Gabriel leans toward her and in an exaggerated whisper asks, “Was that good?”
“Perfect,” Beatriz says, and she skirts us on her way to the small table, where Abuela is already measuring out flour. “Go on,” she shoos. “Leave.”
I follow Gabriel outside. “She’s making a cake for me, isn’t she?”
“You didn’t hear it from me,” he says.
“That’s sweet.” I sit down on a stump near the front door as Gabriel untangles something from a pile of tools. He hands it to me—a wire basket on a stick—and then picks up a five-gallon plastic bucket.
“Vamos,” he says.
“You mean we’re really picking fruit? I thought that was just a ruse to get me out of the house.”
“It was. But also, this is a farm.” I follow him into the fields that stretch behind the house, where he points to yams and corn, lettuce and carrots. There is a patch of pineapple not ripe enough to harvest, and then we come to a small group of trees. “Papaya,” Gabriel says. He takes the pole and squints up at the leaves, jostling the tool for a minute before he lowers it again and with a little flip of the wrist, drops the heavy fruit into my hand.
“I didn’t know papaya grew on trees,” I marvel.
We work in companionable quiet while he strips the tree of its ripe fruit, and then I kneel beside him to dig up a few yams. By the time we get back to the house, I’m filthy. Gabriel leads me to a water pump, jacking its handle so that I have a stream to wash my hands and my face. When I return the favor, he strips off his shirt and ducks his head and torso under the water, shaking off like a hound and making me shriek.
The noise draws Beatriz, who stands in the doorway. “Perfect timing,” she says. Then she claps, and Abuela appears behind her holding a small one-tier chocolate cake on a plate. “Cumplea?os feliz,” they sing, “te deseamos a ti …” Beatriz runs ahead and whispers something to Gabriel, who takes out a lighter and flicks the flame to life with his thumb.
“No candle,” he explains.
Abuela sets the cake down on a picnic table outside the house, which has been decorated with strewn flowers. “Make a wish,” Beatriz orders.
Dutifully, I close my eyes.
I wish …
That I was back in New York with Finn.
That my mother will get better.
That this will be over soon.
These things are what I should be wishing for. But instead, all that runs through my mind is that it is hard to make wishes, when in the moment, it feels like you have everything you need.
I open my eyes again and lean toward the lighter in Gabriel’s hand. Gently, I blow.
He winks at me, and snaps the lid so the flame disappears. “That means it will come true,” he says.
After we finish the cake, Gabriel builds a fire in a ring of lava stones in the yard. He turns on a small transistor radio and we all sit on folding lawn chairs. To my shock, there are presents for me: Beatriz gives me a small box she has decorated with shells; Abuela gives me a necklace with a medal of the Virgin Mary on it and insists on securing it around my neck. Even Gabriel tells me he has a gift—but it’s an experience, not a thing, and he’ll take me in a few days. Afterward, Beatriz brings me a blank journal and demands I do a portrait of her, like the ones I did at the feria. When the last of the light leaves the sky it’s decided that Beatriz will share her bed with Abuela, and that Gabriel and I will camp out under the stars.
When we are alone, I look at the medal nestled between my breasts. “Did I just get baptized or something?” I ask.
Gabriel grins. “It’s called a miraculous medal. It’s supposed to bring blessings to people who wear it with faith.”
I glance at him. “So basically if I’m not Catholic, lightning could strike at any moment?”
“If it does, it will likely hit me first, so you’re safe,” he says. He pokes at the embers with a stick, stirring them, and then picks up the journal with the sketch I made of Beatriz. “You’re very talented,” he tells me, carefully closing the book and setting it on the picnic table.
I shrug. “Party trick,” I say.
He disappears into the house for a moment. When he reappears with two rolled sleeping bags, the radio is playing a Nightjars song. “The first vinyl album I ever bought was Sam Pride’s.”
I look up at him. “Was it the one with Kitomi Ito naked on the cover?”
Gabriel blinks. “Well,” he says, “actually, yeah.”
“I know her,” I tell him.
“Everyone knows her.” He lays one of the sleeping bags at my feet, and shakes out the other on the opposite side of the fire.
“But I know know her,” I tell him. “I was in the process of selling her painting. The one from that album cover, actually.”