If she loved you, you knew it.
“This is Rosa,” Cal said to John shortly after they stepped foot inside Cal’s childhood home. His mother’s home.
The two men stood in the sitting area surrounded by a few other people near a corner shelf that held lots of books and quite a few elephants. The smell of turkey and apples wafted through the air, making Cal’s stomach growl.
“Hola, John.” Rosa took one of his hands between her two. “Nice to finally meet you.”
John blushed, causing Cal to nearly howl. Rosa was like a mom to him. She was a mom. Had four sons of her own. Cal was the bastard of the family. The black sheep.
“Cal has mentioned me?” John’s Georgian drawl thickened. Cal had met him a couple years ago at school. The accent hadn’t changed. Their friendship either.
“Yes.” She smiled. “And your girl?” Rosa looked between the two young men. “She’s not here?”
“No.” John fidgeted with his shirt, flinging some of his raven hair to the side. “She—”
“Maggie’s father insisted she fly home alone for Thanksgiving,” Cal interjected as he glanced out the front windows, the curtains open, the sun casting light over the old wooden floors. “Long story.”
“Well…” Rosa placed a palm on John’s again, lips still curving upward, onyx eyes alight with the same easygoing merriment. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me t—” John started but was interrupted by a few small children making circles around the three of them.
“Miguel,” Rosa snapped.
The kids were barefoot.
Cal grinned.
God forbid children put their feet on the earth and then waltz into her house, tracking dirt over her floors. His smile grew wider and wider.
“Oh, your mother will have a fit.” Rosa shooed the boys away — the younger three, not the college kids. “Go back outside, mi queridos.”
“Where is she?” Cal asked, a sticky film coating his throat.
“The kitchen.” Rosa held open the front door. Several more children played in the yard … also barefoot. “Come.” She motioned to Cal and John. “Take off your shoes.” The men looked at one another. Rosa glanced toward the kitchen, a sly grin on her face. “I will not tell.”
“I’m not taking off my shoes,” Cal stated although he desperately wanted to.
One: because it would piss her off.
Two: to remember what it felt like.
Rosa only had to look at him, though, and Cal complied. Both young men stepped onto the porch barefoot, the Thursday afternoon beautiful and cool, air crisp and full of the scent of Ojai’s autumn. The smell of Constance’s food found its way out here too, mingling with the sounds of children playing, the noises becoming louder as they made their way through the yard, blades of grass tickling Cal’s soles.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d longed to inhale the blossoms, to pick a ripe tangerine, to feel the Ojai dirt beneath his feet.
“Where are you taking us?” Cal asked while John busied himself with the scenery — the garden, its flowers and trees.
“Somewhere special,” she replied.
They followed behind the petite woman, her dark hair falling across her backside, the chunky curls swaying with each step. A firecracker no one crossed. People didn’t ask Rosa, “How high?” They just jumped.
Perhaps that had been the reason Rosa had been able to deal with Cal’s mother for so long — at least fifteen years of assisting Constance Prescott. Rosa never cared about anybody’s bullshit. Or lip.
If she loved you, you knew it.
Cal had apparently forgotten some of these facts, but as they approached the fence lining the property, he remembered everything.
“This isn’t special,” he groaned. “I’ve seen this a thousand tim—”
“I haven’t.” John gazed out over the trees below, dozens, maybe hundreds, covering the valley.
The three stood at the fence, palms on top of the white wooden planks, beholding something so special Cal didn’t actually have words for what it meant.
Rosa stood in the middle and plopped a hand on Cal’s. He looked down at her knuckles. Now, his throat didn’t just have a film — it felt thick and full of shit that didn’t exist. Her fingers started to curl around his and squeeze. When he tried to pull away, she squeezed harder.
“Esto es especial, hijo mío. Nunca olvides este sentimiento. O este lugar,” she began.
Cal and Rosa glanced at each other, then looked back to the fields. He tried to swallow, but nothing would go down.
“Tu abuelo esta aqui.” She tipped her head to the valley.
“El se fue,” Cal replied, feeling John’s eyes on him.
“No,” she said, peering at the side of Cal’s face. “No one is ever really gone.”