And Carolina had worked hard to make her dream come true. As the new CEO of the Flores Family Farm, she had a great vision for the future. She would update the technology, streamline the production process, and most importantly, focus on farmworkers’ rights.
The Flores Family Farm prided themselves on providing their employees, who were almost exclusively people of color, with a living wage and healthy working conditions. And to that end, they only partnered with ethical farm-to-table restaurants for their produce. Those high-end places were willing to pay exorbitant prices to ensure not only was the produce picked at its peak freshness, but also that the farmworkers were given the best possible care and were treated with the respect and dignity they deserved.
Sure, the margins were low, and during the drought and the pandemic, her commitment to their workers had almost caused them togo bankrupt. But there was never too steep a price on doing the right thing.
She had turned their business around recently with a weekly subscription box service for families who wanted fresh food without going to the grocery store. And it had been wildly successful, just like Carolina prayed it would be.
But Carolina couldn’t think too far into the future right now—it was time for her to prepare for the holidays. Tomorrow was Las Posadas—her favorite part of Christmas. Ever since the day as a little girl when she’d been chosen to be the angel who led the procession through the streets of her town, Las Posadas had held a special place in her heart.
The celebration took on a new meaning now that she was an adult; this year, she had been lucky enough to be chosen to play the Virgin Mary. Though the holiday was technically religious, members from the entire town, no matter what religion or nationality, took part in the tradition. Many immigrants related to the experience of Mary and Joseph seeking shelter and being refused. It was cultural, even if you weren’t a Catholic.
And Carolina loved every aspect of this tradition. From the spiced, warm ponche that soothed her throat after walking through the streets to the sweet basket of treats containing cookies, it was all divine.
And don’t even get Carolina started on the scrumptious tamales. As long as she didn’t have to cook them herself.
But there was only one problem—she didn’t have a Joseph.
Well, shehada Joseph, her cousin Roberto, who had unfortunately caught the flu, so now he was out. But even if he had been healthy that would’ve been a disaster—it was embarrassing enough that she had to use a relative and did not have a boyfriend or a husband to play Joseph, not that she wanted to get married or anything.
Why were men always required in order for her to do the things she loved?
Carolina’s other passion, besides sustainable farming, was dancing with the local Ballet Folklórico. The dances were stories in themselves—representing different regions in Mexico, but many were influenced by cultures from around the world. Some were about animals, some depicted moments in history, all were amazing. She loved the vibrant costumes, the ribbons she wore braided through her long black hair, and the sound of her feet tapping on the floors. But again, she needed a male partner to perform the dances she loved most. Her friends danced with their boyfriends or husbands, which simply wasn’t an option for Carolina. She finally quit last year. Without a partner, it was pointless. And she had a farm to run.
She sighed. She didn’t need a man to be happy, but she used to need a man to dance and currently needed one to be her Joseph. She had posted on Facebook again, asking for a volunteer. Someone would answer her call. She had faith. She had even prayed for a Joseph to appear in her life, but so far, God had not given her an answer.
Carolina pushed her thoughts aside, turning away from the beautiful fields, and walked into her home.
The scents of cumin and citrus filled the air, mixed with the fresh pine from the Christmas tree. Papá had nodded off and was slumped on his old vinyl recliner with an unfinished crossword puzzle by his side. She tiptoed by him and peered into the kitchen. Her mother was stirring something in a pot. Carolina wasn’t sure what, but it smelled delicious. Carolina always had a good nose, despite being a complete disaster in the kitchen. She’d never had any patience to learn.
Warmth filled Carolina’s chest anticipating another festive holiday; Carolina couldn’t feel more blessed.
Well, perhaps she could.
She checked her phone. No one had replied to the post she’d placed on Facebook asking for a volunteer to be her Joseph.
If her sister Blanca had put up the post, she’d have been inundated with offers. But perhaps Carolina had said no to men too many times as she concentrated on her studies, and now no one wanted to help her in her time of need.
Ah well. She had her family.
But where exactly were they? The house was silent. Prior to purchasing the farm, they were all crammed into a small two-bedroom, one-bath home on the farm. Ten girls slept together in one room with bunk beds crammed in a small space. Nothing said good morning like waking up with your sister’s foot in your face, as they had to sleep each head on either end of the bed. At least Blanca always had pretty painted toenails. But the farm came with a five-bedroom home. Carolina gave her parents the master, out of respect. She now finally had her own bed but did still share her room with Blanca. Even in the new space, with a family of twelve, the house was always bustling. But it was surprisingly quiet right now. Even Chuy, the family’s yappy Chihuahua, didn’t bark when she walked in.
Carolina decided to embrace the rare silence. She didn’t want to wake Papá, or even worse, be forced to help Mamá in the kitchen, so she sat on the old tan corduroy sofa and grabbed a book. It wasn’t her first choice to read—one of her dad’s crime thrillers in Spanish—but she focused on the words on the page and enjoyed the quiet.
When she was a few chapters in, the door flew open.
Blanca stood in the doorway. Her waist-length black hair hung down her back, with a few wisps landing right on her perfectly flat midriff, which was currently bare since she was wearing a tube top and low-slung jeans.
Blanca was a knockout. No wonder every man in Santa Maria wanted her.
Carolina lowered her voice to a strong whisper, careful not to wake Papá. “What are you wearing, Blanca? Hurry and change before Papá sees you!”
Blanca glanced at their father, who had turned in his chair but was somehow still asleep.
“Good call, Cari.” She bit her pouty lip and grabbed a sweatshirt that hung on an antique coatrack near the door but didn’t put it on. At least it was in reach if Papá woke up. Blanca was no dummy. It may have been the twenty-first century, but make no mistake—Papá still treated his daughters like it was the 1950s.
Blanca motioned Carolina to come outside. Carolina quickly followed her onto the porch.
“¿Qué tal?”
