Outdoors on the side porch, Indio ended her phone call with Claire and walked into the house. A few steps led her through the laundry-slash-mudroom and into the kitchen. Her private hiatus ended at that point.
Paquita Guevara stood at the island, filling a big basket with croissants. She was an ageless woman, built like a washing machine, with two long, black braids. She glanced up, concern obvious on her flat face. “How is Claire?”
“Actually . . .” Safe was how her daughter-in-law was, much as that flew in the face of reason. “She’s all right.”
Paquita shook her head. “So sad. But maybe for the best, hmm? Now they fix things.”
Indio smiled and watched Paquita carry the basket through a door-way. It was time to serve breakfast to the guests.
Several years before, when she and Ben retired, they’d remodeled their home and turned it into a retreat center, the Hacienda Hide-away. The setting was perfect: a 150-year-old dwelling tucked away on acreage in the quiet hills above San Diego. Ben’s great-great-grand-father had mined gold in the area and eventually bought the property and built the house. Beaumonts had grown up in it for generations.
Indio felt a timelessness in the old, red-tile roof and thick adobe walls. In spite of updating, the house was still the original U shape. A covered veranda hugged the interior of the U; a courtyard filled its center.
She had resisted excessive change in the kitchen. The island and appliances were new—necessary accommodations for guests—but she’d claimed the rest of the large room for personal use. The original stone fireplace and wood-plank flooring remained, along with her scruffy oak table. She added braid rugs, a couch, and her rocker. Over time she created her wall of “Jesus reminders.”
At the side of the fireplace, a framed family photo hung behind the table. She stopped now in front of it, thinking about Max and Claire as she stared at the faces of her loved ones.
She and Ben weren’t too keen on displaying family photos. Her husband likened it to scab picking: why keep exposing the wound? Pictures only reminded them of who wasn’t there for the camera’s click. Pictures only reminded them that thirty-four years ago their older son, BJ, had gone to Vietnam and never come home.
But Jenna had married, and photos were taken. And Indio adored her grandchildren. She treasured the sense they gave her of posterity, of life itself. Ben hadn’t fussed at her decision to hang this one.
It was a toothy photo, everyone grinning from ear to ear.
Jenna glowed in her froufrou gown. Though her facial features were finer, and she was tall, she had—like Max and Indio—the black eyes and coarse, black hair of Indio’s mother.
Kevin, her groom, was resplendent in Marine dress blues.
Erik’s charm twinkled from greenish-brown eyes.
Danny, square shaped like Max, still looked boyish with curly brown hair.
Lexi, his fraternal twin, had Claire’s light brown hair and was birdlike in build.
“Thinking of taking it down?”
At the sound of Ben’s voice, Indio looked over her shoulder. Her husband lumbered across the room. At seventy-eight he still reminded her of Ben Cartwright on the old western television show Bonanza. Though his eyes weren’t black, he had the identical silver mane and broad shoulders. Most often he wore a shirt with dolman sleeves, leather vest, and blue jeans. He towered over her.
“Now why would I think of taking it down?”
He raised bushy brows. His eyes, blue as the desert sky, did not twinkle. He placed an arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “Because Max’s family just got a big ol’ hole in it.”