hundreds in stacks, but I knew it had to take hundreds to feed the entire household and rancho staff each day. And it was clear that their task was to make extra food for our travels to come.

I fell into the rhythm, and it soothed me—oh, how it soothed me—to be at work again. The pin wasn’t all that different from my abuela’s, the dough the same even across the centuries. Masa, water, a touch of lard. To me, it felt like being home, and as the women began to chat and laugh again, gradually accepting me, it was like being in Abuela’s kitchen. There, I’d made tortillas as a kid and eventually graduated to more sophisticated cooking.
Ceviche
and
mole
were my specialties.

People came in and out of the kitchen, including servants from outside via the back door, and all cast inquiring glances my way. The others just shrugged or pushed them back out, silently encouraging them to ignore the crazy-weird houseguest who apparently just
had
to cook. I felt their grudging admiration and growing camaraderie too, as they decided I wasn’t all hat, no cattle. This—
this
was in my bones.

I’d been at it for a good hour when Javier came into the kitchen. He stood alongside me, watching for a moment, before I realized he was there. “Zara?”

“Yes?” I said, continuing at my task, fearing he’d yank me out of there because I’d crossed clear social boundaries. The other workers slowed, all listening in.

“Why are you here? My sisters are in the library, embroidering. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable with them?”

I almost laughed out loud. I grinned up at him. “Trust me when I say that I am a far better at cooking than needlepoint.”

He smiled back at me, obviously confused. “My mother would prefer you were there with them. And it is cooler.”

“I understand,” I said as I tossed a tortilla down the island and wiped my forehead. I knew I was sweating. I didn’t care. This was where I belonged. I paused and looked at him. “I need this, Javier. Just for the morning. I want to be of some use. I’m not the kind of woman who can just…sit about.” I lifted my hands. “I need to use these.” I shook my head. “And not to embroider a pillow. That would be disastrous.”

“Not the kind of woman to sit about,” he repeated thoughtfully, pinching his chin between thumb and forefinger. “Do as you must,” he said with a shrug. “I will speak to my mother, so she will not vex you.”

“Thank you,” I said. I smiled at that. The last thing I needed was The Vexer in this kitchen.

He smiled quizzically and shook his head as if I were as odd as an ostrich. But then he put on his hat and slipped out the back door, apparently setting out on some chore. I kept smiling for some time after he left and only realized it when a couple of the women rolling tortillas with me nudged each other and cast me knowing glances and whispered things in their own language that weren’t hard to figure out.
Just what I need,
I thought.
A kitchen full of matchmakers.

But it settled me, being among them. Jalama began humming an Indian song, and the others hummed along. It was dissonant and foreign, and yet it was earthily beautiful, like a song rising from the Alta California soil itself. The scent of roasting peppers and chilis filled the air, on top of the constantly sautéing onions and meat over the grill. Back in Abuela’s kitchen, it would have been Spanglish I’d heard, cooks and waitresses bantering back and forth as they carried plate after steaming plate through the metal swinging doors. It made me hungry for the rice and beans that accompanied every dish, the way Abuela cooked and crushed the beans until they were a smooth mash—mixed with a bit of
asadero
—that you could dip a tortilla chip in and die from happiness.