Guilt over her impending departure churned in her belly. Doggedly, she reminded herself that this situation was not the same. She was nothing like the man who had abandoned her as a child. Still, leaving to prove it was possible to achieve your dreams without sacrificing those who loved you meant walking away from familia responsibilities here at home. Like making sure that whatever Blanca was hiding on her cell didn’t crush her sweet spirit if it blew up.
Biting back a sigh, Cat realized she would need to give Mariana a heads-up about her Blanca hunch. As the oldest, and because of her slight control-freak, though levelheaded, nature—useful with her job as an ER nurse—Mariana usually took on the role of problem solver among the sisters. She soothingly discussed and advised. Cat bulldozed and harangued.
Across the room, dressed in soft green scrubs after coming straight from a day shift at the hospital, Mariana hunkered down in front of her trumpet case. Probably already reviewing her long list of to-dos for the next day. The responsibility gene was strong in that one.
Closing her eyes, Cat listened to the familiar sounds around her.
Usually, she’d be rushing them out the door. Nagging at her sisters to hurry up and head home—to their own places for the older girls, upstairs to the familia’s apartment for the teens. Reminding them to get some rest. They had another late rehearsal tomorrow. Every night until their debut on the big stage at the AT&T Center before Galán’s concert.
She wasn’t rushing tonight, though.
No, tonight she felt a need to soak in mundane, everyday moments like this—to record the sights and sounds of her sisters enjoying life. Imprint them in her memory so she could call up the mental video later, when she yearned for a touch of home.
Meanwhile, inside her satchel, the Padua contract thumped like Poe’s telltale heart. Proof of her decision to leave her familia behind in pursuit of her own dreams. Exactly like her birth father.
A chorus of teen giggles and a moaned “¡No me digas!” interrupted her sliding-into-melancholy mood. The shocked “you don’t say” was a common phrase in a house with nine sisters prone to chisme and the drama such gossip brought with it.
As much as she didn’t miss the highs and lows of teen angst, she was going to miss this. Making music and laughter with her hermanas.
“A penny for your thoughts.” Mariana nudged Cat’s knee with her trumpet case.
“Girl, my thoughts cost way more than that.” Holding out a hand, Cat wiggled her fingers in a gimme motion. “Pony up.”
Mariana chuckled, the laughter softening the striking features of her high cheekbones, angular chin, and almost hawklike nose. She dragged a chair closer with the toe of the rubber-soled granny shoes she swore made long ER shifts more bearable. “Did you get your official copy of the signed contract?”
“It’s tucked safely in my bag. But I have to admit, part of me thinks I should have made Galán stew a little. Hold off as long as I could before signing.”
Mariana’s long black braid swung over her shoulder as she shook her head. A knowing smirk curved the corners of her mouth. “Ay, chica, why do you insist on making things harder for yourself?”
“What I’m doing is trying to level the playing field. The power balance is tilted heavily in his favor. And his big ego knows it.”
“That big ego has a track record backing it up.”
“Pfffft.” Cat slid her older sister a side-eyed scowl.
“Patricio’s not the bad guy, Cat. You and I both know who is.” Mariana clasped Cat’s knee, giving it a tight squeeze through her Levi’s.
“Galán’s smug attitude bugs me. Especially because he’s usually right. It . . . I don’t know . . . it—” Her hands moved in a circular motion in front of her as she sought the right words to describe the admiration-irritation Galán evoked within her.
Emphasis on “irritation” when it came to his “constructive criticism” of her songwriting skills.
“Personally, I think it’s good for you to have someone who’ll challenge you. Very few people aren’t intimidated by your waspish ways. He’s one of them.”
“Waspish wa—chica, please!” Cat blew out a harsh scoff, the sound morphing into a laugh when Mariana grinned.
“I say that with all the love,” her sister teased.
“Yeah, well, this wasp has a stinger, and I’m not averse to using it. Patricio Galán needs to know that I’m not a pushover. No man, especially no mariachi, will ever get the better of me. I’m not like—”
She broke off when Mariana’s cool palm covered the fist Cat had tightened on her thigh.
“Remember what Mamá has always told us: Our birth parents do not define us. We do.” Mariana’s grip squeezed on the last two words. She ducked closer, her steady gaze ensnaring Cat’s. “I know Mamá and Papo have some concerns about you leaving. Parental prerogative, that’s all. And, sure, the teens are nervous about the hole you’re leaving in the band.”
Cat swallowed the guilt-induced bile creeping up her throat at the thought of anyone in her familia feeling the abandonment she had struggled with as a child.
“But we’ll all be fine,” Mariana continued in her calm I’ve-got-it-under-control tone. “Las Nubes will be fine. This is your time, Cat. You’ve proven yourself here. Now’s your chance to get out there and show the world what we already know. That Cat Capuleta is a force to be reckoned with. In the best way possible.”
Tears burned the back of Cat’s throat at her sister’s unwavering belief in her. Her eyes stung and she blinked quickly, willing away the moisture.
“Gracias,” she murmured, tugging Mariana in for a tight hug. “You know I plan to give ’em hell and make you proud.”
“Hey!”
“¡Oye! We want in on the lovefest!”
“Wait for me!”
The chorus of cries from the rest of their sisters greeted Catalina seconds before she and Mariana were engulfed in a Mariachi Las Nubes group hug.
As they showered her with messages of support and love, and a grumbled “ay, watch your elbow” from someone, a whispered promise to attain her dreams and take care of her loved ones ribboned through Cat’s head.
Whoever said you couldn’t have it all obviously hadn’t met her.
The strains of an acoustic guitar drifted down the long, tiled hallway of the East Wing at La Hacienda, Cat’s secret nickname for Patricio Galán’s sprawling rental estate.
The moniker seemed appropriate given the autocratic patrón vibe the man often exuded. His commanding voice, regal bearing, and know-it-all smirk—not to mention his usual all-black ensemble, from his custom-made boots to the cowboy hat he often wore—reminded her of the wealthy-landowner alpha heroes in the telenovelas that kept her mamá glued to the TV.
Too bad for him, Cat could never fill the role of the needy, helpless heroine waiting for the hero to save her.
Galán had yet to play the role of a romantic hero in a telenovela or film, but his music videos were guaranteed instant hits, liked and shared and saved on streaming services and social media platforms worldwide. Her accounts included. The number of times she and her sisters had swooned and mooned over the passionate videos featuring the hunky heartthrob was actually embarrassing.