“Arroz con leche,” I say proudly.
“Valentina, did you make this?” Rosita replies, her eyes wide.
“Isa and I did, but it’s not my recipe.”
“It tastes like Roberto’s, doesn’t it, Rosita?” Maritza squeals.
“It really does,” she agrees. “Abuelita, did you try it? Here, take a bite.”
Rosita cautiously feeds Abuelita a little spoonful of the pudding.
“Ah, si. My Roberto made this. I remember this,” she says gleefully, opening her mouth for another bite.
“It’s his recipe,” I finally admit.
They all stop and look at me like a deer caught in headlights.
“No mientes!” Rosita says.
“I’m not lying! It’s really his recipe. Valentina and I made it together tonight to surprise you all. It’s my way of saying thank you for having me here.”
Rosita starts clapping with excitement.
“Wow, you nailed it, Isabellita. This is my favorite dessert!”
Valentina and I both look at each other quickly as if we had the exact same thought.
“Oh, shut it, Rosita. This was my favorite first,” Maritza replies. “You discovered it after me.”
We look at each other again. If only eyes could speak, they’d say, “what the fuck is going on right now?”
“No, it’s my favorite.” Sofia laughs. “He made it for me all the time when I would visit.”
I can’t believe this is happening right now. I also don’t know why I’m surprised. Why wouldn’t this recipe be everyone’s favorite? I remember how much everyone loved it. Except for my mother, I guess.
“No, es mía,” says small, shaky voice in the background.
We all turn to look at Abuelita, giggling to herself, holding the empty ramekin. We all laugh in unison.
“I guess it’s Abuelita’s favorite,” Rosita says.
“It’s my favorite now too!” Luciano states. “If this is how the food is at La Mariposa, I’m already impressed, Isa. I can’t wait for more.”
I can’t help but smile. I’ve already impressed Luciano.
I turn to Valentina. “I don’t know why you hate him,” I whisper to her. “He seems great.”
“It’s not about him,” she mumbles, but I ignore her, still riding the high of the possibility of saving La Mariposa.
That was easy enough. I can’t say I’m surprised—my father’s food is the best. But there’s something else lingering for me now. We have four potential suspects: Rosita, Maritza, Abuelita, and Sofia, who all said the dessert was their favorite. It could be any of them.
I glance at the list of names, the possibilities swirling in my mind. I’m not even sure where this path is taking me, but I need to figure out who it was meant for and why my father thought this recipe mattered enough to hide it. Maybe this will lead me to something bigger—something that could finally help me make sense of all the pieces he left behind. Or what happened the night of the quinceañera that forced me away from my extended family. Maybe even something that could help me save the restaurant.
Chapter Ten
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
I look down at my outfit. My brown corduroy trousers pair beautifully with my grey top and flannel. I even managed to wear hike-appropriate boots under my rolled-up pants. I tied my thick curly hair back in a high ponytail. I can’t find anything wrong with my look.
