Preston's Honor(91)

I held Hudson on my hip as I stirred the corn husks, and he pointed out the window, shrieking in glee as one boy nailed another with a stream of water to the face.

“Ay yay yay. Boys.” Rosa sighed. “You couldn’t even give me one girl?” she asked Alejandro, who was reading the paper at a bar stool on the other side of the island.

“We can try for one later,” he said, winking at her. “One more chance—I’m sure I’ll do it right this time.”

She threw a dish towel at him. “You’re as bad as them,” she said, pointing to her parents. But her laugh was full of affection.

Mrs. Sawyer came into the room, looking around narrow-eyed at the group of people who had taken over her kitchen and I stilled, my heart thumping nervously, hoping she wasn’t going to make anyone feel uncomfortable.

She had displayed a moment of kindness the other day when she had told me to go to the barn for Preston, but I was almost certain it wasn’t something I should come to expect on a regular basis, lest I be sorely disappointed.

I introduced her to everyone, and she took a seat at the table near my mother, greeting her, too.

“I thought you were off to San Francisco today, Mrs. Sawyer,” I said.

She sighed. “I am. My friend has been delayed, so we’re leaving a little later than we planned.”

I nodded. “Thank you for allowing us the use of the kitchen.” She hadn’t looked surprised to see us all here, so I knew Preston had mentioned it to her.

She made a noncommittal sound, and I focused my attention on the corn husks again, finally draining the water once I determined they were soft enough. Hudson laughed and clapped as I bopped him on my hip to the soft sound of the Spanish music playing in the background.

Fifteen minutes later, Preston came back in. “Are you already done?” I asked.

“Yeah. Went a lot more smoothly than I thought it would.” I wasn’t sure what “it” had been, but I was glad and poured him a glass of iced tea as he sat down.

I scooted in next to him, putting the corn husks in front of me so I could clean off any strings and start piling them up for Rosa.

I glanced at Mrs. Sawyer who was looking at the array of Mexican food on the table, not just the ingredients for the tamales, but food that had been brought to feed the chefs and helpers as they worked: crunchy taquitos, tortilla chips, chunky guacamole, and hot salsa.

Hudson reached for a taco and I pulled him back, taking one and breaking it open so I could give him the soft pulled chicken inside rather than the hard shell. Mrs. Sawyer watched us with a look of mild horror on her face. “That will be too spicy for him.”

“It’s not spicy,” I said. “Try one.”

“No, no thank you.” She turned her head to the side and looked out of the window longingly as if she’d rather be anywhere than here.

“She looks like one of those man-eating flowers,” Abuelo Juan observed in Spanish. My eyes widened and shot to Mrs. Sawyer but she didn’t react, didn’t understand a word he’d just said.

“Hmm,” Abuela Lupe answered agreeably. “Nice to look at but if you get too close,” she made a snapping gesture with her hand, “she’ll digest you and spit you out.”

“Mama,” Rosa said softly, shooting her a look, a warning in her tone, along with a small, suppressed laugh.

I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh myself. I glanced quickly at Preston, and he was studying his iced tea. I swore I saw his lips trembling a little in an effort not to smile, too.

And it healed something inside me to joke about Mrs. Sawyer, for others to notice her coldness and comment on it, because for so long I’d thought it was because of me. I didn’t have any interest in hurting her, but to make light of Mrs. Sawyer’s snobby disdain was . . . not unpleasant.

She sighed loudly, running a hand over the table. “You know this table has been in the Sawyer family for four generations.”

I glanced up at her as she stared at the table as though with fond memories. I had fond memories of the table, too, actually. I swallowed down an embarrassed laugh at my own thought, the memory that flashed in my mind of writhing bodies and moans of bliss. Mrs. Sawyer was obviously trying to make a point about how the generations she spoke of would be rolling over in their graves to see—gasp—taquitos and tamale corn husks on their family heirloom while the straining sounds of Alejandro Fernandez played in the background.

“Your father’s family came from Oklahoma, but they were originally from Germany—strong stock, you know. If this table could talk, oh, the stories it would tell. I can imagine all the history it holds, all the pleasure that was had by those that gathered at it, all the things that have soaked into the wood—”

“Mom,” Preston said, his voice sounding strangled and full of barely checked laughter. He cleared his throat. “I think we get the picture.”

She sighed again, and he glanced over at me, and at the hilarity still in his eyes, I snorted, putting my hand over my mouth to hold back the laugh.

He laughed, too, and the rest of the people at the table looked at us curiously, which made me laugh harder. “It’s a good picture,” I said, which made Preston grip his stomach as he leaned forward, his laugh deep and rich. Hudson, who was still sitting in my lap, squealed with laughter, mimicking us.

“I’m not sure what’s so funny,” his mother said. “You have a rich heritage. My own ancestors were Nordic Vikings and seafarers.”