“I will. Thank you, mijo.”
***
An hour later, I’m pulling up the long circular drive to stop my truck at the elaborate front door of the Mansfield estate. I climb out, grab the paper bag and stare up at the grand home. Dragging in a deep breath, I blow it out and move to the entrance. I’m ten feet away when the large door opens.
“Santos, how are you? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. Why, look at you! What a fine figure of a man you’ve grown into.”
“Mrs. Mansfield. Good to see you again.” I smile. She’s a pretty woman in her early forties, with blonde hair pulled back in a French twist. They obviously didn’t take her wardrobe. She’s got on a classy white blouse with a simple long gold chain, a pair of designer jeans and snakeskin heels. The outfit probably cost more than my mother made in a week.
I hold out the bag. “My mother made these for you and your daughter. She knows you love them. Her empanadas and homemade whipped cream.”
She takes the bag and clutches it to her chest. “They’re my favorites. Oh, your mother is an angel.” She steps back. “Please, come inside. We’ll have some.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I should get back.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder.
“Nonsense. I insist.” She loops an arm through mine and pulls me inside. “I’ve been dying for some company. It’s been quite lonely in this big house lately.”
I pick up on her vague reference to her situation. I’m sure all her friends have dropped her like a hot potato since news hit. I scan the travertine-tiled entryway, now bare of the usual tables, gilt mirrors, art and vases of flowers.
We walk through the house, and I see every room is bare.
“Sorry about the lack of furnishings. I’m sure you’ve heard our story on the news. They took most everything. But don’t worry. We can eat in the kitchen. The IRS left us that table at least, that and our bedroom furniture.”
I follow her without saying anything in response. What can I say?
She gestures to the glass table and we sit.
“How is your mother feeling?”
“She’s better. Her hip hurts, but she was well enough to be up cooking this morning.” I lift a hand to the bag she’s already digging into. She pulls out the tin of empanadas and the tub of whipped cream, and then moves to a cabinet to get down plates.
“I’m glad to hear it. Do you take your coffee black?”
I nod. “Sure.”
She busies herself with making it, chattering away. “I was heartbroken to have to let her go, you know? And I know the circumstances were not great, but I was glad to see her again.”
“I owe you one, Mrs. Mansfield,” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“Please, call me Barb. I don’t ever want to hear that last name again.”
“All right. I just want to thank you for the way you’ve taken care of Ma. And not just for the other night. For when she was sick… getting her to all her chemo appointments last year. And then when her hip flared up with arthritis…”
“Now don’t you go on about it! She beat the breast cancer, and that’s all that matters. I was happy to help. I’m just glad she’s okay now.”
“Well, thanks for checking on her.”
“You’re more than welcome.” She finally brings the plates and coffee over, taking her seat. She smiles at me and pops the tin open breathing in the delicious aroma. “Oh, I’ve been craving these.”
“She knows you love them.”
We each eat two with a big dollop of whipped cream. I sip the expensive rich coffee she served me in the dainty porcelain cup and saucer.
“Oh, my God, these are to die for,” she moans around her final mouthful. She wipes her mouth with a napkin and sips her coffee.
There’s an awkward silence and, draining the last of my coffee, I’m wondering if I’ve stayed long enough to be polite or if I need to have another cup of coffee with her. She looks sad, and I feel for her.
“I’ll miss them. I’ll miss a lot of things.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes as she stares out the windows to the back gardens.
I clench my jaw at the wretchedness of it all, and then speak my mind. “You don’t deserve to pay for that asshole’s crimes, Barb. I wish there was something I could do for you.”
She hesitates a long moment, then looks at me. “Do you mean that?”
“Of course. I always mean what I say.”
“There’s only one thing you can do that would help me; help both Kami and I.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, Santos, but I go to prison on Monday.”
I swallow. “I heard you made a deal.”
“Yes. They reduced my sentence to a year.”
“That’s…” I bite off my words. What do I say, that’s good? A year in prison is no ones idea of good.
She waves her hand, seeing my struggle to comfort her. “I’ve come to terms with it. But it’s Kami I worry about. Sometime this weekend the Department of Children and Family Services will show up to take custody of Kami and make her a ward of the state.”
“What? There’s no one to take her?” I thought of the child with the innocent smile I remembered from years ago.
“No. Unfortunately not.”
“Goddamn, Barb, that’s awful.”
“Yes. I’m heartbroken for her.”
“What will happen to her? Foster care? A group home?”
She waves a hand in front of her face, her eyes filling with tears. “I can’t even contemplate it. And she’s innocent in all this. It’s so unfair.” She covers her mouth, muffling a sob.
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “I’m so sorry, Barb.”
“She’ll be home soon. She’s at graduation practice today. I don’t want her to see me upset.” She pulls free of my hand and wipes her eyes.
“You said there was one thing I could do to help you. After all you’ve done for my family, you know all you have to do is ask.”
She nods, looking down at her hands, her fingers fidgeting. “Yes, but it’s a big ask.”
“I’ll do anything I can to help you. If you need me to help you find a …”
She cuts me off, staring up at me with red puffy eyes. “Marry Kami.”
My mouth drops open and I’m sure I didn’t hear her correctly. “Do what?”
CHAPTER THREE
Kami—
I file into the big gymnasium that smells of dirty gym socks and sweat. A smell not even the Dior perfume I wear can mask. I move to take my numbered seat. The rows of folding chairs have all been carefully marked so we’ll match the order of our names being called out when we walk across the stage and get our diplomas.
I sit waiting for the assistant principal to finish with the instructions on how we are to file out and walk, exiting to the left and then circling around the back to return to our original seat in the same neat line.
“Why is she even here? How can she show her face?”
In the row in front of me, Cassandra whispers about me, but I overhear every word, as I’m probably meant to.