And that’s how Gustave de Valois, Count of Parisian salons and patron of the Louvre, steps into Mi Tierra, my family’s little restaurant on Cesar Chavez Avenue, where the special of the day is always love with extra salsa and complete craziness.
The room hums with barely contained curiosity.
Tio Diego strums a dramatic chord on his guitar and belts, “Tara, el príncipe francés ha llegado?*!” The band plays some ridiculous tune to go with it.
Marco, who’s turned an empty table into a drum, thumps a beat, grins, and adds in English, “One whose ass we want to kick.”
Laughter explodes around the room—half-joke, half-warning.
The music ramps back up, and thepiñatasways as Luis gives it another experimental whack while some of the kids clap.
Someone calls out in Spanish, “That French man…he’s too clean. We gotta get him a sombrero or something.”
“Or an apron,” Marco adds. “Make himearn his supper.”
Mama slaps Marco on the back of his head and steps forward. She holds out a hand. “I’m Estrella Gayarre. Tara’s mother.”
He shakes it. “Gustave,” he murmurs and then adds in that charming French accent, “I can see where Tara gets her beauty.”
Mama raises an eyebrow and then turns to the others. “El hombre es encantador?*.”
“Tanto que le bajó los calzones a Tara?*,” Tia Camila says, giving Gustave the stink eye.
I hold up a hand. “He understands Spanish,” I call out before someone else starts to discuss my panties.
Right then, someone says, “Qué guapo?*.”
Gustave purses his lips. He’s torn between obvious discomfort and amusement.
Papi hands him a beer. “You drink this. No fancy wine here.”
“Muchas gracias?*.” He takes a sip like it’s a sacred oath.
“If you want wine, you come to my wine bar,” Tio Diego says. It sounds like a challenge. “We have some good Spanish Crianza that will beat the pants off your French stuff.”
“And if you want to show your muscles, you come to our construction site,” Marcothrows out.
I want to bang my head against a wall.
Seriously, my family can be a bit much.
Marisol comes up to stand next to me, her hand on her hips. “You have somecojones?* on you, showing up like this.”
Marisol!
“I have no choice,” he says, eyes lingering on me. Then he turns to Marisol, unleashing his full-wattage grin. “Happy birthday.”
She beams and chuckles. “I can see why you went for him,hermana.”
The earth should swallow me now! I mean, what the fuck is the point?
The last time I saw him, he told me to leave Paris. He broke me with words I still can’t forget. Now he’s standing in the middle of my family’s restaurant, surrounded by tamales and tequila and music, looking at me like I’m the only person in the world.
The music picks up again, and Tio Diego starts another song. Tia Camila pulls Marisol onto the floor to dance, and soon everyone is clapping and singing along. Everyone except Gustave and me.
Gustave’s eyebrows rise. I follow his gaze to Marco, who is breakdancing—inexplicably—and doing it terribly.
“Why are you here, Gustave?” I ask wearily. I’m tired. Exhausted. I’ve been thinkingabout this man day in and day out, and now he’s here, and I don’t know what to do with that.
