16
MITCHELL
My mission is to bust through this wall Bryn’s raised against me.
I know it’s a lesson in futility. She’s wary of me, and for good reason.
But it doesn’t mean I can’t try. If we’re going to act like a couple, at least one of us should look like they’re enjoying the other’s company.
I make it a point to laugh a little louder when we’re together, crack an extra joke, speak for her when it’s obvious she wants nothing to do with me or with the camera trained on us. I wax poetic about theoretical shit, about weather and irrigation systems, the balance of acids and bases in soil, and the importance of certain fertilizers and fungicides. My geekery goes on overload, wanting to fill the space between us with words, when all I want is to cross over it, to prove my worth in this partnership.
To the audience, I must look like a man whipped by his girl. That, or I’m a certified loudmouth who loves to hear himself speak.
But her rules. Rules that, sure, I agreed to, but are a damn hindrance to the game we’re playing. Case in point: I can’t simply sling an arm around Bryn’s shoulders. I must wait for a sign, a brush against my elbow, or a quick glance in agreement. The one time I thought I was being helpful by holding her by the waist as she stepped down a ladder while balancing a gallon of paint and paint pan? I got an earful about boundaries and professionalism that night after the crew left.
It all becomes a tease of utmost proportions, and I’m a puppy waiting for its next chance to earn its reward.
Today is Saturday, and I arrive at Paraiso right on time as we planned, at one thirty in the afternoon. I spent the morning with the vines removing suckers from the trunks and appreciating the canopy of leaves that has grown since I came home almost seven weeks ago. I’ve just returned from my weekly appointment with Adam, feeling bolstered and optimistic. From the vitamin D of the sun, the sweat I’ve shed, and now I realize, the acceptance of this new normal, of being home after a rough deployment, my nights haven’t been quite as long. Still not perfect, but better.
Today’s agenda is simple: show up for lunch. Apparently the last five days of Bryn’s and my concerted efforts at looking like a couple have resulted in an uptick in viewers.
Keep going, Laurel said. They’re coming in droves.
“Bryn?” I walk through the unlocked front door. The windows are open, and along with the scent of the outdoors, my nose detects the distinct smell of garlic and onions. My empty stomach growls.
I hear Bryn’s voice along with others that are unrecognizable, the high and low tones of several people.
Visitors? I rack my brain trying to remember our last conversation, and she didn’t mention to expect guests.
Curiosity leads me through the kitchen, now with bright white cabinets and impressive industrial appliances. The island has been extended to eight feet long—Bryn took my suggestion for this—and the old dark granite countertop has been replaced with white marble veined with black. On the island are several platters covered with aluminum foil and a steaming rice cooker. Next to it is a shallow brown wicker basket stacked with paper plates and plastic utensils. My gait slows as I exit through the paneled doors to the deck and begin to make out some of the conversation.
Some of the words sound Spanish, though others are unrecognizable. Which increases the probability that her guests are Filipino, with the highest probability they’re Bryn’s family.
Shit. She and I talked about this inevitable moment. Her aunt and uncle are like second parents to her, and her father, a restaurant investor in San Francisco, doesn’t play when it comes to men dating his daughters. I gathered from her description of him—doting, involved, protective—that he’s not going to like me. Not one bit.
So I push my shoulders back and ready myself for an onslaught of questions.
“Oh.” Bryn startles as I step into the patio and the limelight of their little get-together, as if she completely forgot I lived a mere one hundred yards away and that I was meant to show up. Her cheeks flush pink. “Speaking of Mitchell. Everyone, this is Mitchell Dunford. Mitchell, this is my dad, Tito Ritchie, Tita Ramona—that means uncle and aunt—Drew, my cousin, and his fiancée, Camille. Camille and Drew are going to be married next year.”
I tap the bill of my baseball cap, noting the camera moving closer to me and the black tips of the microphone on Drew’s lapel. We are all being recorded. I steel myself at this added pressure, and smile in a genteel manner without looking directly into the eyes of Bryn’s father. He’s that fucking scary. I’m no doubt taller and bigger, but the man’s got the vibe of a warrior, and he’s holding a spear with my name all over it. I offer my hand. “Mr. Aquino.”
“Mitchell Dunford, of Dunford Vineyard.” He brands me like a cow trying to escape. “You’re the boy my daughter has taken a liking to.”
“Dad,” Bryn admonishes.
“It’s okay, Bryn,” I say as confidently as I can muster. “Yes, sir. More than a liking, actually.” Not sure where that came from, I swiftly avert my eyes to Bryn’s aunt and uncle and Camille. Unlike Mr. Aquino, they’re taking me in with combined amusement and pity. Victoria, seated next to Bryn’s aunt, flashes me a peace sign. I return it with a nod.
“I hear you’re in the Army, sir.” Drew reaches out a hand. “Me, too. Lieutenant Bautista, Fifth Engineer Battalion out of Fort Pershing.”
“Nice to meet you. Reservist now. Just got off active duty, so I’m loosely out of Sacramento.” Shaking his hand, I already feel a camaraderie, especially with the bemused smile on his face. And though I’m a captain and higher ranking, he’s supposed to be family. “And, Drew, call me Mitchell, okay?”
“Okay.” He smiles. “I heard you were deployed not too long ago. I just got back from Iraq in December. Welcome back.”
“Welcome back as well. I was in northern Afghanistan.”
“I bet you feel like I do, thankful and appreciative of the scenery. Of the people.” His glance lands on Camille.
“The people are the most important, that’s for sure,” I say, suddenly choked up by the affection that’s passed between the couple, by the knowledge that I led soldiers as young as Drew, even younger. I’m not old by any means, but, God, I hope I did right by them, gave them the right example.
I notice the group has gone silent during this exchange. Civilians sometimes don’t know what to say or do when a group of Army folk get together, so I clap my hands once to loosen the tension. “And I still can’t get over how good I have it living next to such a great cook. Whatever you have in that kitchen smells delicious, Bryn. Hope I didn’t keep you guys waiting.”
“Oh, you’re totally on time.” Camille nudges Bryn. “Silly lady here thought we’d let her get away without celebrating.”
Drew slings an arm around Bryn. “The big two-nine. So close to thirty, cousin. Are you feeling it?” He pretends to examine her hairline. “I don’t see any gray hairs yet.”
I smile to hide my shock. How did I not know today was her birthday? Oh, that’s right—because our relationship is fake.
“She didn’t ask us to come up.” Her aunt winks at me. “I think she’s keeping you from us.”
Bryn gently shoves her cousin. “No, it’s because you guys are embarrassing.”
“What’s to be embarrassed about? We love you.” Her uncle jumps in. “Mary Bryn doesn’t like attention on her birthday. She avoids it every year.”
Feeling the pressure to respond somehow and join in the banter, I say, “I think she just didn’t want to admit on the Internet she’s now older than me.”
Drew hoots. “Cougar!”
Bryn shoots me a playful glare. “Thanks a lot. I’m gonna get you back.”
I shrug. “Bring it on. It can’t be any worse than the damage you did with practically flooding the guest bath.”
The group erupts in laughter. Two days ago, Bryn insisted on changing out the bathroom sink faucet instead of paying a plumber. After watching a series of YouTube videos and armed with newly purchased tools from Amazon, she declared herself ready and able. But she forgot the most important step in any plumbing fix—turning off the water. When she unscrewed the water supply valves . . .
“No one told me there were two shutoff valves under the dumb sink. Thank God I turned off the hot water valve. Can you imagine?”
Another round of laughter roars through the group. “But it all worked out,” I say.
“You guessed it. I paid for the plumber to put it in. I also paid with humiliation knowing you all watched it.” To my surprise, Bryn approaches me and threads her fingers into mine. Hand clammy, she flashes me a look of panic, so I hold on tighter and rub my thumb into her hand. I read the message on her face: this is the litmus test of our relationship, the closest people in her life.
I bring her hand to my lips for a brief kiss, hoping it’s the right move. It’s gonna be okay, I convey through my eyes, and nod.
Bryn speaks as if trying on a new voice. “Shall we christen the new kitchen?”
The group answers with a resounding yes, and we usher them into the house.
“This is just magnificent.” Her aunt’s sights are set on the lower vineyard while looking out the kitchen window. “Such a beautiful view to look out on every morning.”
“I’ve gotten into the habit of doing just that when I have my coffee,” Bryn answers.
She has? I lean in and tease. “You’ve been watching me?”
She responds with a slight sigh, making me grin. I can’t help but push it further. “Next time, I’ll know to flex when I’m out there.”
While the backs of her relatives are turned to us, she shoves me gently on my shoulder, but an amused laugh rises from her throat. “Mitchell has an amazing green thumb. He grew up tending to those vines. Didn’t you, babe?”
I catch the cue. “I did. I preferred being outdoors. I was out harvesting as soon as I could reach the grapes.”
“And take a long look at my garden, people. He did all that. Mitchell has the touch.”
The pride in Bryn’s face makes my chest swell, puts a silly grin on my face. Does she mean it? Is it all part of the ruse? Helping her grow these crops started as an accident but turned into my little project. Not a big deal, but I would do it twelve times over, start it all from dirt, to get that same response again.
“Anyone can grow vegetables.” Her father mumbles just loud enough for me to hear. The comment hits me in the head, but I don’t flinch. Bryn warned me this would happen, so I mentally don thicker layers of skin.
The group follows Bryn deeper into the house, where she gives everyone the grand tour of the construction. Most of the group nod, are impressed, and ask a slew of questions, but her father remains stoic, his suspicious eyes trained on me.
Vic has the island set with plates, forks, and spoons when we return to the kitchen. The aluminum foil was removed from the plates and now a mountain of food burgeons from the middle. The smell is mouthwatering, and colors burst from the dishes, some I’ve never seen.
There’s an orange-brown stew with leafy green vegetables. An ink-black souplike dish. Fried shrimp, shells still intact. Next to it is lumpia—Filipino egg rolls that have my stomach doing the happy dance in anticipation. Mangoes sliced in thirds, and finally, a bowl of steaming white rice.
Thank God for food, because the mood lightens, and Mr. Aquino has taken the bull’s-eye off me for a moment. It’s a welcomed reprieve, allowing me a chance to catch my breath as we take our seats around the kitchen island while Bryn’s uncle scoops a helping of each dish onto everyone’s plate. Bryn sits beside me.
“What you’re seeing are our most treasured dishes, Mitchell.” Mr. Aquino speaks from across the island. He gestures to Bryn’s uncle. “And it’s all from Chef Ritchie’s kitchen.”
Chef Ritchie points at the dishes as he introduces them. “That’s kare-kare, a peanut-based oxtail stew. The gravy-and-vinegar-based dish is called dinuguan. The fried shrimp is dusted with our very own red spice. You’ll find it salty and with a kick. And I’m sure you’ve heard of lumpia—this batch is made with a mix of ground lamb and pork.”
Mr. Aquino has a challenge written on his face. “Certainly a well-traveled man like yourself is interested in different types of food.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
“You don’t have to eat it. But in our family, we appreciate the efforts of the cook and try to taste every dish.”
“I’m in.” I eye the oxtail. Do I pick it up and eat it or cut it with a knife? I look around and notice no one is using a knife, but they have a fork in their left hand and a spoon in the right. I follow suit, watching closely.
“Let’s see.” He pushes a soup bowl in front of me with the black stew. The tang that emanates from it makes my stomach growl. A good sign. I watch as everyone takes a spoonful and mixes it into their rice before eating.
Bryn presses her knee against mine, encouraging as she spoons the food into her mouth. Her face softens as she chews. A glance back at Mr. Aquino—he’s waiting for my move.
There’s no turning back now. I take a bite and an interesting pebbly texture rolls against my tongue. The sour gravy triggers my salivary glands, sending happy thoughts to my brain.
I shovel a second scoop, then a third into my mouth. “This is really good.”
Chef Ritchie and his wife nod in approval, and Bryn sports a satisfied grin. But Mr. Aquino is still unimpressed. He leans in, a snarl on his face. “It’s made of pig’s blood. And the meat is liver.”
The island explodes around me in both English and Tagalog. Vic tells her father he’s so cruel, and Bryn grips my knee.
I put my hand on top of hers and squeeze. “It’s okay. Really. My dad used to hunt and he never wasted anything. I’m cool with pig’s blood and liver.”
Everyone seems relieved. But with Mr. Aquino silent the rest of the meal, appraising me, I know the test isn’t over.
Later, while cleaning up, Mr. Aquino comes to my side, dish towel in hand. I become painfully aware the room is empty, with the other six outside waiting for the sun to set. The camera has followed the group outside.
“I don’t mind doing this,” I tell him while wrapping up the food in cling wrap. “You shouldn’t miss the sunset.”
Mr. Aquino fishes in his shirt for his mic and turns it off. “You know I’m not here to see the sunset. The family restaurant is on Ocean Beach, and those sunsets are as good as they get.”
My mouth clamps down out of instinct, much like I know how to stand when a high-ranking officer enters the room.
The only sounds between us are of work: water trickling from the faucet, the squeeze of a soapy sponge, the squeak of the sponge against marble. Then Joel entering the French doors and bidding us goodbye.
My body relaxes. That’s at least one burden off my shoulders, though the second, the man next to me, has yet to let up with his ever-intimidating presence.
I think I’m almost in the clear, but when I open the door to the outside so we can join the group, a hand sneaks out and shuts it.
“Mr. Dunford.” Mr. Aquino’s voice is low. Much like a Crotalus oreganus, a California rattlesnake, on a trail you don’t know you’re upon them until you hear the faint rattling, and by then you’ve been bitten and are halfway to death.
But I hear it. Loud and clear. I balance my voice between respectful and assertive, because the last thing I want to look like is a coward. “Mr. Aquino.”
“The cameras are off now, so we can have an honest conversation.” He wiggles a finger at me, and I follow him to the window overlooking the group. All six are stretched out in the Adirondack chairs, watching the sky turn a dark orange. He points at them and says, “Just beautiful.”
“It is.”
“I’m not talking about the view. I’m talking about my daughters, Mary Bryn and Victoria. My pride and joy. They are beautiful, inside and out, and they only deserve the best.”
“I agree, sir.”
“And I don’t know if that’s you, Mr. Dunford. Your family vineyard is impressive, known. You come from California royalty, and yet the feeling I get from you is transience. Bryn deserves someone who will stay. Understand?”
I do. I completely understand, and the man pegged me right. I left Dunford for the Army as soon as I could, and I’ve just returned. Yet he doesn’t know the whole situation. I didn’t run away—I ran toward a career—and I’m back because it was time for me to come home.
His daughter is also a perfectly capable adult who can manage her own feelings. But I acquiesce. “I don’t plan to hurt her, sir.”
“Ah, but you don’t need to plan in order to do. In fact, sometimes the more you avoid, the more it comes to fruition.” His words are an anvil, an anchor, taking me down to the bare bones of truth. “I’m watching you, Mr. Dunford.”
Mr. Aquino leaves his threat hanging in the air as he barges outside.
I don’t walk out, stuck at the threshold, because he’s right. As much as I’m telling myself that the thing between me and Bryn is all fake, the reality is I’ve got feelings for her.