Joaquin grabbed at Mae’s hands to keep her from wringing them together, running an idle thumb over the engagement ring on her finger.
They were to be married in a month’s time here in Cabrillo. But first, she had to meet his family.
Mae was jumpier than he had ever seen her, and it ate at him that she was so anxious. She could barrel down the hospital halls as if she ran the place, but now, faced with his family home…
“Are you certain they won’t ask about the details of my childhood?” she asked.
“We’ve been over this: you simply say that you grew up in New York and that both your parents have passed,” he reminded her firmly. “That will be enough to satisfy them.”
He could lie and tell her that everything would be just fine. But she’d seen his family during their rare visits, and Mae was not at all what they’d desire in a daughter-in-law. There was the business of her continuing to work after they were married—something he’d made his peace with—and the fact that her family was unknown to his. And of course, she was nothing like Isabel.
At least there were some small mercies—Mae was a Catholic. Had he brought home a Baptist, his mother might have died on the spot.
He pulled up the borrowed horse and went around to help her out of the wagon. The house looked much as it always had, neat as a pin and solidly advertising his family’s claims to respectability. That was the way it had always been; the appearance of perfection was more important than the substance beneath.
She gazed with wide eyes at the house, and he could tell her nerves were wound even tighter by the sight of it. He only hoped his family wasn’t too harsh with her. If they hurt her or made her cry… well, it might be the last time they visited.
The front door opened and his parents came to stand on the porch, no doubt having heard the wagon drive up. They both assumed a stance of studied indifference, neither welcoming nor rejecting.
His father looked older than he remembered, his black hair having turned completely to a steely gray over the past two years, his posture stooping like that of a much older man.
His mother looked exactly the same though, not even shoulder high, in a gown that would have been fashionable twenty years ago. Her mouth was downturned, but her gaze held a kind of questioning anxiety. Perhaps this might be as nerve-racking for her as it was for him and Mae.
Of his sisters and their children, he saw no sign.
“Mama.” He bent to kiss her cheek, taking note of the lines near her eyes that had not been apparent from afar. It seemed that time had touched her as well, just not as visibly as it had his father.
“Papa.” He shook his father’s hand, then turned to Mae, lifting a hand toward her. “May I introduce my fiancée, Mary Margaret McCallahan?”
Mae placed her hand in his and inclined her head toward first his mother, then his father, but did not move to embrace them. The stiffness of everyone on that porch was nearly palpable. The old Joaquin would have thought such stiffness right and proper. The Joaquin who was to marry Mae wanted to laugh, half in mirth, half in sadness. They were his parents, and she was his bride. Should there not be rejoicing, perhaps even a smile?
His mother waved toward the doorway. “Please, come in.”
Mae hesitated for a moment and he gave her a little push. She came first now, and he oftentimes had to remind her of it. Strange how in certain situations she could be so pushy—such as when she was alone with him—and so retiring in public.
As they entered the house, he heard the rapid thrum of small feet coming down the hall, and then he was engulfed by strong, sticky hugs and high-pitched shouts. He had to smile at this markedly different greeting from his niece and nephew.
“Be gentle with your uncle,” his mother said harshly, her face white with distress.
“Mama,” he said softly, or at least as softly as he could with all their whooping. “It’s fine. I’m quite all right. Just ask Mae.”
“Oh, yes,” Mae assured them. “A little roughhousing won’t hurt. In fact, it might even be beneficial.”
His mother only looked away. “If you say so,” she said faintly. “Those of us who nursed Joaquin through those terrible first days cannot be so sanguine about his health.”
Mae swallowed hard and blinked. He himself experienced a sharp stitch of guilt. He had nearly died that night; Dr. Blackmun never ceased to express how amazed he was that Joaquin had survived. Having a doctor tell you you should be a dead man each time he saw you was quite unnerving. And his mother saw the doctor quite often.
But still, he was alive, capable of more than lying in a bed. It was past time for his parents to see that as well.
“Mama, Mae is correct. I might fatigue more easily than I used to, and I might limp, but the rest of me is still quite sound.”
His mother didn’t answer. “Please, come into the parlor. Teresa and Ines are waiting there for us.”
Mae followed his mother as she led the way, her head bent in a way that concerned him. He himself clomped along with a child wrapped around each leg. He’d pay for that later in aches, but it was worth it.
His sisters looked exactly as he’d expected as they rose to embrace them, smiles crossing their faces as they welcomed him. And he couldn’t swear to it, but Ines might have even had tears in her eyes.
Everyone settled in for tea and conversation. The sitting room was also as he remembered—sparkling white lace curtains, horsehair chairs, and the thick, patterned rug at their feet.
The silence stretched out, no one willing to be the first to speak, even the children falling silent under the tension.
“So,” his mother finally said, startling everyone, “Joaquin wrote that you were a nurse.”
Mae stilled, obviously unsure how to answer that.
He decided to save her the trouble. “Mae is still a nurse; she works at the teaching hospital under Dr. Robinson.”
His parents thought that Dr. Robinson could do no wrong, and it would only help to let them know Mae had his seal of approval.
“When will you stop working?” Teresa asked. “Surely before the wedding.”
Mae lifted her chin. “Joaquin and I discussed it, and we agreed that I would continue to work.”
“But to have your wife work is so…” His mother’s mouth twisted in distaste. “It cannot be done.”
“Mae wouldn’t be content at home,” he said. “She needs an occupation. A profession.” He smiled at Mae, and the smile she sent back told him he’d said it exactly right.
“A profession? But a woman can’t have a profession.”
“This one does,” Mae said, her voice hardening.
“Joaquin, I cannot think what you are about,” his mother continued, “letting your wife continue to work. Perhaps this move to Los Angeles has been too much for you and the overexertion has clouded your thinking.”
He opened his mouth to deny it, but Mae beat him to it, her sweet little face scrunched in anger. “How would you know what he’s capable of? You hardly ever bothered to visit him.”
His mother sniffed. “I am his mother. Surely no one knows him better than me.”
Mae’s smile was sharp. “And I am to be his wife. Surely no one knows your husband better than you, Mrs. Obregon?”
A stunned kind of silence fell at that, everyone staring at Mae, and Mae staring at his mother.
“I believe… I believe that dinner might be ready,” Ines said shakily as she rose.
“I didn’t visit because it was too painful.” His mother’s voice was harsh. “Death had his very hands upon him, and he was saved—only to make it clear he didn’t want to be saved.”
Her words opened a deep ache within him. A hurt that pulsed at the thought that he’d driven them away with his rancor. An ache that increased with the knowledge that it wasn’t only his rejection that had kept them away. Their disappointment in him had also played a role.
“Sometimes,” he said gently to his mother, “when a person is deeply ill, they say things they would not in other circumstances. Things they deeply regret when they’ve returned to themselves.”
Mae flashed him a secret smile as she recognized her own words to him.
His mother’s face eased. “Well, you certainly weren’t yourself after.”
“No,” he said. “And I am glad to have survived.” He smiled at Mae, squeezing her hand and uncaring if his family thought it improper. “Especially now.”
“If you are content, my son,” his mother allowed, “then I am as well.”
Spoken stiffly, almost grudgingly, and not half of what he might have liked from his mother. But if the past year had taught him anything, it was that there was contentment in acceptance. Particularly acceptance of that which couldn’t be altered.
His mother rose and gave Mae a rather weak smile. “Let us go in to dinner, and Miss McCallahan can tell us all about her family.”
Mae sent him a panicked look, but he only squeezed her hand again, pulling her along to the dining room.
She’d no need to fear—they would meet this challenge together. Just as they would all the challenges of the future.