Chapter 13

Wednesday, June 18

 

In the afternoon, Char drove to a neighborhood far away from the touristy areas of the valley. The enticing aromas of cumin and oregano hit her as she got out of her car.

A little girl of nine or so waved to her from the porch steps of a modest home with a warped chain-link fence, across the street from the lot where Char parked.

She waved back, and soon the child’s mother came out and watched Char set up a small folding table and begin emptying her boxes of donated clothes onto it.

“¡Hola, Amelia, Juanita!” called Char, waving. “Come over and say hi!”

They crossed the street, a shy younger boy in a white T-shirt lagging behind.

Char propped her hands on her hips and examined the girl.

“¡Cómo has crecido! Do you remember me from last summer?”

The girl’s mother said something to her in Spanish.

Char only picked up the gist of the conversation. “I used to see you and Juan every week last summer. Your madre is the best cook! She used to bring me tamales all the time.”

That jogged Amelia’s memory, and she smiled bashfully, then hugged her mother’s legs through her skirt.

Juanita’s wet brown eyes met Char’s in a meaningful gaze that didn’t need any translation. Juanita was a widow. Her husband, a picker, had died when Juan was just a baby. Both women knew that Juanita hadn’t started bringing Char her Mexican soul food specialties just for the heck of it. It was a proud woman’s way of repaying Char for her weekly donations of food and toys—and sometimes plain old cash.

That’s when Char had made up her mind which of her many causes moved her the most.

Char peered around Juanita’s womanly form. “It’s nice to see you, too, Juan. Hey, you like Levi’s? I hope so, because I have a whole pile of them here that I don’t know what to do with. I only guessed at sizes; I haven’t seen you in a whole year!”

Juan’s eyes lit up as he reached tentatively for the shopping bag Char held out. She’d topped it off with new socks and pajamas from the mall.

“And here’s yours.” Char handed another bag to Amelia.

“What are you cooking over there, Juanita? I could smell it the minute I opened my car door.”

“Nacatamales. Like in the Michoacán. I give you some next week. You coming back?”

“I’ll be here. Every Wednesday. From now on.”

“You done with college?”

“Uh-huh. I’m home to stay.”

Juanita’s genuine smile warmed Char to her soul. This was what she wanted. To be home and to be of service.

“Juanita, who owns this building?”

She shrugged. “Nobody. I wish somebody would do something with it. It’s just a place for older kids to hang out, get in trouble. When you’re not here, I keep my kids away.”

More people were meandering up the street, some familiar, some not. It was the third year Char had been coming to the parking lot of the vacant building to distribute donations from church. Every year, more people came. And every year, the building fell deeper into disrepair.

But Char intended to change all that.

Minutes later, all heads turned when Bill Diamond’s logo-splashed car pulled in.

Char was so antsy to get inside the door of the building she could hardly contain herself, watching him fumble among a dozen keys for the right one.

Suddenly an idea hit her.

“Juanita, come along.”

“¿Cómo?”

“Will you join me?” She motioned with her arm. “C’mon. Bring the kids.”

Juanita looked doubtful, but she gathered up Amelia and Juan, and together they moved toward the door.

“Anxious to see the place, aren’t you?” asked Bill, perplexed. “Well, don’t get too excited. It’s nothing like the spread you got up there on Dry Creek Road.”

He handed her a key. “Here, I’ll let you do the honors.”

He couldn’t have been more right. The few bare lightbulbs that worked barely lit up the interior. Probably a blessing, since what Char could see was filthy. There were beverage cans tossed around on the floors and junk piled up in the corners.

“Squatters,” said Bill. He went over and kicked a can, scattering dust motes. “Long gone now.”

But the floors were wood, and the raggedy roller blinds camouflaged tall windows. Char yanked on one, and it made a racket snapping all the way up, sending years’ worth of dust into the air.

She turned to Bill. “I love it! It’s perfect!”

Juanita looked at her like she was loco. Little Juan ventured a few feet away to go exploring.

“¡Juan Garza!” His mother let loose with a torrent of Spanish, bringing him scurrying back to her side.

“Isn’t this cool?” asked Char. She approached one of the longer walls. “Picture this, Juanita. A little cantina with a counter where you could do your cooking!”

Now Juanita really looked nervous.

“Think of it! With your culinary talent, you could pack ’em in. Just do a limited menu, be open a few days a week. The kids could hang out right here, under your supervision.” She smiled encouragingly, and slowly Juanita began to get it.

“I don’t know. Mayyyybeee,” she said, looking around with new eyes.

“You could make tamales, corundas,” said Char, citing some of her favorite dishes.

“Is hard to find charanda around here,” said Juanita. “We could sell that, too.”

“Now you’re talking!”

Bill raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to know what the asking price is?”

“Oh,” Char said. “Yes. What is the asking price?”

“Three hundred thousand.”

Char’s smile faded. She looked around again, more critically this time.

“C’mon, I’ll walk you through,” said Bill.

But the more she saw of it, the more she was sure.

Then she remembered her most important question.

“Tell me something. Are you helping Ryder McBride buy this?” she asked.

“Like I said before, I’m working for the seller. I’ll show the property to anyone who expresses an interest. First come, first serve. That said, it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to comment on other potential buyers. Or”—he added with a meaningful look—“any offers they might have made.”

Damn. She wanted this building. But where was she going to get three hundred thousand dollars on her own?