Isabel, without missing a beat and wearing the coolest Beatles T-shirt ever, grabbed my arm to pick me up and said, “Mary sits next to me.” That was it. Best friends. Even now, looking across this table twenty years later, I had to admit . . . It was pretty much the best day of my childhood.
Dad smiled with an odd mix of compassion and shame. He rubbed at a stain on the linoleum tabletop. “I’ll never forget how she helped you find all those pretty dresses. I had you working as an electrician’s assistant every summer, and your mama was too weak by then to do stuff, but Isabel made things fun. She made them pretty. Your brothers and I . . . We didn’t know how to do that. She even made the reservations and planned that party for your sixteenth birthday. Remember how she called all your brothers and told them to get their butts back home!”
My laugh morphed to a snort. That was a good memory. At twenty-three, twenty-five, and twenty-seven, all three of them complained the entire weekend, especially about being called to task by a “five-foot-two pip-squeak.” But they showed up, each of them bearing a gift wrapped in newspaper—no bows. They had their limits.
Dad shook his head and continued. “We laugh that she’s silly, but those things weren’t silly. They were important, and I—we would’ve missed them. If she needs you now, that’s what family does. We’re there for each other.”
“Isabel is family now?”
His eyes narrowed.
I raised my hand before he could reply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
And I didn’t. Isabel was family and had been since the first day she came home with me after school. She was there for every occasion. And when my mom died two years ago, Isabel showed up at my apartment every night for almost three months, often waiting hours while I worked late. She always brought something—ice cream, a movie, chocolate, a magazine—to make me feel better, laugh, and forget for a while. She was the author of those easy-to-freeze meals. Dad was right—Isabel knew how to make things fun and pretty, even when they hurt.
“So you’ll go?”
Before I could answer, Dad quirked a sideways smile. Deep lines trailed through his temples. He knew he’d won—again.
“Goodness’ sake, girl, you should see your face. She wants to take you to some fancy English estate for a costume party, not torture you.”
I lifted a single brow.
“Stop that. You’ll have a great time. You love wearing skirts. Like the ones you used to wear, the pretty ones that swirled and bounced.”
“Dad, those went out of style long ago.”
“Your mom used to say pretty never goes out of style. Forget the skirts, Mary . . . This is a real opportunity for you. We could never afford to do stuff like this.”
There it was—the vast, barren landscape that spread between Dad and me. Mom had been sick, and he’d worked to feed and clothe and send four of us to college. There had been room for little else.
“It didn’t matter, Dad.” I reached for his hand now. “I’ll go.”
His sideways smile evened out to a full grin. “Text her now.”
“No cell phones at the dinner table.”
“Don’t be sassy. Go on, text her.” He picked up his menu again. “I’ll look this over while you do.”
I pulled out my phone.
I’m in if the offer stands. Thanks for invite. Send me details and let’s get together this weekend.
“Happy now?” I dropped my phone back into my bag. “Or do you have more surprises? Because it’s been a big day and I’m not sure I can handle any more tonight.”
“You need more sleep.” He laid down his menu.
I laughed. A smile and sleep were Dad’s answers to everything—and he was probably right. “What are you ordering?”
He dropped his eyes. “Chiles rellenos.”
Chapter 4
I pushed my way through Crow Bar’s Friday throng to find Isabel seated, drink in hand, with an empty stool beside her. She’d texted back during Dad’s trés lechés cake that her weekend was packed and tonight was her only chance to meet. She’d wanted HandleBar; I was committed to Crow Bar. She only had fifteen minutes to spare; I couldn’t change my plans. She would try to make it work; I would hurry.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Dad had a new gizmo to shove into my car, then he wanted to see the bats fly out from the bridge tonight. They’ll migrate soon.”
“They’re still doing that?” Isabel pushed off the stool and dodged her head from side to side for her signature double air kiss. On any other Texan the move would seem pretentious, but with Isabel it was just what she did.
“I think it’s hard to get a couple million Mexican free-tailed bats to do anything different. It’s kinda their thing.”
She pushed at the empty stool beside her and glanced down the bar. “I wasn’t going to be able to hold this much longer. Do you know how many guys asked to sit here?”
“Five? Seven?”
“Ha-ha.” She lifted my low ponytail and inspected it. “Did you do something with your hair? It’s different. I love the colors.”
I leaned back to draw it from her fingers. “Nothing new. It’s the usual summer highlights that haven’t faded yet. But you—”
“What do you think?” She pulled a chunk of black curls forward. “It’s a little dark, isn’t it? My colorist says it’s very in, matte black, no variation whatsoever, but I’m not sure.” She widened her eyes.
“It’s dramatic, but good. I like it.”
She twirled the section of hair. “You know me, I don’t really care what it looks like as long as it’s not dreadful, but he was so set on it.”
I dropped onto the stool. “What are you drinking?”
She tapped the base of her martini glass. The liquid inside was clear with bright green flecks and a dark berry resting on the bottom. It looked like fall, but not quite Christmas.
“The guys at the end of the bar, the blond and the stocky one in the suit, ordered this for me. They wanted your stool. I suspect they thought this would get it for them.” She slid it away from me. “I’d share, but the green flecks are cilantro. You hate the stuff.” She stretched up and waved at the bartender.
“I don’t hate cilantro.” I leaned around her. “It just tastes like soap.”
She blocked my view. “Don’t look at them, it’ll only encourage them. Here . . .” She twirled a finger at the bartender, now standing in front of us. “Hang on, someone’s calling. Order while I get this.”
Isabel pulled her phone out of her bag. I ordered a glass of Prosecco.
“TCG.” Her voice arced, high and flirtatious. “How’s your Friday? . . . I can’t tonight. I’m out with SK.”
SK. I hadn’t heard that nickname in a long time. So long, I’d almost forgotten it. Part of me was surprised Isabel still used it, another part surprised it still hurt.
“I’ll call you when I get home later? . . . Maybe . . .” She turned her wrist, checking her silver-and-diamond watch. “Sure . . . I’m actually near there . . . See you later.” She tapped off the phone and laid it on the polished wood between us.
“You call him TCG to his face?”