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Clapping his hands at me impatiently, Tío Alonso waved me to follow him. “Come on. We need some live entertainment. It’s Wednesday. The people are expecting music.”
I gasped with excitement, totally not expecting him to ask me. “And you want me to play the extra guitar? Or the harp?” Because, really, I could do either.
But my uncle scowled. “No, no. You sing. You have a beautiful voice. Tomás can accompany you on his guitar.”
My shoulders slumped. Of course he’d want me to sing...and probably something like “Ave Maria” or “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina,” too, something all soulful and depressing. He never let me play an instrument. The man was so freaking old school, he didn’t believe in females being in a mariachi band to play instruments. They could only sing.
Blah.
Not that I hated singing. I just despised his outlook on life sometimes.
“Come.” He clapped his hands as if beckoning a dog.
I sighed and turned back to my dough. “But what about my sopapillas?”
He scowled at my project for a second before waving me forward again. “Bring it with you. You can finish preparing them on the big worktable out front. Put on a cooking show while you sing.”
Heaving out another sigh, I picked up the bowl, then grabbed a baking sheet, a few other things I’d need, and followed him out the door with my flour-speckled apron and hairnet still on.
The dining room was crowded and loud, and no one paid me or my uncle any attention as I followed him to the large wooden worktable, where he took off a vase of flowers and began to clean the surface before I could use it. Standing just behind him and clutching my cooking supplies to my chest, I waited like a good girl until someone moved up behind me and murmured into my ear.
“I knew he’d talk you into singing.”
I sent a glare over my shoulder and told Big T, “Cállate,” as I lightly rammed my elbow back into his gut. Only the sound of his lightly pained grunt made my lips quiver into a mini smile.
“Prima, you are mean.”
My smile grew a bit larger.
“So what’re we performing?” he asked. “‘Cielito Lindo’?”
I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth, thinking about it. “No...something different.”
In my back pocket, my phone buzzed, letting me know I had a new text. I pulled it free out of habit and saw that it was from Asher.
Holy shit. I found her.
Scowling, because I had no idea what he was talking about, I began to ask him who he’d found. But another text from him came through.
What’s the name of the girl who—
“Elisa!” Tío Alonso boomed, making me jump out of my skin and look up before I could finish reading Asher’s question. He splayed out his hand, letting me know he was ready for me to begin. I stuffed my phone away just as it buzzed again with a third text.
Drawing in a big breath, I concentrated on laying out my supplies, while Big T positioned himself behind and a little to the left of me. As I worked, a couple patrons glanced my way as they kept eating and talking, probably realizing I was about to do something to entertain them.
Just as I got everything set out where I needed it, my phone buzzed against my butt for a fourth time. Big T leaned forward, murmuring, “¿Prima?” wanting to know what I was going to sing so he’d know what to play.
I knew Tío Alonso expected something purely Spanish, but I decided to do a little mix of both English and Spanish. And besides, Doris Day was one of my mother’s favorite singers before she went crazy. So I murmured, “Que Sera Sera,” over my shoulder.
A couple seconds later, the guitar started to strum the melody. Some tables of people stopped eating to watch us. But not until the introduction was over and I began to sing did we really gain the attention of everyone.
I ignored everyone and acted as if I was self-involved in my menial task of peppering the table with a cupful of flour. Once I had a fine layer covering the wooden slab, I plopped down my ball of dough and began to iron it
into a flat circle with the rolling pin I’d brought in. Flour sprayed everywhere.
More people stopped their conversations to watch me work. I kept up the oblivious act, purposely smearing a trail of flour across my cheek when I brushed at a stray hair that had come down from my hairnet.
It wasn’t until I picked up the rolling pin and began to roll the dough flat that I hit the chorus and really lifted my voice.
