We move out onto the balcony and watch as the horizon turns from purple to blue to pink to orange and then the sun peeks over the mountains.
Blue stands behind me, his arms around me, and I feel safe, and content, and where I was always meant to be.
He nuzzles my temple. “Good morning, wife.”
I smile, cup his cheek and turn to give him a kiss. “Good morning, husband.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Blue—
Luisa and I have been married for two weeks now, and I’ve rented us another place. It’s two blocks from the house we rented near the Basilica in Mesilla, and she and I still walk to the square and eat at the restaurants.
Luisa even takes art classes at the gallery we stopped in so long ago.
That’s where she is now.
I check the time. She should be home soon.
There’s a stack of mail in the box, and I carry it inside. Thumbing through the envelopes, one stops me.
It’s from the city art council.
Tearing it open, I read the letter and my face lights up.
“She won! Oh, my God! My baby won!”
I continue reading. They’re giving her the prize at a ceremony on the square on the 19th.
Pausing, I glance at the calendar on the wall.
That’s in two weeks. I shove the envelope in my pocket and leave Luisa a note on the kitchen table.
My beautiful wife—
I’ll be home by 6:30pm, and I’m bringing dinner.
We have something to celebrate tonight.
—Your loving husband.
The drive to the Sanchez pecan farm gives me time to think about what I’m going to say.
When I pull into the drive, he’s sitting on the porch with his wife.
I’m barely out of my truck before he’s up and striding toward me.
“You’re not wanted here.”
“I don’t give a damn what you think of me, but you’re going to listen to what I have to say, because your daughter is important to both of us. Give me five minutes.”
His wife grabs his arm. “Let him talk.”
“Fine. Say what you came to say, then leave.”
“Your daughter is the most important thing to me. Before she was going to marry Mateo, I sent in an application for an art contest the city holds. It’s called the Trail of the Painted Ponies. The city chooses a winner, and their artwork is displayed in the front of city hall. What I’m trying to say is, she won. She doesn’t know yet. I just opened the letter today.
“They’re going to present her with the trophy at a ceremony in the square in front of City Hall. It’s on the nineteenth at 3pm. I’d like you to be there.”
