Cesar: Time and place?
I move to the kitchen and fill a mug with coffee, tallying up the tasks that fall under my first two priorities. Call the Sterling’s and find out if they want to change anything else before we start framing the house. Check in with Mike and Ella Lambert to smooth over any hard feelings about yesterday’s mess. And try for the twentieth time to reach that woman with the kitchen redesign. I might just have to go over there if she doesn’t pick up this time.
And I can’t iron out staffing until I know where that third job stands. But I won’t make Cesar wait on me. If I have to work a couple of hours at my desk tonight after we have drinks, so be it.
Me: 6:30. And you’re the restaurant expert. You pick.
* * *
“You boughtlumber from Stine’s? Why not Menard’s? I always bought from Menard’s?” Papi says, frowning up at me from the kitchen table.
“Stine’s had a better price for three-quarter-inch moulding,” I say, crossing to the counter to refill my travel mug. “Coffee smells good, Mami.”
My mother flips the last pancake onto a short stack and turns toward the table. “Help yourself. You want some pancakes, Luca?”
“No time,” I say, shaking my head, and then I realize she’s setting the plate down in front of my father, and I frown. “You sure you should be having pancakes, Papi?”
He makes a dismissive grumble and reaches for the syrup.
“Don’t worry,mijo,”Mami says. “His doctor increased his Metformin, so it’s okay.”
I look from Mami to Papi. “Um… I don’t think that’s how it works, guys.” They both know that’s not how Type 2 diabetes works. We’ve been over this for months.
Scowling, Papi slathers his short stack with ribbons of syrup. “So, I’m supposed to go without breakfast?”
I take a slug of coffee and swallow my response. No use in mentioning green smoothies or steel-cut oats. None at all.
I lean down and kiss my mother on the cheek. “Tell Alex I’ll be in the truck.”
“Without greeting Abuela?”Mami gasps, scandalized.
“What was I thinking,” I mutter.
In the living room, Abuela sits in front of theToday Show,propelling herself in her glider like a champion sculler. Her eyes are trained on the TV screen and she’s clutching her rosary when I bend to kiss her.
“Buenos dias, Abuela.”
Abuela doesn’t speak English. I would bet my life on the fact that sheunderstandsEnglish perfectly. The woman watches theToday Showreligiously and without subtitles. She just won’t speak it. My cousins and I have a theory it’s just to make sure we all learned Spanish despite being American born.
“¿Qué hay en las noticias?”I ask her.
My grandmother makes a face like she’s tasted something rotten.“Centros de detención,”she hisses. She rubs her rosary beads between her thumbs and forefingers and mouths theHail Mary.
In the time it takes me to send up my ownHail Mary,Alex tears down the stairs, and we head out to my truck.
“Good game last night,” I tell my little brother when his butt lands on the passenger seat.
“Thanks.” When his seatbelt clicks in place, I put the truck in reverse. “And thanks for the ride. I hate the bus. I can’t wait ‘til I can drive.”
I eye him with a smirk. “What’re you planning on driving?”
“Acar.”His sarcasm has me biting back a growl.
But I just nod and let his answer hang there as we snake through the neighborhood.
A minute later. “Did Mami and Papi buy you a car when you turned sixteen?”
“Nope.”
