I grabbed Marcus. “Help her out,” I yelled to Julian.
“Oh, right,” he said, shaking off his surprise. He followed my lead speaking English. Judging by the screeches emanating from underneath the umbrella, our neighbor was American.
I deposited Marcus in the sand with a stern warning that his butt better not move.
“Get it off, get it off me!” Legs kicked maniacally. A hand shot out.
I pointed at Hector and Antonio. “Grab the post.” I moved behind the woman and gripped the top of the umbrella. “Now lift.” I closed the canopy as we did so, making sure the aluminum spokes didn’t snag in her hair or clothing. We side-shuffled and dropped the damaged umbrella in the sand.
Our neighbor lay sprawled in a beach chair that teetered on its side. The feet had sunk into the sand. She removed the wide-brimmed hat smashed low on her head and pushed back damp silver hair plastered over her eyes and forehead. Breathing heavily, face flushed, she pointed a bony finger with a sharp maroon-tinted nail at Julian. “You . . . ,” she started, leaning forward. Her chair wobbled and both hands flew out to grip the arms.
Julian shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. He ran a hand over his sweat-drenched, sandy head, shifted some more, and again ran his hand through his hair. The thick, short mass stuck straight up. “Lo siento, se?ora.” His gaze jumped to me before casting to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he repeated in English.
“And well you should be.” She pushed from her chair and stood over him. “I was going to holler ‘fantastic kick,’ but you need work on your aim.”
“Sí, se?ora. I mean, yes, lady.” Julian swiped his hand across his chest, leaving a trail of sand. He brushed it off, scratching his skin.
I grabbed his wrist and gave him a stern look to stop fidgeting.
Our neighbor smoothed her paisley-printed tunic. Colors swirled across the sheer material. Gold sequins edged the sleeves and dress hem, sparkling in the sunlight. “I seem to be short an umbrella,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the mangled shade structure. She squinted at the sun. It blazed down on us, the air dry and stifling today. Sweat dripped down my chest and back. Perspiration glistened along our neighbor’s hairline. Julian and his friends continued to shift, the sand burning the soles of their feet.
“Well, then.” Our neighbor brushed her palms together, wiping off sand. “I guess I better head inside before I burn.”
“We’ll buy you another umbrella,” I offered, my eyes narrowing on Julian. He’d be spending the next few Saturday mornings assisting my gallery receptionist, Pia. Floors needed to be swept and displays dusted.
Julian mumbled another apology.
Our neighbor’s mouth knitted. “That won’t be necessary. But, perhaps”—she looked over the sandy crew, tapping her chin—“your son and his friends will help me carry my chair and bag inside.”
I wholeheartedly agreed. It was the least they could do. “Boys?” I prompted when no one moved.
“I have lemonade and I picked up some . . . what do you call them?” She snapped her fingers. “?Bizcochitos, sí? I think that’s what the cookies are called. You’re welcome to some.”
“Sí, se?ora,” the boys chimed in unison. They gathered her belongings—chair, bag, and towel—and ran into her yard.
I scooped up Marcus, who had just rubbed sand in his hair. “I’m Carlos, by the way. Your neighbor.” I tilted my head in the direction of my house and extended my hand in greeting. She didn’t take it because she didn’t see it. She stared fixedly at Marcus. Her eyes sheened. I wondered if she had grandchildren; then I realized the sun blazed behind me. I shifted to the side so that neither of us looked directly into it.
She blinked a few times, briefly shifting her gaze toward me before landing on Marcus again. “I’m Cl—” She cleared her throat. “I’m Carla. Is this your son?”
“Sí. This is Marcus.” I juggled him under my arm, and he giggled.
“?Mas! ?Mas!” He clapped, begging me to bounce him again.
Carla clasped her fingers, holding her joined hands at her chest. “How old is he?”
“Almost seventeen months.” I glanced at Marcus, who waved at Carla with both hands. “I think he likes you.”
The corner of her mouth lifted slightly. “I like him, too.”
Marcus squirmed in my arms. “Por, papá!”
A breathy laugh broadened Carla’s smile. “Papá.” She watched Marcus squirm in my arms. Her eyes welled further and she looked down at the sand. “Ah, I better go.” She wiped her hands against her hips. “Your son and his friends are waiting for their treats.”
“It was nice meeting you.” I offered my hand again. This time she took it.
“You, too, Carlos.” She said. She sounded lonely.
“Se?ora Carla,” I called when she reached the gate to her yard. “Join us for dinner tomorrow night? It’s taco night. I barbecue lingcod.”
Her fingers fluttered to her tunic’s neckline. “I—I have plans to eat out.”
“Should they change, just come on over. Six o’clock.”
She lifted her hand in a half wave and proceeded into her yard.
“Come on, Marcus. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Five Years Ago
June 18
The sun hovered low on the horizon, kicking up a dry breeze. It offered little relief as Julian and I passed the fútbol in the backyard. With each return kick, Julian inched closer to the barbecue.
“Watch out. It’s hot.” I kicked the ball to the far side of the yard, away from the grill. It rolled to a stop by the gated entrance to the beach. I went to check on the grill.
Julian dribbled the ball to the center of the yard, cranked back his foot, and kicked, connecting hard with the leather. The ball soared into the air, over the adobe divide, and into Se?ora Carla’s yard. Julian groaned dramatically.
I waved a grill brush in the air. “Go get it before Se?ora Carla returns,” I said, assuming she went out to dinner as planned.
Julian darted through the wrought iron gate and ran to the neighbor’s. I scraped clean the grate and closed the lid so the grill could warm a bit more. “Ready for tacos, little man?” I asked Marcus. He pushed a toy truck across the grass.
“?Un taco!”
“Say, ‘I want a taco.’”
“Taco!” he repeated, grinning.
“Close enough.” I smiled back.
Julian returned, ball tucked under his arm. He held open the gate for Carla. “The lady was sitting in her yard all by herself.” He blurted the words and slammed the gate. Carla jolted. She shot him a look and Julian grinned. “I told her she could eat with us.” He dropped the ball to the ground and juggled it across the yard, where he left it in the dirt.
Carla remained at the gate, even reached for it before her hand fluttered up and smoothed her hair. She’d clipped the slate tail at her nape, an elegant accent to her white-linen trousers and pale-pink blouse. She looked uncomfortable and ready to leave. She reopened the gate.