Chapter Three
Carl hesitated on the Torres’ front stoop, wondering what his reception would be when he entered Camila’s family’s house. Normally, introductions didn’t intimidate him, but he’d never gone to meet the parents of a woman he wanted to marry before. He’d been engaged years ago to a woman named Lacey Taylor, but she’d been estranged from her family, and she’d broken off the relationship and moved to Billings. When he thought back on it, Carl could only shake his head. He’d had no idea what he was doing back then. So high off making his millions he hadn’t looked past a pretty face and a cute country accent to see that he and Lacey had nothing in common.
Thank God she’d come to her senses or he might be miserable right now.
Camila was nothing like Lacey.
And he had nothing to fear from her parents, he told himself. He was a man of substance. He could be proud of his accomplishments. He loved the Torres’ daughter. What more could they want?
It was still early in the morning, the street relatively quiet. This was a respectable neighborhood with small, tidy houses. He imagined that most people were just getting up. An older man was tending to a bed of flowers a few houses down. The scrape of his trowel carried on the still air.
The Torres’ door swung open before he could knock.
“Carl.”
Camila took his breath away every time he saw her. She was so alive. So warm and compassionate. Her laugh infectious…
She wasn’t laughing now, though. In fact, she was frowning.
“Everything all right?” he asked her.
She gave a small smile. “Just fine,” she said. “Except I have to take a trip to Mexico—and I’m leaving as soon as I can.”
“Mexico?”
“You’d better come in and sit down. Carl—” Camila broke off, bit her lip, then lowered her voice. “My family is pretty conservative, so… behave yourself, okay?”
He didn’t get to ask what that meant. An older woman with a stern expression joined Camila in the doorway, her hair coiled into a severe bun.
“Carl, this is my mother, Paula Torres. Mom, this is Carl Whitfield.”
“Nice to meet you,” Carl said.
Paula looked him up and down, nodded once and turned to usher him inside. “My daughter is going to Mexico to fetch her father’s present.”
“Present?”
“It’s a long story.” Camila led the way into the living room, and they all took seats. “My family owns this jade mask. It’s been handed down from generation to generation, and now it belongs to my father. But when he came to America, he left it behind in the safekeeping of his sister, thinking he’d only be gone for a few years. Since he’s still here after all this time, my mother thinks it’s time to go get it.”
As Camila continued to fill him in, Carl took in her mother’s emphatic nods and the righteous lift of her chin, and understood. Paula had somehow been as crafty as Virginia. Anyone could tell Camila didn’t want to go to Mexico. He wondered how Paula had forced her hand.
Now he and Camila would be apart again. Unless…
“I’m coming with you,” he interrupted Camila. “To Mexico.”
Camila knew she must be gaping at Carl. “But… you’re so busy—”
“Doesn’t matter.” He turned to her mother. “Can you let your sister-in-law know to expect me, too?”
Paula pursed her lips, then nodded reluctantly, and Camila knew she wasn’t happy about Carl’s interference, but she had the feeling that as much as Paula resented his high-handedness, Carl had gone up in her estimation. “I will tell her.” She seemed to remember her manners. “Can I bring you something to drink?”
“Just water would be great.”
“Camila, fetch Mr. Whitfield some water,” her mother ordered, preventing any chance for the two of them to be alone. Camila wanted to tell him he didn’t have to come. And he didn’t have to answer her mother’s questions, either. She didn’t want him mixed up in her family’s crazy affairs. But she did as her mother said, and when she returned, she found her mother well into an interrogation.
“I understand you intend to marry Camila.”
Camila’s breath whooshed out of her and she collapsed onto the sofa, nearly spilling the water she’d fetched before Carl reached over and took it. She’d made it clear she and Carl hadn’t gotten that far, but her mother was getting back at him—and her.
Carl gave Camila a look that made her heart squeeze, then turned back to her mother. “I do,” he said seriously. “I hope that’s not why you wanted to send her to Mexico—to keep her away from me.”
Camila had to hand it to him. He was playing her mother perfectly.
Paula demurred. She couldn’t be rude straight to his face, even if he had riled her. She was far too well-mannered for that. Carl had better watch out, though. “The mask is a family heirloom. You value family, do you not, Mr. Whitfield?”
“Carl,” he told her. “And of course I do. Family is very important.”
“So is heritage. Something Camila must learn.”
Carl frowned. “I understand.” But his tone made it clear he didn’t.
“My husband’s birthday is in four days.” Paula folded her hands in her lap.
“Which is why I have to leave today,” Camila rushed to tell Carl. She didn’t want him to think she was the one pushing all of this. “It might take me a few days to—” she couldn’t tell him she was going to steal it “—get it. I need to be back for the party.”
“That’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” She couldn’t believe he wanted to come.
“I’m sure. Mexico is dangerous, you know. You shouldn’t travel alone.” He met Paula’s gaze and held it. To Camila’s surprise, her mother was the first to look away. But then she looked back again. Glanced at Carl’s expensive watch. Looked him up and down.
Camila could almost see the wheels turning. She hoped Carl wasn’t catching the calculations clearly spinning in her mother’s head—but she had a feeling he was.
“Muy bien.” Paula stood up and clapped her hands together, suddenly all business. “I shall call Ximena. You—book the flights,” she ordered Carl as she passed. “You should leave within the hour.”
“Mamá,” Camila protested. “Carl just got here—”
It was no use. Paula bustled to the kitchen to call her sister-in-law and tell Ximena to expect another guest, leaving Camila with a desire to run and hide.
“I’m so sorry for all of this,” she told Carl as he pulled out his cell phone and started looking for a flight. “You don’t have to come. You know that, don’t you?”
He smiled, and mischief lit his eyes. “And miss a chance to take a vacation to Mexico with my girlfriend?”
His girlfriend? Camila liked the sound of that, and she hoped this wouldn’t all blow up in her face. She wished they truly were taking a vacation—without all the complications her family was adding to the equation.
She’d been stupid, hadn’t she? Setting up rules that had kept them apart. Especially such dramatic ones. She could have believed him when he said he meant to make Chance Creek his home. Why had she forced the issue—demanded he buy a ranch?
A glance around her family home reminded her why. Everything here touched on memories that were special to her. Despite her differences with her family, she had loved growing up here, and leaving her home had been heart-wrenching. When she’d settled in Chance Creek, she’d created a new home and a new family made up of friends who’d grown dear to her. She’d made a promise to herself she’d never leave again. Before she could give her heart to a man, she needed proof he felt the same way.
And here Carl was, willing to give that to her.
He was buying a ranch, for heaven’s sake. Maybe the Hilltop Acres wasn’t perfect, but they’d have a home in Chance Creek no one could take away from them.
“You really don’t have to come,” she repeated. Did he wonder if she’d always be like this—bossing him around, and demanding houses and trips to foreign countries?
She hoped he knew her better than that.
“It’ll be fun,” Carl assured her. He leaned closer as if to steal a kiss, and Camila found herself leaning closer to him, too.
“Ahem.”
Camila jumped as if she’d been smacked—which her mother looked like she wanted to do. Carl looked from her to Paula and back again, and understanding dawned on his face. He sat back.
“Sorry. Your daughter just looked so sweet—”
“You will behave like a gentleman if you plan to escort Camila to her aunt and uncle’s house,” Paula decreed frostily.
“Yes, ma’am,” Carl said. He looked at Camila and winked.
They left well before noon, long before Diego and Mateo were due home from the restaurant, and Camila’s mother promised to make up a cover story so her father didn’t know where they were—or what they were doing.
“The gift of the mask must be a surprise,” she said.
Camila’s expression told Carl she wasn’t sure if that was a good idea.
He figured he’d get the rest of the story when she was ready. Meantime, he meant to enjoy himself. At the airport, when they’d made it through security and found a fast-food place to purchase a quick meal, they sat together waiting for their plane to be called. He sent off a quick text to Sven, telling him about his sudden trip and assuring him he’d still call that night.
“Your mother likes me,” he teased Camila. He’d seen Paula taking in his expensive watch and leather luggage, and she’d let him accompany her daughter, even if his attempt to kiss Camila had offended her. Carl didn’t hold her interest against her—or her strictness. Every parent should worry about their children’s future. He had done his best to assure Paula he was in a strong postion to give Camila a secure life.
Camila waved that off, but a blush stained her cheeks. “Mom hasn’t had things easy—”
“I know,” Carl cut her off. “I really enjoyed meeting her.”
“The way she asked you all those questions…”
“I didn’t mind that,” Carl assured her. “I like people who speak their minds. Makes me feel at home.” His own parents had been hardworking, plainspoken people. He still missed them—a lot. His father had died of an aneurysm at fifty. His mother had passed away from cancer only three years later. Meanwhile, Carl had been building his business. He’d barely had time to process his loss. When he’d finally slowed down and thought about what he wanted in life, he’d realized a home base was the main thing. The kind of home his father had always longed for.
Speaking of which.
“Are you getting excited to go home? You were a teenager the last time you did this, right?” he asked Camila. If memory served, she’d moved to Houston when she was sixteen.
Camila didn’t answer right away, and Carl glanced down to find her biting her lip. “Yeah,” she said finally. “Seems like a long time ago.”
He wondered what was wrong. Did she miss Mexico more than he realized? Maybe she wished she was going back for good.
“So, what’s the deal with this mask?” he asked to distract himself from the unsettling idea.
“It’s an old Olmec heirloom—or that’s the story, anyway. I don’t know if it has any real monetary worth.”
“Sometimes sentimental value is the most important kind there is.” When he touched her arm, he realized how tense she was. He wondered why, but their flight was announced, and he didn’t have time to press her.
They landed around midafternoon, collected their things at the airport in Toluca and boarded a bus.
“It’s like another world,” he said when they’d been riding some time, leaning to look out the window. He’d never been to Mexico, and if he was honest, he’d expected it to be an extension of Texas in terms of its terrain. In a way it was: a dry, desert environment full of cacti and brush. But it was different, too. In Texas there were vast unbroken spaces, but they always ended in a modern town or city with familiar high-rises and fast-food franchises. Here, all they passed through were towns that seemed straight out of the seventeenth century. That made the parts in between seem even vaster and emptier.
Camila seemed lost in thought as they moved through the landscape. Carl knew it must be strange coming home after all these years. He decided to leave her in peace, settled into his seat and pulled out his phone. He plugged in the headphones so she wouldn’t hear what he was doing, then pulled up a language-learning app. Luckily he was a quick learner with an ear for languages, and he’d always been able to pick up a few phrases when doing business with foreigners. He hoped knowing at least a little Spanish would help out when he talked to her relatives.
When they finally pulled into Taxco, nearly three hours later, it looked nothing like Chance Creek. For one thing, this town was built into the side of a cliff, and tight, narrow, cobbled roads twisted up and down the side of the mountain. Built primarily of stone, the houses and shops reminded him of Rome more than anything he’d seen in the Americas. The colors jumped out at Carl. He wouldn’t call Chance Creek a dull-looking town by any stretch, but its color palette was fairly tame: green grass, wood-paneled houses, blue jeans and flannel. The gray stone facades of Taxco’s storefronts were painted a dizzying array of bright yellows, reds, oranges and greens, surrounded by trees that blossomed purple, red and blue. Stalls lined some of the wider streets and alleys, teeming with flowers and tropical fruits he couldn’t begin to identify. The stall’s proprietors, dressed in eclectic outfits that mixed modern styles with traditional ones, called out over the honks of passing cars and the cheerful birdsong ringing out from the eaves of a nearby church. As he and Camila disembarked, a crowd met the other passengers with shouted greetings, and Carl got the feeling everyone knew each other. Taxco and Chance Creek weren’t that different, after all.
“Juana won’t be here for nearly an hour,” Camila said, consulting her phone. “Let’s find something to eat for dinner first.”
Carl picked up their bags and led the way down what appeared to be the main street. They passed through a street market, but none of the booths gave a clear indication of what they were selling, and Carl didn’t see any food he recognized. At one point, Camila approached a stall and looked like she might place an order before she wrinkled her face and turned away. Carl pressed on. When they came to a restaurant that looked modern, and clean enough, he sighed in relief. The sign bore the word barbacoa, which he figured had to be Spanish for barbecue. Barbecue should be roughly the same anywhere, he figured.
“Let’s try this place.”
“Sure,” Camila said uncertainly.
Inside, he couldn’t see a host, and nobody approached them, so after standing there for an awkward minute, he grabbed the arm of a passing waiter. “A table—” He got a baffled look. Whoops. “Uh, un mesa de doble, disculpe.” The waiter blinked at him. Maybe he hadn’t said that quite right.
“Una mesa para dos, por favor.” Camila came to his rescue. He’d never heard her speak Spanish before, and he liked the way the lilting language tripped off her tongue. Something stirred deep within him, and he pictured the two of them in a far more intimate situation. Would Camila speak in Spanish to him then? It might be pretty sexy.
He squashed the wayward thought. There was a time and a place—
And this wasn’t it.
The waiter said something back to them and went on his way. Carl glanced at Camila, who translated. “We can sit anywhere.”
Despite its small size, the restaurant was packed. Before they’d pulled out their chairs, a waiter materialized beside them. “Bebidas?”
There was something Carl could handle. Drinks. That language app was coming in handy. So was his exceptional memory. “Agua, por favor.”
The waiter nodded. “Jamaica? Tamarindo? Limonada?”
Carl looked at Camila, out of his depth again.
“He’s asking what kind of water you want.”
“Uh… normal water?”
She grinned and repeated his request to the man. Just for a moment, Carl felt at ease. He’d always had fun with Camila. Even if he didn’t speak the language, they could have a good time. But when the waiter handed them their menus, Carl sighed. He knew German, and a bit of Japanese, but he’d thought he’d recognize more of the food items after living in California so long. He knew tacos, of course, but what were tacos dorados or tacos de cecina? When he saw tacos de barbacoa, he gave up—he’d never heard of barbecued tacos.
The waiter came back with their drinks. Carl’s water came in a bottle, which he accepted gratefully, aware that for a gringo, bottled water was safer. He decided to play it safe with his food order, too. “Un hamburguesa,” he said when the waiter came back. The waiter cocked his head. Carl tried again. “Una. Una hamburguesa.”
Camila’s giggle made him look up, and he chuckled, too, aware he was butchering the pronunciation.
“Una hamburguesa,” she repeated to the waiter, pronouncing it “am-ber-gay-sa.” Then she ordered something for herself that even he could understand: fajitas de pollo con una ensalada. Chicken fajitas with a side salad. Maybe he should have ordered that, too. When the waiter left, Camila smiled again.
“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” she said.
“I don’t think that waiter knows it, either.” Carl answered her grin with one of his own, and for a moment he felt like they were co-conspirators. Maybe this trip was exactly what they needed. Nothing like travel to bring two people together—
Or rip two people apart if they didn’t belong together.
That was a sobering thought, and Carl decided he’d rise to any occasion this journey threw at them. He reached across the table to take Camila’s hand. “Camila, I want you to know—”
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Carl pulled it out by force of habit. Sven. He took the call with a sigh, letting go of Camila’s hand and lifting a finger to let her know he’d be quick. “What’s up?”
His friend sounded shaky. “I need you here, man.”
Carl tamped down the flush of guilt that washed through him. He knew he should be in California with Sven during the negotiations. “I’m… a little busy right now. I told you I’d call you later.”
“This can’t wait. I haven’t heard from Fulsom. My employees are freaking out. Hell, I’m freaking out. How much do I tell them?”
“Don’t tell them anything. Fulsom’s trying to rattle you, and it’s working. Next thing you know you’ll be calling him. That’s what he wants—you begging him to buy your company. You have to realize this is all a game to him, and you need to keep your head on straight and play it like a game, too. Do nothing. Make no attempt to communicate with Fulsom. Go about your business as usual. Tell your people you’ll pass on the information they need when you have it.”
“But—”
“Sven, here’s the deal. Fulsom won’t send you an offer until right before his deadline. He knows by then you’ll be shaking in your boots. I’ll most likely be there by the time you get it—and if not, call me and I’ll talk you through it from here.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” He hoped he was right.
“What was that all about?” Camila asked when he hung up.
“A friend. Sven Andersson. I mentored him for a number of years. His company took off, and now it’s being bought out for an astronomical sum. Another Silicon Valley millionaire in the making.”
“That’s great.”
“It is great. The only thing is, I’ll need to fly out there for a couple of days when we’re done here. But after the deal’s done, my business in California is over. For good.” He took her hand again and held it. “I mean that, Camila.”
“Really?” She brightened.
“Really.” He’d be firm with Sven on that point. No more being pulled between two worlds.
When their food arrived, Carl decided hamburgers were the perfect thing to order in Mexico, after all. This one was just the way a hamburger should be—tender and succulent. He wasn’t sure about Camila’s dinner, though. There was chicken on her plate, but the fajita part seemed to be missing—until the waiter brought by tortillas and several salsas. Her salad was made of some vegetable he didn’t recognize, something dark green and fleshy, almost like artichoke hearts. Like the chicken, it was cut into long, thin strips.
Carl took another bite of his burger, then cursed and dropped it as a searing heat burned his tongue. He grabbed his water and gulped down half the contents in its plastic bottle.
“Hay un problema, señor?” A waiter rushed to Carl’s side.
“Carl? Are you okay?” Camila asked.
Coughing and sputtering, he lifted the bun of his hamburger to show her. “There’s a hot pepper on my burger! A jalapeño or something!”
Camila translated, and the waiter broke into a grin. “No no no, no, señor, no hay. Este es cuaresmeño, más sabor, muy rico.”
Camila frowned. “He says it’s not jalapeño. It’s a cuaresmeño.”
Carl plucked the offending slices of pepper off his burger, but his mouth still burned too badly to enjoy the rest of the meal. Camila kept biting back smiles, which didn’t help. He hated being the gringo who couldn’t handle spicy food. Great impression he was making.
When five men filed in carrying instruments and began to play not three feet from where they sat, he had had enough.
At least the bill was a pleasant surprise. Carl did the math in his head. Barely four American dollars for a full meal for two. He could certainly afford that, he thought with a private chuckle.
They were late to the place they were to meet Juana, and when they finally did arrive, Camila’s cousin wasn’t there. Carl checked his phone, worried they had missed her. It was almost twenty minutes past the agreed-upon time.
“Maybe this is the wrong place,” Camila said.
Carl shook his head. “I’m pretty sure this is it.”
“Maybe she isn’t coming.” She sounded discouraged.
Carl put an arm around her shoulders and was pleased when she leaned into him. “She’ll come.” He didn’t mind if Camila’s cousin was late if he got to be close to Camila, but if she’d already been and gone—that might be a problem.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is just all a lot to take—”
“You’re coming home again after so many years. I understand. Seeing your family again—”
She pulled back suddenly, and Carl reluctantly let her go.
“Yeah. It’s… weird.” She dried her eyes and turned away, scanning the street for any sign of her cousin.
Carl studied her, wondering why she’d pulled away. It had felt good to hold her in his arms, but something always interrupted them just when they got close, and that frustrated him.
When Juana arrived a full twenty minutes later, he breathed a sigh of relief that they wouldn’t have to try to rent a car and navigate to Camila’s family’s ranch in the coming darkness. Juana hopped out of the car. “Buenos tardes, buenos tardes, mi prima.”
Camila tried to shake her hand and got tangled up when her cousin went in for a stiff, formal kiss on the cheek. When the young woman turned to Carl, he was prepared. He moved in for a similar kiss but stumbled when Juana stepped quickly out of his reach. She was tall and slim, as pretty as a model and as haughty, too.
“Quíen es?” she demanded of Camila.
“This is Carl Whitfield,” Camila told her. “My… friend. Mom told your mother he was coming. Carl, this is my cousin, Juana.”
Juana frowned. “Juana Sofía Valentín Torres.” She emphasized the last three names as if put out Camila had forgotten to mention them.
Carl wasn’t sure what that was all about, and he didn’t have time to ask questions, either. Juana quickly hustled them into her car and began to drive, speaking quickly in Spanish until Camila said something, and Juana switched to a heavily accented English. As they drove over the dry terrain, the sun fading in the west, Carl focused on the women’s conversation, itching to take the wheel himself and let them talk. He wasn’t used to being a passenger.
“How is Aunt Ximena? I’m looking forward to seeing her,” Camila said rather formally. Carl was surprised how stiff the cousins seemed with each other. Juana looked to be a similar age to Camila, and he assumed they’d grown up together, but she sat ramrod straight in her seat and kept her eyes on the road. Maybe all the years Camila lived in the States had created an awkwardness between them.
“She’s fine. She sends her greetings. She’ll see you when she gets home.”
Camila shared a startled glance with Carl. “Gets home? Where is she?” Why hadn’t her mother told her Ximena was away?
“At Cousin Delfina’s, in Day Effay.” Noticing their confusion, she added, “Ciudad de México.”
Camila nodded and looked back at Carl in the back seat. “It’s in Mexico City.”
Juana laughed, a musical sound. “Don’t mess with the gringo, Camila. Day Effay. DF. It’s not in Mexico City; it is Mexico City,” she told Carl.
Was it his imagination, or was Camila blushing? Had she been messing with him? She must have known what Juana meant all along.
He shrugged it off. “Go right ahead and tease the gringo,” he told Camila with a smile.
“I wasn’t trying to—”
Juana cut her off. “DF stands for Distrito Federal, which is the federal district where Mexico City is. But the city takes up the whole district, and it is the only federal district there is, so we just call the city that now.”
Carl caught the gleam in Juana’s eye when she met his eye in the rearview mirror. She enjoyed having the upper hand. He nodded at her explanation but kept his mouth shut the rest of the way, unsure about the undercurrents running between the two women and unwilling to provoke Juana further. She seemed the prickly sort. The conversation died down without his input, and they rode in silence. Just like on the bus, Camila seemed drawn by the landscape, searching it with her gaze as if looking for an answer to a mystery.
Carl tried to squelch the uneasiness rising inside him again. Camila had settled in Montana. She had friends and a business there. She wouldn’t want to give that all up, even if Mexico was obviously calling to her.
At least, he hoped not.
It was dark when they reached the ranch. Carl climbed out of the car and breathed in a familiar earthy smell that had almost put him off owning a ranch at all when he’d first come to Montana. He’d never have believed back then dirt and manure and animal sweat could smell so sweet to him now.
Like the houses in Taxco, Juana’s home was made mostly of stone, with cracked and dusty walls that looked as old as history itself. They passed first through a picket fence that enclosed the fields surrounding the ranch, then an outer stone wall that enclosed a series of wide courtyards. The main building was built into the structure of the outer wall, whereas the outbuildings were scattered about the courtyards—Carl supposed that made them inbuildings.
They met Juana’s brother in the kitchen. Juana introduced him as Luis Pedro Valentín Torres, and Carl dearly hoped he wasn’t expected to remember four names for every relative. Luis crossed the room quickly to give Camila a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Bienvenido,” he said, “buenas tardes.” While they embraced, Carl glanced at a shelf across the room, above a large table, where a deep green, solid stone face stared down at them. Was that the mask they’d come here to get?
It had narrowed eyes and downturned lips, and Carl got the impression it disapproved of him, but that was just the way it was carved. Everyone probably felt the same thing when they looked at it.
Still, he was relieved when Luis came to greet him. Carl returned the greeting warmly but got a long, appraising look in return. “Él está con Señor Valenzuela?” the man asked Camila suddenly.
“He’s with me, Luis,” Camila said. She looked at Juana. “Who is Valenzuela?”
It was Luis who answered. “Señor Valenzuela is a man of business in Acapulco. He owns all this—” he spread his arms wide to encompass the whole property “—and so he owns all of us, but he does not care for us, for our hacienda. He is rich, powerful. What is one small ranch to him?” He looked Carl up and down, taking in his pressed shirt and his expensive watch. “I think that you would be friends.”
Camila had been overwhelmed on the bus as she watched the desert plains of Estado de México give way to the forested valleys of Morelos and finally the grand rolling hills of Guerrero as the sun slipped below the horizon. Now her aunt and uncle’s house was stirring something inside her she couldn’t name. It was like a primitive memory, even though she’d never been here before. She wanted to look at everything, but she didn’t want to be impolite.
When they’d gotten off the bus in Taxco, and there’d been no one there to greet them, it seemed achingly obvious she didn’t belong. She knew no one, and no one knew her. She’d wanted to stop at the street vendors but had been afraid she’d make some ridiculous mistake. When she’d heard a vendor shouting words she’d recognized—whatever he was pedaling was roasted in lime, dressed with salt and honey—she’d gone closer and found boxes full of what looked like roasted nuts. The sign read “Chapulines”—not a Spanish word but Nahuatl, unless she was mistaken. They smelled amazing. She was about to call out to Carl when she realized a million caramelized eyes were staring back at her.
Crickets. Whole roasted crickets.
After that she’d let Carl call the shots.
She still felt off-balance as she greeted the members of her extended family, familiar from dozens of photographs, emails, phone calls and her parents’ stories. She cast a glance at Carl. As he shook hands with her uncle Gerardo, who’d stayed behind while her aunt was visiting family, the enormity of the task she’d undertaken overwhelmed her. How was she supposed to wrest something from her own family they didn’t want to give up? It hadn’t been fair of her mother to give her this job. Definitely hadn’t been fair of her to send her when Ximena wasn’t even at home.
But there was no going back now.
Shaking off her dark thoughts, Camila moved to greet her uncle, too, but Juana stepped in her way. “Why don’t you tell us why you are really here?”
“Juana,” Uncle Gerardo said, but Camila figured she might as well tell them. She switched to Spanish. Carl didn’t need to hear the family’s dirty laundry.
“Mamá sent me,” she told them. “She wants the mask to give to Papá for his birthday. He’s missing his home and she wants to cheer him up.” She glanced up to where the green jade object sat on its shelf. It stared disdainfully back.
Juana snorted and answered in Spanish, as well. “If you’re here for the mask, this is all a waste of time. Might as well run on home.”
“Juanita.” Luis gave her a brotherly shove. “Stay as long as you like,” he told Camila. “We’re happy to have you.” When he spoke to Carl, he switched to English, his tone perfectly polite but flat. “You also may stay. We are pleased to welcome you.”
At least Camila had one friend here. She gave Luis a sincere smile. “Thank you.”
“But Juana’s right,” he said, switching back to Spanish. “We can’t give you the mask to take to Houston. It belongs to Mexico. It will stay in Mexico.” His pronouncement was as final as Juana’s.
“He’s right,” Gerardo added. “Ximena insists on it.”
“Not just Mamá.” Juana nodded. She narrowed her eyes at Camila. “The mask knows its place. I don’t suppose you’ve studied its history? Our history?”
Camila had, but she had a feeling her knowledge wouldn’t stand up to Juana’s grilling.
“I thought not. Countless owners of the mask have fought and died for Mexico. Cuauhtemoc himself—”
Camila couldn’t help but laugh. “Cuauhtemoc himself?” she parroted. That part of the story had to be a myth—he was an ancient Aztec warrior.
Juana frowned. “Cuauhtemoc himself once carried the mask with him into battle. And now you want to take it from the country our ancestors gave their lives for?” She looked Camila up and down. “Gringa. Your family left. You clearly aren’t interested in our country. Why steal something that doesn’t matter one cucumber to you?”
“That’s not fair. I didn’t choose where I was born—” Was Juana seriously berating her for decisions her parents had made? But as much as Juana’s accusations hurt, Camila couldn’t pretend she’d expected anything less. Of course Juana looked down on her. How could she ever live up to the standards of the perfect Mexican daughter?
“Did she say Cuauhtemoc? The Aztec emperor?” Carl asked, and Camila blessed him for the interruption but was anxious about what he’d say next. What could he possibly contribute to this conversation that wouldn’t make things worse?
To Camila’s surprise, Luis laughed. “We were speaking of our history,” he said in English. “Some give the accounts more credit than others. Hard to know what to believe.”
“Carl isn’t interested in our history,” Camila said. “And it’s been a long day.” She’d had enough of this.
“Of course it has. Juana, show our guests their rooms,” Gerardo said.
Juana huffed but obeyed her father and led the way.
Carl took Camila’s hand and followed her.
Camila curled her fingers around his gratefully. She’d been right to let Carl come along, an ally among these adversaries. She’d managed to avoid a blowout with her cousins tonight, but she had a feeling things were going to get ugly before this trip was done.