When Monica returned to her house, she found Laurita in the kitchen. She was seated at the table, staring blankly into a mug of hot milk that she held cupped with both hands. Monica hesitated at the kitchen door. When Monica returned to her house, she found Laurita in the kitchen. She was seated at the table, staring blankly into a mug of hot milk that she held cupped with both hands. Monica hesitated at the kitchen door.
Laurita straightened up, sighed, and ran her fingers through her short black hair. “I’m glad you’re back,” she said. “I closed the doors to our bedrooms and opened the others. I think we’ll be all right.” With a quick little smile, she added, “Did you find El Pintor?”
Monica threw her a sharp look. And then, as if a spotlight had been thrown on it, she saw the truth. “You’ve known all along, haven’t you?” she said.
“Come. Sit down. There’s enough hot milk for you, too.” Monica washed her hands, poured herself some milk, and sat across from her. “My father was his friend, you know,” Laurita said.
“But why didn’t you tell me?”
“Ay, linda, I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Cada cabeza es un mundo. We each live in our own world. It was for him to tell you when he was ready.”
Monica studied the curling ribbons of steam rising from her cup. “I wonder if he would have,” she said. “I mean, if I hadn’t found that letter.” She looked across the table at Laurita and, with a little intake of breath, said, “But you don’t know about the letter. It was with those other things I found in the attic. It was sealed—my mother never had a chance to read it—and she had written a note on the envelope saying that she would keep it secret, not telling anyone at all that she had it.
“After a whole lot of thinking about it, I decided that no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t read the letter or tell anyone about it until I had talked with El Pintor.”
Laurita grinned. “So that’s why you were so eager to find him.”
“I could hardly wait. It took all the will power I had not to read it. And to think that you knew all along what was in it.”
“No, no,” Laurita said quickly. “I didn’t even know that letter existed. I only learned who El Pintor was after Cristina died. With Ramón Salas, your … well, your first grandfather in a nursing home and both your grandmother and mother dead, my parents must have felt it was safe to tell me what they knew about Cristina. But, as to the letter, I have no idea what El Pintor wrote in it.”
“I’m sure it’s all right for you to read it now. Would you like to?”
“Of course I would, but your father should see it first.”
“Dad! Oh, Lord. With all the commotion, I forgot about Dad.” Suddenly there were tears filling her eyes, and she bit her lip to keep it from trembling. “I know it’s after two o’clock, Laurita, but I kind of need him. Do you think I should I call him?”
“I think he’d expect you to.”
Monica hurried to the table in the hallway. Sitting on the floor with the phone on her lap, she was surprised to see that her hand was shaky as she pressed the numbers of her dad’s hotel.
“Room 1210,” she said and waited through four rings before she heard his crisp “Hello.” Only she would have guessed that her father was still half asleep. “I’m all right, Dad. It’s Monica,” she said, following the pattern they’d agreed to for unexpected phone calls.
“Monica! What is it? What’s going on, honey?”
The tears were threatening to spill over. She swallowed hard, held them back, and said, “Too much, Dad. I can’t handle it alone.”
“For god’s sake what, honey? Tell me.”
“Somebody set the house on fire. It’s all right. It was just the doors, but the ugly part is that someone was out to get me; that’s why it happened.” Now the tears could not be held back. “I’m not really crying, Dad, really. But do you think you could come home?”
“I’ll leave immediately. But are you really all right? Are you sure the house is safe?”
“Everything’s okay. The firemen said so, and Laurita and I checked. And El Pintor’s right next door. He was great. Oh, Dad, I have so much to tell you. Please hurry.”
With the comforting promise of her father’s return held close, Monica crept into bed once more and, hoping he’d be the one to awaken her, fell asleep swiftly. But it was not her father’s arrival that awakened her the next morning. Through that hazy uncertainty that is neither sleep nor wakefulness, she became aware of a series of dull taps and a hushed conversation that came, she thought, from the front of the house. Once awake, she could not ignore them. She slid out of bed and, wrinkling her nose at the stinging smell of last night’s fire, hurried through the living room and pulled open the outside door.
Three surprised faces looked up at her. El Pintor and Rob were hunched over the sill, obviously thrown off balance by the sudden opening of the door. Laurita, sitting on the porch rail, a cup of coffee in her hand, muffled a laugh as she spoke.
“Monica, I’m sorry. It’s not their fault. I convinced them you’d sleep through anything. And they weren’t making that much noise. What woke you up?”
“I don’t know. I think they did. What’re you two doing, anyway?” This last to the two men on the porch floor.
El Pintor answered. “We were checking out the doors. We’ll see what your father has to say about them, but both Rob and I think they ought to be replaced.”
Rob, dressed in the usual khaki shorts and white T-shirt, grinned up at her. His eyes flashed with mischief as he said, “Hi, Monica. Don’t you think you ought to get some clothes on?”
“I have clothes on,” she said primly and patted her pajamas. “This is what I wear whenever we have a fire.” Abruptly, she spun around and raced to her room. She had seen a taxi pulling up behind Laurita’s Volkswagen. She grabbed a robe and slippers and returned in time to see her dad stepping out of the cab.
“Excuse me,” she said breathlessly to Rob and El Pintor as she shot between them and down the steps toward her father. “Dad, you’re here!” she cried and threw her arms around him. In a moment she moved away, rubbing her cheek. “Ugh. You haven’t shaved.”
“There wasn’t time,” he said somberly. Then, with a grin, “How about you, Miss Tanglehair? What happened to your ablutions this morning?”
“I just got up. They … they … oh, come on, Dad, Rob and Mr. Mead want to talk to you about the doors. And I have a lot to talk to you about, too.”
“Absolutely. But not until I’ve had some coffee. Br-r-r-r. That stuff on the airplane.”
Laurita and the two men were standing like a welcoming committee at the top of the steps. Laurita held out her hand and said, “I’m glad you’re back, Eduardo. We have gallons of coffee. I had invited El … Señor Mead and Roberto to breakfast with us. A measure of self-defense since the neighbors have showered us with food.”
“They did?” Monica said in surprise. “When did all this happen?”
“It’s almost eleven,” Rob said with a grin that disappeared completely as he turned to Eduardo Ramos. “We haven’t met, sir. I’m Roberto Almayo. My parents knew your wife well.” He cleared his throat and threw Monica a quick look. “I know you have a lot to talk about, family stuff, so I think I’d better skip breakfast.”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Laurita shot at him. “Not with all the food that’s waiting.”
“Well, there you have it,” Eduardo Ramos said with a glimmer of a smile. “It seems you’re our main hope in this food business. So I must insist you join us. Can the ‘family stuff’ wait, Monica?”
Monica shook her head briskly. “No, it can’t wait. But maybe breakfast can. Why don’t you just grab a cup of coffee while we talk?”
Three pairs of troubled eyes turned to Monica. Rob’s gaze had quickly moved elsewhere, following his hand as it ran up and down the door frame. Her father’s eyes showed surprise as did Laurita’s.
As El Pintor looked at her, the blue of his eyes seemed to fade and turn gray, like the sky giving in to a storm. He took in a deep breath and expelled it. “Perhaps breakfast first is in order,” he said quietly. “Your talk with your father might take some time, might require some … some explanation.”
Monica gave him a quick glance. His brows were knitted in a worried frown. Impulsively, she reached for and squeezed his arm. “I doubt it,” she said. “My father’s the most forgiving man in the world.” Then, because she had caught the questioning look on her dad’s face, she added, “But he’ll never forgive me if I’m rude again. Come on, let’s all go in and eat.”
“I should have known,” Eduardo Ramos said to his daughter as he finished rereading El Pintor’s letter. “All those long hours he spent at Cristina’s bedside. If I hadn’t been so torn up myself, I might have guessed.”
Monica, seated on the floor of her bedroom, her knees pulled up to her chin, shook her head vigorously as she looked up at her dad who was sitting on the edge of her bed. “How could you have known? Only Laurita’s father knew, and he didn’t tell anyone, not until my mother and her parents had died.”
It was more than an hour since they had finished breakfast. The five of them had eaten heartily and made only a small dent in the neighbors’ offerings, offerings that included sweet egg bread from Lupe’s Panadería, a bowl of homemade chorizo from the chunky lady across the street, and a wonderful casserole of eggs, cheese, and chiles verdes from the Almayos.
The discussion of the fire hadn’t waited until after breakfast. In response to Eduardo Ramos’s questions, and in between bites, they talked of Josie and how the confrontations with her had occurred. El Pintor said sadly that over the years he had learned that you win some and lose some, and that months back, he had given up on Josie. But he never dreamed that she would be capable of such a vicious act as arson. Or that her grudge against Monica was deep enough to drive her to it.
“She had it in for me, all right, Dad,” Monica said. “After all, I’d caught her with the paints that night and had to use the hose to stop her. Then we’d gotten her pal Licha interested in planting flowers instead of hanging with her. And to crown it all, I’d made her cry ‘uncle’—don’t ask me how I did it; it was pure luck—when she was set on beating me up. But let’s forget Josie. Do you suppose there’s a cinnamon roll left?”
When they were through eating, Laurita insisted that she would take care of the cleanup, that El Pintor and Rob still had the back door and back steps to check out, and Monica had to bring her father up to date on all that had been happening. No one could move her away from that decision, and that’s how it had been settled.
Now, Monica, from her vantage point on the bedroom floor, studied her father’s face and said, “Dad? Does it make you angry? What he did, I mean. Giving up his baby like that.”
“Angry? No, honey. His letter explained his state of mind clearly, a state of mind I can understand. Maybe I didn’t have such deep feelings of guilt when your mother died as he did when he lost his wife, but I can sense what he was going through. I was a little crazy myself the first few months after your mother’s death. Perhaps he made a big mistake in giving up Cristina. Perhaps. But maybe not. She was a lucky girl to have been surrounded by three loving adults as she was growing up. I worry about leaving you so much. And I guess I’ve been right to have that worry. Look at the problems you’ve had to face alone in the last few weeks. I feel as if I’d deserted you.”
“Oh, no, Dad!” Monica jumped up to sit on the bed beside him. “On the contrary. You gave me a special opportunity.” She grinned as she added, “It’s like those wilderness tests some kids are given. You know, where they’re dumped and have to live on their own in the wilderness for a while. I don’t mean that Lucia Street is a wilderness—although it is different—or that I was really alone, but I had to make some decisions and take some actions all by myself, and that’s been good for me. And, Dad,” she added, leaning her head on his shoulder, “I always knew that you were there.”
He put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. In a moment he stood up. “Let’s go welcome your grandfather into the family,” he said.
They went around the side of the house to find El Pintor and Rob pounding on the back steps’ railing. The midday sun glistened off of El Pintor’s white hair as he straightened up and turned toward them. Her father, his hand outstretched, strode to him. Monica had trouble keeping tears back as he gave El Pintor a huge hug and said, “I’m glad to greet you, sir. In your new role, that is. I’m very glad that you’re a part of our family.”
When El Pintor pulled a rumpled white handkerchief from his back pocket, removed his glasses, and dabbed at his eyes, her father quickly said, “Tell me about these steps. Will they all have to be replaced?”
Rob, who was standing beside Monica, took her hand and pressed it tightly, and they both grinned at Laurita, who was looking down at them through the screen door.
Later that afternoon Monica, her father, and El Pintor walked up to Chimney Hill.
“I always wanted to leave this property to Cristina,” El Pintor said to Eduardo Ramos as they started off, “and if I had, it would now belong to you. So, when I say that I am deeding it to Monica, I don’t want you to object.”
“To me?” Monica said. “I’m the one who’ll object. You could sell it. And get a bundle of money, I’ll bet.”
“And what would I do with that bundle?”
“Why … why, travel, of course.”
“I did all my traveling when I was young, my dear. My traveling days have long been over. All I want now, if you’ll both allow it, is to remain where I am, to paint and watch my young friends grow.”
“Monica is right, Mr. Mead,” her father said. “That property could be very valuable.”
“I hope it is,” El Pintor said. “And I won’t feel like a member of the family until you allow Monica to accept it and start calling me Frank.”
“All right, all right, Frank,” her father said, “that’s easily done. But as to the property, we’ll have to discuss that later.”
Monica heard what her father and El Pintor were saying, but she was more interested in what César and his sister Licha might be discussing in their front yard across the street. Licha, it seemed, was trying to persuade César of something, but César, his feet firmly planted, was shaking his head vigorously. Licha shrugged and turned abruptly. She gave the tire that hung from their big tree a push and set it to swinging. Then, with a toss of her head, she walked leisurely across the street.
“Hi, Monica,” she said as she reached them. “I heard about the fire and about Josie. And I want you to know that I didn’t have anything to do with it. Honest. I wanted César to tell you that I was home all night ‘cause I figured you’d believe him. Anyway, I was. My cousins are here from Mexico, and we were up practically the whole night talking and laughing. We even heard the fire engines, but we thought they were on another street.”
Monica looked helplessly at El Pintor, and he said, “We believe you, Licha. That fire was Josie’s doing. You wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“Dad,” Monica said, “this is Licha Gámez. She … she helped us plant some flowers along the side of the house.”
“I’m glad to know you, young lady,” Eduardo Ramos said. “That was kind of you.”
Licha nodded in his direction, then said, “Did the fire ruin the flowers we planted?”
“I don’t know,” Monica answered. “I haven’t looked.”
El Pintor said, “They’re fine, they’re fine. I think they’re taking hold. Which reminds me. I’ll be getting my paintings ready for a show in the next few weeks, and I’ll need someone to weed and water my flower beds. I was wondering if … well, are you by any chance available to give me a hand with that?”
“Me?” Licha said, and her olive-brown face turned a rosy pink. “Well, … I guess … sure, I can do that.”
“I’ll pay you something, of course,” El Pintor said. “We’ll talk more later. Come down and see me.”
It seemed to Monica that an amazing change had taken place in Licha. Suddenly, she was prettier. But not just prettier, she was softer somehow. “Sure. Okay. I’ll be there,” Licha said, and, with no goodbyes, turned and tore across the street.
Up on Chimney Hill the sea breeze was more brisk and had a touch of coolness that was welcome. They walked around the disintegrating cement foundation to the summerhouse.
“This is quite a place, Frank,” Eduardo Ramos said as he stood admiring the view. “No wonder you hung on to it.”
“I thought of selling it once or twice. I wanted to give Ramón and Chita some of the proceeds, but they would have none of it. So I told them I would leave the property to Cristina with or without their consent. That they’d have to grin and bear it. Come along, come along, Eduardo, I want to show you the other side of the hill.”
Monica smiled. “I’ll wait for you here,” she said and watched her father and her grandfather go down the summerhouse steps and disappear around the shrubbery.
Looking out at the little bits of sparkling ocean that she could see and listening to the diminishing voices of the two men, Monica felt at peace. Or, at least, at ease. In any case, it was a sense of well-being such as she had not experienced in a long, long time. It had to do, she was sure, with all that had happened since she had come to Lucia. The couple of weeks she had spent here seemed a much longer time than that, and El Pintor, Laurita, Rob, Toni, César, and even the chunky woman across the street seemed like people she had known in a time that was not measured in hours or days or weeks, but in the depth of the experiences that they had shared. She was sure that if tomorrow she was to leave Lucia and never see any of them again, they would always be an important part of her.
But she wasn’t leaving tomorrow. Nor the next day. Nor the next. And she was glad. Because there was so much to look forward to. For one, her dad was going to be home a lot this summer. So was Rob. Besides, she told herself with a smile, there’d be new doors and a new paint job on the house. Then, a party for El Pintor to celebrate his new family and the exhibition of his paintings, a party for which Laurita and Toni were already making up a long guest list. And how about the flowers they’d planted along the side of the house, the ones she’d thought would never grow? Were those little sticks of geraniums really “taking hold” like El Pintor had told Licha they were? Well, why not? It seemed that Monica was “taking hold,” too. And the summer was just beginning.
