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“What isn’t damaged?” I managed a weak smile.
“The trunk.” Smitty chuckled. “Have you called your insurance company?”
“Not yet.” Glimpsing Luke, I winced. In the excitement, insurance had slipped my mind.
“You may be looking at a totaled vehicle.” Smitty pointed to my car on the lift.
So much for getting to El Paso any time soon.
“When will you know the damages?” Luke’s voice splintered my thoughts.
The man shook his head. “Not ’til the parts arrive to test if the transmission and steering work. Then if more repairs are needed, it’s up to the insurer whether to give the go-ahead.”
“Thanks.” How much will a replacement car cost? I weighed the guesstimate against my bank balance. And how could I forget to call the adjuster? What was I thinking? A glance at Luke answered my question. I wasn’t. Girl, get your head on straight.
Excusing myself, I jumped from the cab and called my insurance company. Five minutes later, I hoisted myself back in the cab. “The adjuster will stop by this afternoon to assess the damage. The good news is she’s already received the police report.”
“Nothing more you can do at this point.” Luke shrugged. “How ’bout breakfast?”
Worried about transportation and car payments, all I could muster was a detached nod. “Sure.”
“Hey.” He gently shook my shoulder. “This’ll work out whatever way it’s meant.” His eyes twinkled. “What was your phrase? To everything, there is a purpose.”
Is he poking fun? I peered into his chocolate-brown eyes. Or trying to cheer me? His reassuring smile put my doubts to rest.
“Thanks.” What would I have done if he hadn’t come along yesterday? Appetite returning, I gave him a twisted grin. “Breakfast sounds great.”
“I know a terrific taqueria. Like Mexican food?”
“Love it.” My stomach growled at the thought. “I haven’t had authentic huevos rancheros since the last time I visited Grandma.”
Ten minutes later, we sat across from each other in the café. Drinking freshly brewed coffee from an oversized cup, I breathed in the rich, nutty aroma as I scanned the décor.
Rows of low-hanging, multicolored papel picado lined the ceiling, and each time a person walked beneath, the tissue-papers fluttered. The glossy walls were painted a vivid mustard yellow above their red-brick wainscoting. Colorful, relief-painted chairs portrayed macaws, calla lilies, wide-brimmed sombreros, saguaro cactus, and Mariachi musicians.
How good to be back in a taqueria. I inhaled the scents wafting from the kitchen: sautéed garlic and onions, cilantro, oregano, cumin, and chilies. The mouthwatering aromas triggered memories of past meals with Grandma.
“They make their own tortillas and tamales here.”
“No wonder they are such a booming business on a snowy morning.” The door chimed as two more customers walked in and another left. “That door’s open more than it’s shut.” I chuckled at the counter’s steady queue.
“Lucas.” Holding a tray piled high with empty dishes, a grinning, gray-haired woman in her early sixties paused at our table. “What brings you out this snowy morning?”
“A cousin to taste your cooking.”
“Cousin?” She set down the platter as she regarded me. “Why don’t I know you?”
“Aunt Rosie, I’d like you to meet Maeve Jackson.”
Running the name over her tongue, the woman tilted her head as she glanced into space. Then a light flashed in her dark eyes. “You’re not related to Milly Taylor, are you?”
“Yes.” I gasped, shocked to find another connection. “She’s my grandmother.”
“Call me Aunt Rosie.” Holding out her arms, she stepped toward me.
I stood to return the woman’s hug.
“I met Milly at a family reunion”—letting go the embrace, Rosie paused, again glancing into space—“maybe ten years ago, but I remember her well. She wore glasses, wound her long hair in a bun, and mentioned a granddaughter named Maeve.” Her lined face warmed in a smile. “How is she?”
