Chapter Four

ELLIE HISSED AS she scalded her thumb on the hot plate in the microwave. She grabbed a paper towel for protection and transferred the enchiladas to the opposite counter, then snagged a beer from the fridge. Her Skype screen chimed, and she spun to her laptop. These weekly talks with Claudia and Marisol were her lifeline now that their relationship straddled oceans. Sketchy internet and group texts were poor substitutes for two decades of inseparable friendship.

“Finally, the fucking connection works!” Marisol’s voice punched through the speakers a second before her face popped into view. “Sorry about missing last week. Half a billion dollars for an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, and the satellite hookup is for shit. I could get serviced faster by a puta than our IT fuckups.”

“Have you tested that theory?” Ellie pressed her tender thumb against the cool condensation on the bottle.

“Hell no! I’m too cheap to pay for it.”

“Not to mention your sexy painter husband jumps your bones whenever you’re on the mainland.” Claudia, still in her fatigues, waved into the camera as she joined the chat.

“Artists are passionate. What can I say?”

“Why are you there on Friday night?” Ellie took a swig of beer and leaned on the counter.

“Maintenance issue. Don’t ask. How’s Germany, Claudia?”

“It’s tense with all the refugees. Makes me appreciate what our parents went through.”

“We were some of the lucky ones.” She stabbed a forkful of enchiladas. The sharp heat and cilantro tang of Abuela’s mole filled her mouth.

Marisol sketched a cross over her chest, then squinted. “What are you eating?”

“Abuela’s enchiladas. My brother delivered a tray yesterday,” she mumbled around another mouthful. “Traffic from the suburbs is a bitch. I barely made it.”

“With her mole? Oh God, is it the verde or the negro? Ooh, or the rojo?” Claudia clasped her hands in front of her face. “I might cry. It’s just as good, right? Tell me it’s just as good.”

“It’s the verde. And it’s perfect.”

“I can’t fucking believe you’re eating in front of us.” Marisol sank back in her seat and groaned.

Claudia’s indignant squawk exploded from the speakers. “You live in freaking Mexico! What are you complaining about? You should see what the Germans do to Mexican food.”

Ellie waved her fork at the screen. “You should come home for a visit if you want the real deal.”

“Stop talking about enchiladas, or I’m seriously going to cry!” Claudia said. “How’s the job going, Ellie?”

Footsteps drummed to a halt in the hallway. “Hang on.” High voices hissed furiously, and a white envelope swished under her door. The flurry retreated.

“What was that?” Marisol asked as Ellie returned to the screen.

“The Hernandez sisters. The postal person mixes up our mail, and their mom sends them down. They race to see who can get to my door the fastest.” She tossed the bill on the counter. “The job’s good. My schedule filled up quick. And the bigger paycheck is nice.”

“Can’t fool us, chica. You’re still wearing a guilty face every time you talk about it.” Marisol’s tsk-tsk made her sound just feet away. The illusion of closeness tugged at Ellie’s heart.

“You gotta let this go,” Claudia said. “There’s nothing wrong with taking a new job.”

“But the kids are so white.”

“The kids need your help, no matter what color they are,” Marisol said.

“But why can’t they have a facility like this in the city? The space at TTC, the equipment, even the smoother insurance process, it’s night and day.” She knew when she took the job the demographics would change, but it still jarred, monochrome faces dominating the halls, the obvious jump in income and access.

“That’s the ’burbs. What do the gringos call it? White flight?” Claudia fluttered a hand in the air. “When they fly away, the money flies with them.”

“They would’ve cut your position at the other place sooner or later,” Marisol said. “You left on your own terms. No guilt. No apologies.”

“And no burning yourself out because you feel bad,” Claudia said. “Once was enough.”

“Basta ya! I give up. No more guilt.”

“I’ll pretend you mean that so we can talk about your love life. Any prospects?” The fuzzy connection couldn’t hide Claudia’s curious grin.

Ellie grabbed the beer and her laptop and moved out of the kitchen to the couch, balancing her computer on her legs as she settled in. “Define ‘prospect.’” An ambulance squalled past her window, its dizzy pulse of blue-and-red light streaking the glass.

Marisol tapped on her camera, making the image jiggle. “You’re hiding something.”

“It’s too early to be anything.”

“Shit, you move fast! New job, new chica!” Marisol snapped her fingers. “Who is she?”

“One of the moms at TTC.”

A month of Tuesdays had crawled by since she first met Olivia, but their interactions had grown increasingly scattered after the first week, when a coworker’s early labor forced Ellie to cover a different group. It had been a mixed blessing. The separation from Ben lifted a professional concern, but it left her without an obvious reason to approach Olivia. She tossed in small talk when they happened to run into each other, but it never worked. Olivia seemed impervious to it.

“A mom? How old is she?” Claudia interrupted her musings.

“I’m not sure. Fortyish?”

“Rubia or pelirroja?”

“Rubia. Very blonde actually.” She grinned. “Am I that predictable, guys?”

“Sí.” They answered in unison.

Her laugh caught her mid-swallow, and she choked on her beer.

“Why the hell is she single if she has a kid?” Marisol had never met a direct question she wouldn’t ask.

“Her wife died several years ago.”

“Never date a viuda. Shitty mojo.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Can’t compete with a dead woman. She always wins.”

“Someone older might be nice,” Claudia countered.

Marisol snorted. “Says the woman with the geriatric husband.”

“He’s only five years older!” Claudia wagged a finger at the camera. “And he could bench-press your man.”

“Chicas, chicas, both your husbands are pretty.”

“Mine’s prettier than hers.” Marisol muttered the line.

Claudia rolled her eyes. “Can you date a parent?”

“I was looking for a subtle way to check, but then last week at work, I stumbled on old gossip. One of the therapists is married to a parent. The parent was already divorced—I didn’t catch all the details—but they did meet at TTC.”

“Was she the kid’s therapist?” Claudia asked.

“No. And I’m not Ben’s therapist. I was only the support staff for his group the first week. I’ve barely interacted with him since.”

“What’s wrong with this kid anyway?”

Ellie leaned into the screen, stabbing a finger at Marisol’s face. “Did you just ask me what’s wrong with him? Seriously?”

Claudia clapped a hand to her forehead. “Marisol!”

“Disculpa! Disculpa! You know what I meant. I’m an idiot! But if you date this woman, you’re basically dating her son too. You want to take on something like that?”

“Like that? What the hell? He’s a child, not a damn puppy!”

“Marisol’s an ass, but she has point.” Claudia jumped over Marisol’s second wave of sputtered apologies. “You pour your heart into your work, cariño. I’m sure he’s wonderful, but what if his needs ask too much of you?”

“What she said! I am an ass. Listen to Claudia.”

“I know why you’re worried, but it’s not the same. I was a lot younger, it was my first job, and those kids—” She chopped the air with her hand, slicing through old regrets. “I’ve learned a lot since then.”

“But she’s still an older woman with a son. Does she have time to date?”

The clumsy restraint in Marisol’s tone made Ellie smile. “You sound so white when you’re trying to be tactful.”

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Look, I haven’t even asked her out. Let me see what’s possible before you pile on with all the reasons this is a bad idea.”

“I can’t believe you have the hots for a suburban mamacita!” Marisol said.

“She lives in the city. She just drives to TTC for the services. It has the best autism clinic—”

Claudia clapped to interrupt them. “Who cares where she lives? Tell us what she’s like. We’ve been too busy arguing to hear the good stuff.”

The couch creaked beneath Ellie as she shifted deeper into the cushions. “She’s quiet. Serious. Intelligent. She has a sly sense of humor, but she’s hard on herself, I can tell, about Ben, meeting his needs. She’s very intent.”

“Intent?” Claudia asked.

“When she looks at me, nothing distracts her. I have all her attention.”

“Is she tall or short? What color are her eyes? You stink at the details!”

“She’s taller than me, surprisingly, but not by much. And her eyes…”

“You don’t know what color her damn eyes are?” Marisol squinted at the screen.

“They’re hazel! But the colors shift depending on the light. It’s fascinating.”

“God save us from white women with fascinating eyes.” Marisol sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Well, she doesn’t fit your usual type.”

“What does that mean?”

“Cálmate.” Marisol held up her hands in supplication. “I meant the quiet, intent part.”

“Angie did rate higher on the bubbly scale,” Claudia said.

Angie’s energy, her restless, moving nature, felt so alive when they first started dating, but by the end, it exhausted her. Olivia’s calm, steady confidence was the counterpoint to that. “I’m getting older, ladies. Maybe what I want is changing. I don’t know. When I saw Olivia, there was just—”

“—something about her.” They answered in unison again.

She laughed and heaved herself off the couch. “All right, enough of this, tontas. Tell me what’s up with you two while I get more enchiladas.”