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“We have a tequila tour booked for later this afternoon—I need you to run it. Manny said you’d say no, but I told him you’d do what you could for the farm while you’re here. It’s only fair. Isabella is graduating from college and Manny has to be there. He said he’ll be back in the evening to relieve you, but you need to start the tour.”
“No,” I grit out. Absolutely not.
“Why not? What’s so hard about walking around the property and sharing the story of how our farm came to be to a bunch of gringos? Unless you’ve forgotten who you are and where you come from?”
Of course I haven’t forgotten. He drilled that story into my head from a young age.
A tension-filled silence spans between us. I really don’t want to fucking do it. Goddamnit.
“Please, mijo.”
An exasperating mixture of a sigh and a growl get trapped in my throat and I hold up my finger. “One tour. That’s it.” Isabella is a good kid. I can choke down my objections and play tour guide if it means she gets to have her father at her graduation.
“Yes, just for today. Te prometo.”
“Fine, but I’m holding you to that old man.”
He nods and I begin to mentally prepare myself for the upcoming tour. Ma gave the tours when I was younger. She was the best at it—had the Jiménez spirit down pat. After her death, it didn’t feel right to take her place. There’s too many emotions involved with going down that path.
As if reading my mind, my father reaches his hand out and pats mine. I hate unsolicited touch, even from family. It takes everything in me not to flinch away. “Your Ma would be really proud of you, thank you, mijo.”
It’s my turn to nod, my voice weighed down by emotions I buried long ago. A glimpse of the clock tells me I better get going. I’m nothing if not punctual. I say goodbye and head for the car, my mind a maelstrom of too damn much. The fresh air helps to ease the sharpest of the edges slicing into me, but it’s not enough to keep the scowl at bay—not that I want to.
The ride back to Jiménez Casa Agavera is quick as the hospital is only a few miles into town. I’ve got an hour before the tour starts, so I wander over the property, reliving the tales my mother used to share.
These fields were planted by your great grandfather. Sometimes, after a summer storm, I swear I can smell his tobacco and leather scent lingering around, watching over us.
My steps falter and the sun dims out of focus. It's not my great grandfather’s scent enveloping me, but Ma’s sweet cherry one. It’s been over twenty years, but when I close my eyes, it’s as if she’s standing next to me, pruning the roses and harvesting her favorite sunflowers from the garden we built together.
Gravel crunches and a van with a bright yellow Playa Resorts logo drives up the path leading to our cellars. My alone time has run out; let’s get this shit show started. It will undoubtedly be one of the worst experiences I’ve had in a while, but compromise is often uncomfortable.
“This is outrageous. I’ve been in line for ten minutes waiting to buy tickets for the San Felipe tour. I. Want. That. Tour.” The irate woman in front of me looks a lot like a raging Elmo. Short, with red flushed skin, and a snarling mouth wide enough to fit a pizza in it.
“I’m sorry señora, but that particular tour is sold out. There are others that are just as beautiful, though.” The front desk clerk hands her a few brochures. His pale complexion and chocolate eyes highlight the blossoming flush spreading across his face—no doubt embarrassed by this woman’s tirade.
What a fucking cunt.
“Next,” the man beside him calls out and I step up to the counter, giving the ranting woman a wide berth.
“How can I help you?” His friendly smile warms the space enveloping us.
I open my mouth to ask him about the tequila tour I found in a brochure left on my hotel bed, but a scream pierces the air and I snap my jaw shut. What the fuck? My features twist, brows pinching, at the high pitch. In unison, the clerk and I snap our attention towards the retreating Elmo stomping away. I swear you can see steam coming out of her head. Seriously, this is a vacation resort. Why the hell is she wound so tightly? Maybe someone needs to give her a lesson in relaxation.
“I’m sorry about that, señorita.” Wrinkles pinch the corners of his dark brown eyes as he smiles, proof he does so often. What can I do for you?” “I’d like to buy a ticket for this tequila tour,” I say, handing him the brochure.
“Ahh, Jiménez Casa Agavera—good choice. Déjame ver, let me check if there are any tickets left.”
He focuses on the computer in front of him, the keyboard clacking beneath his fingertips. Hearty laughter to my right catches my attention and I turn, leaning against the cool glass countertop. A group of women speaking animatedly with both their mouths and hands tumble through the open double doors. My heart pinches and I press the heel of my hand into my chest. They remind me so much of my babes that it hurts. I love to vacation alone. I often need that time to decompress, but right now, I kind of wish they were here with me.
Infinite white sand and crystal blue waves crash in the distance, creating an idyllic image. Lifting my camera, I snap a few photos of the exuberant women, training the focus of my lens on the landscape behind them to create a blurring effect. My passion is nature photography, but fuck, I love a good candid shot, especially when I can get a bit of nature in it. By my fourth shot, the women are rushing past me in a giggling mass of bikinis and alcohol, oblivious of me and my camera.
“Señorita?”
I peer over my shoulder, and smile at the older clerk waiting for me. When did I move away from the lobby desk? I swear, when my camera’s in my hand, I lose track of anything not photo related. I lift up my Nikon, smiling wolfishly. “Sorry, I get distracted easily when I’m shooting.”
He nods and gestures for me to return to the desk. “Unfortunately, the tour you want is sold out ahora. It’s muy popular. What about an ATV ride through the Sierra Madre mountains?”
I tilt my head to the right, nibbling on my bottom lip. I could do a different tour, but this one sounded divine.
