Linda had left the house an hour ago to run errands. Enrique had offered to go with her, but she’d insisted on going alone. Though Linda seemed content in her life since she’d retired, Enrique still wondered what really had happened with her and his dad. Linda and Arturo had met in Baja California in the late seventies during spring break. Linda had served him a fish taco that gave him the idea to open Taco King. They had fallen madly in love and had vowed to reunite. Ramón had told Enrique that their father said he returned to propose to her but found her with another man, who turned out to be Julieta’sfather. Clearly, that was the best outcome for all parties—especially Julieta, and Enrique and his brothers, who wouldn’t have existed if Linda had married their father.
But there was one lingering question.
Why? Why hadn’t Linda waited for him?
Sure, she might’ve doubted that he would return, but Enrique didn’t buy it. If Papá loved Linda the way Ramón loved Julieta, Enrique couldn’t fathom why she wouldn’t have waited just a bit longer for him.
Maybe Enrique was more of a romantic than he thought.
Tiburón opened the French doors and joined Enrique on the deck. Ever since Ramón and Julieta got engaged, Enrique and Tiburón had vibed. The dude didn’t surf and couldn’t care less whether his salad was organic, but they’d found some common ground over their love of cars and horror flicks.
Tiburón relaxed in a lounger. “Where is everyone?”
“Well, while you were having your siesta, Ramón and Julieta decided to go on a date and Jaime and Rosa went to the movies.”
“Which movie?” Tiburón crooked an eyebrow.
“Die Hard. It’s Jaime’s favorite Christmas movie.”
“That movie is dope. Wish they woke me.”
They sat in silence for a few more moments until Tiburón spoke again. “This is the life. How long has your dad owned this place? If I were you, I’d be here all the time. Hell, I’d move in.”
Tiburón had a point. Why didn’t Enrique come here more often? “Dad always loved it up here. We used to vacation at the San Ysidro Ranch as kids. He bought this property when I was accepted at Cal Poly, but I haven’t spent much time here since college. I used to come up here on the weekends and surf.”
“Cool. I love it out here, though I’m usually farther up north. My Tío Tomás lives in Salinas.”
Enrique’s interest was piqued. “Oh, cool. My uncle is a farmer up in Salinas. Is yours a farmer, by any chance?”
Tiburón nodded. “Yeah, he is. Maybe they know each other. He’s a solid dude. I don’t visit him and my cousins a lot, but I spent some summers up here.” He looked over the water. “I’ll tell you what, though—that is some crazy-ass hard work. My uncle is fucked-up from all the years working in the dusty fields. He has some respiratory illness that makes his voice sound like sandpaper, and he coughs up blood and shit. We’re like three and a half hours away—maybe I’ll go up there and see him.”
Enrique’s stomach coiled. “I’ll go with you. We could visit my uncle, too.” Though that was unlikely. Tío Jorge had a huge falling-out with his sister, Enrique’s mom. Back in the day, Tío Jorge’s farm was one of the first to provide produce to the Montez Group. But Arturo started demanding cheaper prices and Tío Jorge eventually told his brother-in-law to go to hell. Enrique hadn’t seen his uncle since.
Was Tío Jorge healthy? Enrique needed to visit him and renew that relationship. So many farmers endured countless health problems, but Enrique had never seen the effects of the labor firsthand. His skin wasn’t calloused from picking produce, and his back wasn’t sore from bending to the earth.
How arrogant was Enrique to show up and ask Carolina to teach him about farming when he’d never spent a day of his life working like a typical bracero? Yes, Enrique and his brothers had their own small farm, but it only provided produce for the test kitchen, so who was he kidding?
Theirs was artisanal and featured high-end equipment. They hired workers, families like Carolina’s, to harvest the crops. He’d visit weekly, tend to some of his rare hybrid herbs, stroll through the plot he had given Julieta, and call it a day.
Carolina was right to kick him off her farm. She probably sawhim as some entitled and privileged Mexican. What an idiot he was. His skin burned.
He needed to figure out how he could win her trust the following night and let him meet with her about the farm later in the week.
Maybe he could drop some facts and figures into their conversation as they went from house to house. Or he could bring some Taco King food from the test kitchen to the closing party—convince her they weren’t the worst Fast Mex chain in the United States.
Ugh, no. He was being ridiculous.
The front door opened.
“Enrique! Ven!” Linda Campos shouted from inside the house.
Enrique glanced inquisitively at Tiburón. He shook his head. “Don’t look at me. I don’t have a clue what she wants. But one word of advice, bro.Go.”
Enrique stood and walked back inside into the kitchen, which was vastly different from his sleek and modern one in San Diego. This place was cozy. The wood was rustic, there was shiplap on the walls, and white linen curtains waved in the ocean breeze.
Julieta’s mother was clutching a modern but basic sewing machine underneath her arm and a skein of brown wool and an array of both earth-toned and bright fabrics.
“Where did you get a sewing machine?” he asked.
