Chapter 32
I was exhausted by the time it was all over, but I went home to freshen up, took Agatha to Mrs. Branford’s, and headed back to Baptista’s to meet Emmaline for dinner. She’d beaten me there and stood waiting under the awning at the entrance.
“Who hit your car?” she asked me.
So much had happened between the night I’d been followed and now that it seemed like a vague memory.
“Heather.”
She gaped. “As in Luke’s Heather?”
I nodded. “She went off the rails, but it’s okay now.” I didn’t tell her about the breaking and entering, the theft of my electric toothbrush, or the phone calls. I was putting it behind me. Luke and Heather could have each other. I was done with both of them.
I hoped.
I looped my arm through Em’s and we went in to be seated for dinner. I stopped at the hostess station to say hello to Miguel’s mother. She stood up from the stool she’d been perching on, came around the counter, and gave me a kiss on both cheeks. “Mija, you are well?”
“I am, thank you. You?”
She gave a slow, sage-looking nod. “Bien, bien. I cannot complain.”
“We’re celebrating Emmaline’s upcoming wedding to my brother,” I said, squeezing Em’s arm tighter.
“And justice being served,” Em said.
Señora Baptista clapped her hands to her cheeks. Her smile seemed to say that this was the best news she’d had in forever. “Felicidades,” she said. “Many, many congratulations.”
As Emmaline thanked her, Miguel’s mother summoned a host to seat us at a table on the back deck. She whispered something to him as he picked up menus. He nodded, then led us through the dining room. Miguel, with the help of Billy as his contractor, had replaced the restaurant’s old Naugahyde booths and tread-worn floor with Aztec-patterned tiles, wood planks on the walls, enormous windows overlooking the pier and ocean, and a statement piece of a fireplace with cool graphic tiles stretching all the way up to the ceiling. He’d worked with a local glassblower to have custom fixtures created that looked like misshapen bubbles, one hanging above each dining table. The place was nothing short of spectacular.
The host led us through the dining room and past the long, sleek bar that housed hundreds of bottles of tequila and mezcal. It was Jorge’s, the mezcal concierge’s, domain. He’d taken Miguel, Billy, Emmaline, and me through a tasting just before their grand reopening. As a result, I had a new appreciation for the spirits. I waved at Jorge as we passed.
As the host seated us at a table overlooking the pier, the glow of lights from distant cliff houses were like romantic beacons reflecting off the water. The soft glow of patio lights outside created a sense of peace. The table was set with beautiful glass water goblets and heavy silverware. It was the perfect place to hear every last detail of Billy and Emmaline’s wedding plans. The host handed each of us a distressed leather menu, the cover embossed with BAPTISTA’S CANTINA & GRILL. Beneath that, in smaller lettering, it read FINE MEXICAN DINING; and below that, Santa Sofia, California.
My stomach growled. Em arched an eyebrow at me. “A little excited for the queso?”
I flicked my own brows up in response, stifling my smile and staying focused on the menu. Inside were custom pages with a few select photographs from the collection I’d taken after the renovation, a list of wines, spirits, and specialty cocktails; appetizers, ensaladas, and sopas, and the entrée sections broken into beef, pork, chicken, seafood, and vegetarian. Desserts, I knew, were featured on a separate dessert menu card our server would bring us later.
When redoing the menu, Miguel had stayed true to the classic Mexican dishes we’d all grown up with, but he’d elevated them. There were so many new things to try. It would take a year to work my way through it all. Tonight was just one night. Did I want vegetarian or meat? Or . . . I narrowed one eye . . . did I really want seafood?
It ended being an easy choice. The prawn and lobster cast-iron skillet with avocado crema was calling my name. My stomach rumbled again.
A server I hadn’t seen before approached the table with a chilled bottle of white wine. Her chestnut hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that hung like a mass of silk down her back. She wore the standard black slacks and sleek white blouse all Miguel’s servers wore. “My name’s Andrea. I’ll be serving you tonight. I hear you’re celebrating,” she said as she placed a stemless glass in front of each of us. She turned to Em. “Congratulations!”
Em gave a little laugh and said thanks, but held up her hand. “Sorry, we didn’t order—”
“Courtesy of Baptista’s,” Andrea said as she showed us the bottle of Monte Xanic sauvignon blanc.
Who were we to refuse a complimentary bottle of wine? “Thanks so much,” I said, flicking my brows up at Em.
Andrea skillfully withdrew the cork and poured a splash in my glass. I was not a wine expert by any stretch of the imagination, but I swirled and smelled and tasted like I was a pro, giving a satisfied nod when I’d finished.
She poured Em’s glass, filled mine, set the bottle down, and proceeded to tell us about the house specials for the evening. I was tempted by the sea bass and the scallops, but I couldn’t do it. I stuck with the lobster and prawns. And, of course, the brisket queso. It was the one thing at Baptista’s that I could not do without. The stuff was no ordinary queso. Layers of melt-in-your-mouth brisket topped with a savory barbecue sauce, three-cheese queso blanco, and a heavy dollop of perfectly pickled relish were served in a stone molcajete, which was a mortar—minus the pestle—and carried on a rustic wood slab piled high with the restaurant’s thick homemade corn tortilla chips.
We placed our order with Andrea and sipped our wine. “We haven’t done this in a while,” I said. Being alone with Emmaline on a girls’ night was a treat.
“Too long,” she agreed.
We chitchatted for a little while before I finally leaned forward and begged her for the details of her wedding.
“Saturday, May twenty-third,” she said. “Save the date.”
“Like anything could keep me away.”
I rapid-fired questions at her. “Where will it be held?”
“At Mission Santa Sofia in the rose pavilion.”
“Time?”
“Ceremony at four, dinner to follow at a really cool venue we found. You’ll love it. It’s kind of rustic and earthy. Billy fell in love the second we stepped inside.”
Even based on what little she’d just said, I could see why. Billy was a no-frills kind of guy, much like Miguel was. They both liked things simple, but at the same time, demanded character and charm. They liked the story that a place had to tell. As a contractor, Billy had gotten to the point where he worked mostly by referral. Part of his appeal was the keen sense of design and style he brought into his plans.
“Your parents must be so excited,” I said. I’d known the Davis family since Emmaline and I were in elementary school together. Elijah and Elaine Davis were avid ballroom dancers who, if they went on Dancing with the Stars, would take home the whole shebang. They were down-to-earth people who had poise to spare and adored their only daughter with a fierce passion. Her being in law enforcement was not their first choice of career for her, but they accepted it. “Are they going to make you and Billy take dance lessons?”
She laughed. “You know it. Elaine already booked us an orientation appointment at the studio.”
Em and I had always called our parents by their first names, to each other. It had given us a sense of power when we’d been kids. Now it was just a quirk based on the fact that they were our friends as much as they were our parents. “I cannot wait to see Billy do the tango!”
“Ha! Me too.”
The brisket queso arrived and we dug in, but not before holding our wineglasses up in a toast. “To you and Billy,” I said, my giddy excitement spilling into my voice. “You’re so great together.”
“Ivy,” Em said after we’d devoured half the appetizer before us. “You’re like my sister, you know that.”
I did know. I was ginger-haired, lightly freckled, fair, and on the curvy side. Em had gorgeous black skin, had recently taken up having her hair braided, was petite, and had a body that was hard as a rock. We looked nothing alike, but we’d claimed each other as family long ago. I reached over and squeezed her hand, my way of saying that I felt the exact same way.
She looked sheepishly at me, not an expression she usually wore, and said, “Will you be my maid of honor?”
I’d been 98 percent sure she’d ask me, but still, my eyes welled and my lower lip trembled with the love I had for her. I put my hand on my heart, willing myself not to actually cry. “Emmaline Lorraine Davis, if you’d asked anyone else, I never would have forgiven you. Well, I would have forgiven you, but I would have been crushed. I will be the best maid of honor a bride has ever had.”
She loaded up a tortilla chip with brisket, the cheese goo dripping off the sides. “Open up, sista,” she said. I did. And as she plunged the chip into my mouth, we both burst out laughing.
Miguel came up to the table just as we scraped the last of the queso from the molcajete. He took the seat next to me, planted a kiss on my cheek, and gave us both a crooked grin. “You two are a mad team,” he said. “Criminals better watch out.”
We laughed again, simultaneously lifting and clinking our wineglasses.
“Has Meg been reunited with her son?” he asked.
“She has,” Em answered. “They have a tough road ahead. Ten years is a long time.”
It was very sobering. I hoped they’d find a way to be together.
We sat in a moment of silence before Miguel said, “You ladies did the brisket queso justice, I see.”
Em threw up her hand and looked around. “Ivy’s done. Check, please!”
I swatted at her arm. “I’m so not done. Lobster and prawns, baby.”
Miguel draped his arm around me. “That’s my Ivy. Nothing will stop her from a good meal.”
I sipped my wine. “You better believe it.”
“Thank you for the bottle,” Em said, holding her glass up like a salute.
“I hear you have a wedding date set. That’s a good reason to celebrate,” he said, his gaze sliding over to me.
Emmaline, along with Mrs. Branford and Olaya, were convinced that Miguel and I would be next. I wasn’t in a rush to settle down again, though. My marriage to Luke hadn’t lasted. If—or when—I got married again, I had every intention of it being for the long haul. If that meant taking a little more time before Miguel and I made that commitment, I was okay with that. “It’s the best reason to celebrate,” I agreed. I lifted my glass. “Here’s to Em and Billy.”
Miguel stayed long enough to see our food delivered and to nod his approval at the plating. “I’ll leave you to it. Buen provecho,” he said. He gave me a kiss, then bent to kiss Em on her cheek. “And congratulations, Sheriff. I have no doubt that your wedding will be epic.”
She glowed and I beamed. Miguel was charming and had a way of making a person feel incredibly special. “With Ivy as my maid of honor,” she said, “you better believe it.”
“My my, I think that is worth celebrating, too,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. I had a sneaking suspicion Andrea would be delivering something else to our table before long, but for now, I dug into the lobster and prawns waiting for me on my plate.
Emmaline and I talked wedding dresses, bridesmaid dresses, and flowers for the next thirty-five minutes, our bellies bursting by the time we finished our meals. A young man, just as neatly dressed as Andrea, swept our dishes away before Andrea reappeared carrying two plates, one with an oval shaped baking dish in the center, the other with a decadent square of tres leche cake. Both were decorated with sliced strawberries and blueberries. “Oh my God,” Em said, leaning back in her chair as Andrea set them in the middle of our table. “Your man is too much.”
“Flan,” she announced as she set down the first plate. She looked at me. “And tres leche cake. The boss said this is your favorite.”
I felt my cheeks heat. “He’s right.”
She lifted her brows in a knowing way. “He seems like a man in love,” Andrea said as she set new napkins and dessert spoons out for us. “Enjoy.”
“She’s right, you know,” Em said, taking up her spoon. “Miguel Baptista is most definitely a man in love.”
I waved her comment away with a flick of my hand, but my insides were warm and as gooey as the layers of the tres leche.
Hembesha, East African Spiced Bread
Makes one 12-inch hembesha
Ingredients:
1½ cups all-purpose flour
½ cup whole wheat flour
2 tsp instant dry yeast
1 tsp ground fenugreek
1 tsp ground coriander
1 tsp ground cardamom
1 tsp salt
1–2 cloves garlic, crushed
1 Tbsp vegetable oil
½ cup warm water (start with a little less)
1 large egg
Additional vegetable oil, for cooking
Directions:
First, mix all ingredients, save the additional vegetable oil, together by hand or with a mixer. Turn onto a floured surface and knead until smooth.
Cover and let rise in a warm spot for between 45 minutes and 1 hour, or until doubled in size. (Instant dry yeast works very quickly—but if you only have regular yeast this will take about 1 ½ hours.)
Roll out dough to about ⅓-inch thickness and put it in an oiled, 12-inch oven-safe pan or skillet. I used a paella pan. A round pan is best, but placing the round dough on a large cookie sheet is fine, too.
Immediately cut with a pastry wheel (a pizza cutter will also work)—first cut in wedges like a pizza, then create concentric circles about an inch apart. If the dough pulls with the cutter, try cutting toward the center.
Be sure to cut 99–100% of the way through—this is the only way your cuts won’t “disappear” once baked.
Let rise 30–45 minutes—until puffed and doubled in size. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 350º F.
Brush with oil and bake 15–20 minutes. Allow to cool in pan.
NOTE: Eritreans also like to cook their hembesha on the stovetop. Try over medium-low (flipping once after 10 minutes). This works better with a heavy-bottom pan as it cooks more evenly.
Rosemary Bread
Ingredients
1 Tbsp yeast
1 Tbsp sugar
1 cup warm water
2½ cups flour
1 tsp salt
2 Tbsp finely chopped fresh rosemary
2 Tbsp butter
Directions
Preheat oven to 375º F. Proof the yeast by adding to warm water and sugar. Let it rest for five or ten minutes until it becomes bubbly.
Mix in the butter, salt, and 2 cups of the flour.
Add 1 Tbsp of the rosemary to the dough.
Knead for about 10 minutes by hand (or use the dough hook on a mixer) until smooth and elastic. Add more flour, as necessary.
Oil a metal or glass bowl, or proofing basket. Place dough into the bowl and cover with a towel. Leave in a warm, draft-free place until doubled, approximately one hour.
Punch down. Divide into two equal parts and let rise for an additional fifteen minutes. Shape each piece into 2 rounded oval loaves. Sprinkle additional tablespoon of rosemary on top of the loaves and lightly press it into the dough.
Spray a baking sheet with cooking spray or oil. Place prepared loaves on the baking sheet. Let rise for an additional 45–50 minutes.
Place in hot oven and bake 20 minutes or until brown.
After removing from the oven, brush lightly with butter or olive oil and lightly sprinkle with salt (optional).