If you agree to my only condition and want me to drop by to pick up the key, save you some postage, give me a call. I’ve listed my number underneath my address below. Thank you for thinking of me.
Happy New Year!
She looked up at me with a sly gleam in her eye. “I can’t believe you said, ‘sorry, not sorry,’ to my Mom.”
I turned my head a fraction. “Most appropriate use of that asinine phrase, bar none, in my opinion.”
She giggled. “You might be right.”
I took the letters from her. “You get anything useful from that?”
She shrugged. “Nope. She said not to judge her, and I’m trying not to, and she’s right. It was between her and my Dad, but part of me feels like she’s wrong, too. Does that even make sense?”
“It might. How do you think she’s wrong?”
She sighed. “Well, Dad cheating on her wasn’t just him cheating on her. It was him cheating on all of us. And her doing the same, it was a way of cheating on the family, too. Am I wrong?”
I moved closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I think you’re a little bit of both. Your parents wouldn’t have seen it that way, not at the time. But, to an extent, you’re right in that infidelity to a spouse puts the entire family at risk. Had they not been able to overcome that, you and Wynnie would’ve been shuttled back and forth between them. So, you’re kind of right. And, I’m fuckin’ sorry you got bombarded with so much shit today, Rae.”
She smiled at me. “It’s okay. Um, if you’re not committed to watching a particular football game, can you play some of that music your Mom loves so much? What’s his name, Astro—”
I held my hand up. “It’s Astor Piazzollo. And no joke, you mispronounce his name it may bring Mamá here in seconds, because any disrespect to him is a personal affront to her, such is her pride in her Argentinian roots. But, yeah, sweetheart, I’ll play that for you.”
She chuckled, and I smiled.
Chapter 19
To Tomorrow, Honey
Raegan
I SAT ON CLINT’S LEATHER sofa listening to Astor Piazzollo wail away on the bandoneón, a square-built accordion, as Juanita had proudly explained to me so many years ago. My guess was that the harsh and chaotic melodies in his songs brought me a contradictory sense of calm when my life was in turmoil. Or maybe because the music reflected how crazy my life could be, it soothed me. I never really knew, but I had refused to listen to it after Clint and I split –which was why I couldn’t remember his name correctly. Listening to it now, I realized how much I missed this music.
Clint was in the kitchen, though I didn’t know what he was doing. He’d asked what I wanted for dinner, but I told him I didn’t care. My appetite had taken off to parts unknown after I found out someone wanted me dead. Then, to learn about so much family drama from Mom, I would be fine with a sandwich or something.
I heard Clint’s phone ring, and it became louder as he strode into the living room.
He hit an icon and said, “You’re on speaker, Mamá.”
I closed my eyes. If I couldn’t bear thinking about my family, I wasn’t sure being around his family was a good idea either. That was selfish of me, and I regretted it.
Juanita said, “Dios mio. You’re listening to Astor!”
“Reagan’s request, Mamá. She’s had a... well, a really rough day. You think you could bring some empanadas over?”
“I can. Now, you take me off speaker, Clint.”
He put the phone to his ear and wandered to the kitchen. After a moment, a thought hit me, and I followed him.
Clint liked to pace when he was on the phone, so in a moment he turned back to me and stopped short. I grinned. “If she’s dropping by, tell her to bring some red wine. It goes better with the music.”
He did a long blink. “You mean the empanadas, honey.”
I shook my head. “No. I mean the music.”
His head cocked to the side. “You’ll regret that in the morning, mamita, mixing red and white wines.”
I smiled and knew I looked a little maniacal. “Just add it to the list, man. It’s a long one already.”
Clint waved me out of the room as his mother spoke to him. He never could tolerate two women talking to him at the same time. If she was dropping by, I needed to change from his shirt into regular clothes.
Forty-five minutes later, his mother bustled into the house carrying a brown paper bag and a cloth grocery bag for wine.
Clint closed the door behind her, asking, “Four bottles, Mamá? Are you trying to help her or poison her?”
Juanita whirled around to Clint. “She’s right. This music demands red wine, and if you think I’m not partaking, you’re crazy.”
She turned to me and smiled. “Hola, Raegan. I knew there was a reason I liked you. Anyone who appreciates Astor is after my own heart. Give me a minute, and we’ll eat.”
IT WAS AFTER THE TASTIEST empanadas this side of the equator, and after my fourth glass of wine. Juanita and I were sitting on the couch laughing our tails off as we played tennis against each other on Clint’s Nintendo Wii. He sat to the side on a loveseat, shaking his head at us. From the moment the game began he kept telling us it would work better if we would stand up. Neither one of us was up for that.
“If I wanted to stand up, Clint, I wouldn’t have suggested playing a video game,” Juanita declared, which made me laugh.
She grinned and took her seat next to me. From then on, we had some success waving
