Send Down the Rain(51)

I’d return to my cottage alone and sit on the porch, listen to Suzy, where I’d stare out at the stars until after midnight. And sometimes sunup.





29

By the beginning of April, the men had returned the Blue Tornado to her prior glory. Better even. Either repaired or replaced, every square inch of the restaurant had been touched by their fingers. Rather than paint, they’d put a high-gloss finish on much of the wood. It not only protected it, but gave every room a warm, golden glow. The inspector approved of their work and even applauded it—asking if he could recommend them elsewhere on the island.

We turned on all the breakers and every light came alive. The guys had installed a new LED spotlight above the actual Blue Tornado vacuum, still protected in its glass case. When she saw it, Allie cried.

A week later she began accepting deliveries from local fishermen vying to become her primary seafood supplier. In the meantime, she and Catalina worked in the kitchen, cooking up new and old recipes.

One day about lunchtime I followed my nose to the kitchen, where the two of them were in full-on food-production mode. Julia Child would have been proud. The kitchen was a sea of bright lights, loud Spanish flamenco music, stainless steel, and brilliant color. Fryers. Grills. Flank stank. Beans. Peppers. Handmade tortillas. Rice. Guacamole. Onions. Then there was the seafood. Shrimp. Prawns. White fish. Scallops. Blackened. Fried. I ate three plates.

To put me completely out of my misery, Catalina prepared sopapillas and covered them with honey and powdered sugar. I pushed back from the plate on the precipice of a sugar-carb crash. I needed a nap.

The two of them watched me literally scrape the last flake of doughnut off my plate and spin it in honey residue. Allie asked, “Good?”

I shook my head.

Catalina put her hands on her hips. “No?”

“Not even in the same ballpark.”

She pointed. Angry. “Get out of my kitchen.”

“Good is a greasy diner cheeseburger. Maybe a milk shake with whipped cream. A hot dog at a ball game. This . . .” I waved my hand across the table. “This is what God eats for dinner.”

She smiled and used the apron to wipe the sweat and flour off her forehead. “Okay, you can stay.”

She started clearing the table and I stood. “I got this. Dishes are my specialty. Ask Allie.”

I rolled up my sleeves and pushed past the two women to reach the sink of sudsy water, but Catalina tried to bump me out of the way. “In Mexico, men do not work in the kitchen.”

I smiled and took hold of the sprayer. “News flash. I am not Mexican.” And then I soaked both of them with the sprayer.


DIEGO AND GABRIELLA WERE starting to find a rhythm of their own. Like two other kids I once knew, they were seldom far from the beach. We spent a lot of time searching the shoreline for sharks’ teeth. For the first time in our short relationship, Catalina grew tight-lipped and tense. She had given me a few looks, something she wanted to say but didn’t, and I wondered if I’d offended her. I asked Allie, “I do something?”

We watched the kids run up and down the shoreline chasing Rosco, splashing in and out of the waves. Catalina didn’t take her eyes off them.

“Can they swim?” Allie asked me.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if you were their father, and they were in the water and couldn’t swim, would you be worried?”

Sometimes it’s the little things.

“Catalina?” I hollered.

She spoke without turning. “Sí?”

Whenever she was lost in thought, she’d unknowingly answer in Spanish.

“Okay with you if I teach the kids to swim?”

She looked worried. “What about the sharks?”

In the short time we’d been at the Cape, we had nearly filled a quart-size Mason jar with sharks’ teeth. I laughed. “You know the teeth that we find on the beach are very old.”

“How do you know?”

“When the shark first loses a tooth, it’s white in color. It only turns black after it’s been in the water a long time.”

She looked doubtful. “How long a time?”

“About ten thousand years.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So the sharks are . . . ?”

“Dead. Some folks believe those teeth we find are a million years old.”

Her face relaxed. “Dead sharks are better than live sharks.”

“So can I teach them to swim?”

She took off her apron. “Only if you teach me too.”

While Diego took to the water like a fish, swimming within minutes, Gabriella took some coaxing. Allie and I stood waist deep, ten yards apart. The cool thing about teaching somebody to swim in the ocean is that they can always put their feet down—provided you don’t venture too far from shore. Gabby walked between Allie and me, moving her arms as if she were swimming, but we could not get her to launch her feet off the ground. She was making her way from Allie to me, swim-walking, when a wave rolled over her head. When the wave cleared, she screamed, and Rosco came running. He crashed into the waves and swam straight toward her. He circled her twice, let her pet his head, and, when he heard her giggling, returned to the beach. Apparently inspired by Rosco, Gabby picked her feet up and swam toward me, reaching me in a few strokes and then treading water without touching bottom. It was clear to me that the bond between the kids—especially Gabby—and the dog had grown close.