Chapter 30
Scooping up her long skirt, Char strode as fast as she could from her car to the house with the misshapen chain-link fence. The knit fabric was heavier than it looked. Her silver heels were precarious enough without having to dodge the cracks in the sidewalk. Dirt wasn’t all she was worried about. Though perfectly apropos for a gala, this high-end outfit made her feel like a Disney princess impersonator down here on dusty El Valle Avenue. But there was no time for a costume change.
The smoky scent of corn tortillas on a hot griddle hit her as she approached the screen door.
How do you keep the urgency out of a knock? She didn’t want to panic Juanita, but there was no way she wasn’t going to surprise her, showing up on her stoop unannounced in an full-length gown, this time of evening.
While she waited, she composed her face. She had to make this quick to get to the gala by seven, but she couldn’t disrespect Juanita by demanding answers to intrusive questions, then blithely dismissing her responses to run off to her charity ball.
“¡Amelia!” Char heard Juanita call to her daughter from the heart of the house. “Quién está en la puerta?”
Amelia came to the door and gaped at Char as if she had sprouted wings. “Senorita Chardonnay, Mamá.”
Juanita’s head appeared from around a corner of the dusky kitchen. “One second while I turn the stove off.” A second later she was hurrying toward the door—sure enough, brow already furrowed—wiping her hands on a dish towel. When she saw Char’s fancy dress and updo, her expression was only slightly less awestruck than Amelia’s. She pushed the squeaky door outward. “Come in, come in.” With one glance at Char’s face, she asked, “What is wrong?”
When Char didn’t immediately reply, Juanita ushered her into the tidy, if sparsely decorated, living room.
Should she make a lame attempt at small talk or plunge right in?
“Sit.”
Char did as she was told, still clutching her dress in her lap. Juanita took a seat catty-corner, and Amelia perched on its stuffed arm, curious and wide-eyed.
“Nothing is wrong.” Char released her armful of fabric to reassure Juanita with a touch. “I won’t keep you. You’re cooking. It’s just—” She struggled for words. “There’s something I needed to ask you.” She slid her eyes toward Amelia and back. “Grown-up talk.”
“Amelia, why don’t you show Miss Char your new dress? Go and put it on please.”
Char watched the child scamper down the hall.
No more stalling.
“Juanita . . . it’s about your husband. What was his name?”
“Gabriel.” She frowned. “What is this about?”
“What happened to him?”
Juanita’s chin jerked back at the bluntness of her question. “You don’t know?”
“I’m not sure. That’s what I came to find out.”
“It was a fire. Seven years ago.”
Char’s eyes closed of their own accord. She drew a shaky breath.
“Where?”
“At the migrant camp where he was staying. He came here to work, leaving Amelia and me back home in the Michoacán. When Gabriel learned I was pregnant with Juan, he sent for me. He wanted us to get a house here, in the US, to be together. It was too hard, living apart. And with another baby coming . . .” Her eyes grew shiny, and she shrugged. “But I was too late. Gabe died before I arrived.”
Juan never saw his father.
Juanita blinked and cocked her head, perplexed. “You did not know this? But it was your papi that owned the camp.”
Char’s head dropped to her hands.
When she could speak again, her voice was barely audible. “No. I didn’t know about any of it.”
Juanita sat back. “But I don’t understand. Why then did you help us so much? Why choose the spot across the street for your outreach mission, if you didn’t know us, want to make up to us?”
Char’s head spun. All this time, Juanita believed she was somehow trying to atone for Papa’s sins by bringing donations specifically to Juan and Amelia?
“I wasn’t singling anybody out. I want to help all the families in this neighborhood. Not just yours.” Her eyes bored into Juanita’s then as it dawned on her. “It was you who brought them to me, wasn’t it? Once you and I became friends, you vouched for me with the others. That’s why they came, why they trusted me.”
Her friend’s guilty smile gave her away.
“But how did you know? How did you know who I was, who my father was?”
Juanita’s eyebrows went up. “How many beautiful angels with golden hair and the name Chardonnay are there who drive the Mercedes? I read the papers! I see your pictures.” She gifted Char with a fleeting grin before her hand flew to her breast. “Then you also did not know that Ryder’s father . . . ?”
“The whole thing was kept from me until very recently,” she replied, eyes cast down.
“But Ryder, he knows of the connection? All the names were in the reports—your papi’s, too. My lawyer showed them to me back then, before I could speak English. When Ryder McBride became this big movie star”—she tapped her temple with her index finger—“I remembered that his father Roland was the one who died with my Gabe.”
“What made you stay? Why not return to Mexico, to your family?”
“Juan and Amelia are my family now. Gabe wanted his children to be Americans. To have a fresh start. I bought this house with the insurance money—how else?” She chuckled. “I live frugally. Still, here we are rich, compared to Mexico. We have many friends. We are happy.” There was a peaceful wisdom in her soft brown eyes. “You still haven’t told me. Why are you coming here asking me this, now, this evening?”
Why was she? She wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the information.
“Is Ryder angry with you?”
But Char was still thinking of the Garzas. Meeting the older woman’s eyes was one of the hardest things she ever had to do. “I’m so, so sorry, Juanita. For you, and your family. Especially your children. I know what it’s like to lose a parent.”
Juanita drew a resolute breath and lifted Char’s chin with her finger. “You did nothing to be sorry for. And Gabe’s amigo, the man who started the fire by cooking in el dormitorio—er, the bedroom—I forgave him long ago. Mateo was just homesick for his culture. Who knows?” She shrugged. “His English was not so good. Maybe he didn’t understand the rules. It is different in Mexico.”
“What about Papa?” She had to know.
“Would anger for your papi bring back my husband?” Suddenly, Juanita jumped out of her seat. “But wait! Why are you here, when you should be at the gala?”
Of course Juanita knew the ball was tonight. She’d been there to cheer Char on at the race that morning, hadn’t she?
“You must go now.” She took Char’s arm and urged her up, just as Amelia ran into the room in her festive new dress.
“Look. See how fancy she is!” With a change in tone, mother proudly motioned toward daughter.
Amelia twirled, making the wide skirt swish.
Setting her problems aside, Char bent to touch the cotton. “You look gorgeous,” she exclaimed.
“And now Miss Char has to go,” said Juanita, “or she will be late to the ball. And I have to finish cooking our dinner.”
“But—” Char protested.
Juanita led her by the arm toward the door. “Go. Shoo.”
Gathering up her hems again, Char turned back from the walk to wave to Amelia and caught a glimpse of Juanita dabbing at her eye with her dish towel, from behind the screen door.