Desi answers once we’re both buckled into our seats. “Well, before today, I would have said mixed media, but I think I really like sculpting, too.”
“I don’t know much about art, but I bet you could combine them.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Maybe so.”
“What kind of art did your mom do?”
“Oh, man, she was a painter—watercolor. Dad says her work was mostly abstract, but whenever I look at the pieces Dad saved, I always feel like there’s something more to them. Does that make sense?”
“I think so. What about Silvi?”
“She paints too, but she prefers oil.”
“That’s really cool. I don’t think I have an artistic bone in my body.”
“Clearly.” Desi snorts out a laugh, no doubt recalling my pathetic sculpting attempt. “But you know cars and you’re really good at makeup.”
“I’ll give you the makeup thing; but trust me when I say, I know about cars. I get how they work and how to make them work. I do not know how to make them pretty.”
“Whatever. Dad showed me pictures of Willow’s Jeep. He said you helped paint it.”
My cheeks heat recalling the other things we did in the paint booth. “Oh, um, yeah. Beginner’s luck.”
“Whatever. You gotta love yourself a little more, Spaz.”
I pull the truck into the garage. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
Desi hops out before I’m fully into park. “Duh. I’m always right.”Chapter Twenty-NineMateoI lean against the doorjamb to the bathroom, watching as Seraphine twists her hair around some kind of curling iron. “You almost ready?” I ask, loving the way she’s so at ease in my space.
Over the last month, she’s spent more time here than at her place. Hell, she’s one drawer away from being moved in. Which, if I’m being honest, I wouldn’t mind.
“Almost.” She wrinkles her nose and presses a hand to her belly. “Just gotta spray my hair and change.”
“Estás preciosa—you look beautiful.” I mean it, too. She’s had this glow about her recently and it looks damn good on her.
“Thank you.” She stands from the vanity stool and unplugs her iron. “Let me get dressed and we can go.”
“Perfect. Let me go check on Desi.”
Sure enough, my daughter is laid back on the couch, playing on her phone while she waits on us. “Time to go?” she asks.
“Just about.”
“Cool. Can I drive?”
“Feels good outside; I figured we could walk.”
Desi lifts one shoulder and then the other. “Yeah, a walk sounds nice.”
I kick back into the seat beside her and discreetly glance down at her screen. She’s thumbing through articles on the ESPN app, and not for the first time, I thank God for blessing me with such a good kid.
A few minutes later, Seraphine walks into the room. Her long legs are wrapped in a pair of leather leggings, and a thick cream sweater clings to her every curve. “Sorry I took so long.”
“The end result is more than worth the wait, mariposita.”
“Y’all are gross.” Desi pretends to dry heave. “Let’s go, abuelita promised me rajas.”“What’s that?” Seraphine asks as we all walk toward the door.
“Girl!” Desi cries. “You’re in for a treat. It’s poblano peppers and onions and crema and so good. Just trust me.”
“Sounds tasty. But I’m fairly certain anything Lety cooks is divine.”
Seraphine and I walk hand-in-hand behind Desi, who is dribbling her basketball down the sidewalk.
“You think Tío Arrón will wanna pick up a game with me?”
I feign hurt. “Why only Arrón? I can play, too!”
Desi pivots around and passes the ball my way. I catch it effortlessly and check it back to her. “Fine, maybe we can all play.”
“I might sit it out,” Seraphine says. “I feel a little tired.”
“Are you okay?” I ask, stopping midstride to check her over.
She tugs on my wrist until I start walking again. “I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”
“If you say so.”
She nods. “I do.”
We walk up to my mother’s house right as Arrón pulls in on his motorcycle. He kills the engine and toes the kickstand down before stowing his helmet. “Desita! Rumor has y’all are undefeated this season?”
“Duh,” she scoffs, as if her team’s winning rank is a given.
“Congrats; I’m proud of you.”
“Come to a game then,” she says, passing him the ball.
He, too, catches it and bounces it back. “Consider it done.”
Mamá opens the front door, greeting us warmly, before we even step foot on the porch. “Hola, adelante, adelante—hello, come in!”
We all stop and kiss her weathered cheeks before stepping into her home, but she pays Seraphine extra attention.
“I am glad you are here,” Mamá tells Seraphine, clasping her hands.
Seraphine dips a shoulder. “I’m happy to be here. Thank you for asking me back after how I behaved last time.”
Mamá releases Seraphine’s hand and dusts her own together. “It was nothing. Come, let’s eat.”
The familiar scents of my mother’s kitchen greet us as we venture past the threshold. I groan in appreciation.