Chapter 5

Not wanting Olaya to be alone, I called her sisters, first Consuelo, then Martina. Unfortunately, they were not women who had their phones glued to their hands at the ready for any call that came in. Neither answered.

I thought about asking Maggie to go home with Olaya, but she’d worked a full shift. I didn’t have the heart to pull her away from whatever she had planned that night. My father? He’d help me out in a heartbeat, even if he didn’t know Olaya very well. I started to dial him, but changed my mind at the last second, instead dialing Penelope Branford, my intrepid octogenarian neighbor from across the street. The woman was as spunky as someone half her age and I was pretty sure she would do just about anything for me. The feeling was mutual. Mrs. Branford and Olaya Solis were not women who’d been born into my family, but they were people I chose to be part of my family.

“I’ll get a Lyft,” she said when I told her what I needed.

I laughed. The woman was elderly, but she was far from old. She was as in-tune with the world as they came. I wanted to be just like her when I hit my eighties. I gave her Olaya’s address, knowing she was typing it into the ride-share app as I spoke. She’d be across town in ten minutes flat.

I’d been right on the money. I’d barely gotten Olaya out of my car when a hunter-green sedan rolled up behind me. I expected the back-seat door to open so I did a double take when the front passenger door creaked open instead. Penelope Branford appeared. She swung her legs out, propped her cane in between them, and used it to propel herself out and up.

The Lyft driver, meanwhile, had scurried around to help her, taking her gently by the elbow and guiding her onto the sidewalk. “Mrs. Branford, it was a real pleasure,” the man said. He clasped his fingers to the bill of his hat, tipping it so gallantly that I could imagine it being a top hat instead of an Oakland A’s cap.

“Spencer, my boy, the pleasure was all mine. You take care of yourself, and if you want to talk more about your plans, you just let me know. You have my number now. Don’t be shy about calling.”

“I won’t, Mrs. Branford,” the guy said. “I definitely won’t.”

“You know that guy?” I asked her as she came up to Olaya and me.

“You have to ask?”

Touché. The decades Mrs. Branford spent in the classroom teaching English at Santa Sofia High School meant she, quite literally, knew everyone. Spencer the Lyft driver sped off. By my side, Olaya was fading fast. I helped her inside her little house, surreptitiously looking around as she directed me to her bedroom. The house was her in every way. Colorful teal, white, and orange pillows dotted the pale yellow couch and off-white chairs. A woven Mexican cloth lay across the coffee table. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. It wasn’t fancy, but even from my vantage point, I could see that it had every tool Olaya could possibly need to bake the bread she was famous for. Open shelves were lined with glass jars filled with what looked like dried herbs.

Mrs. Branford followed us down the hallway, her cane lightly striking the floor as she walked. It was more of an afterthought than a necessity. At least that was true most of the time. Once or twice, I’d felt like she had really needed it, but usually, it was more of a prop. She put it to good use when she felt it would benefit her—not in a diabolical or wicked manner, though. Mrs. Branford was simply pragmatic.

“I will be fine,” Olaya said. She started to turn her head to look over her shoulder, but wobbled on her feet again.

“Well, of course you will,” Mrs. Branford replied. “But no one should be alone when they feel miserable.”

Now Olaya did manage to turn around. “You are staying here with me?”

Penelope Branford and Olaya Solis had a history, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. They’d figured out how to overcome it, but I wouldn’t say they were exactly friends. More like frenemies. Kind of like the dowager countess and Isobel Crawley on Downton Abbey. They enjoyed each other’s company in a complicated and passively adversarial way, but deep down, they really adored one another.

We got Olaya settled in bed, I quickly filled Mrs. Branford in on what was happening at the bread shop, and I left her to her crossword puzzles and her e-reader. “Don’t worry about us,” she called to me as I opened the front door. “I’ll make sure the stubborn woman gets her rest.”

I waved back at her. I had no doubt. Mrs. Branford might even use her cane, if necessary.