Following Arturo’s instructions, Patricio strode down the paved path leading to the courtyard and the back entrance. Catalina and the rest of Mariachi Las Nubes should be in the middle of their Sunday rehearsal in one of the center’s music rooms. That gave him time to reassure her parents of his intent to keep their daughter safe, and then he could slip out the back again. Unnoticed.
Moments later, he stood in front of apartment 2A, his boot toes brushing the woven MI CASA ES SU CASA mat. Hat in hand, he waited for an answer to his knock.
An unfamiliar antsiness tingled along the back of his neck, then marched like a swarm of army ants across his shoulders, moving en masse into his chest. The deadbolt clicked, and his gut clenched. Suddenly he felt like a teen here to meet his crush’s parents, hoping to gain their approval before whisking their daughter away.
An average, everyday life moment that he had never experienced thanks to his unaverage upbringing. Having lost his mom during childbirth, he’d grown up on the road with his father or been left at home with nannies, tutors, and later vocal coaches, then Alberto. By the time he hit dating age, his career had been set in motion by his father and Padua. The only person he’d really wanted to spend time with had—
The Capuletas’ front door swung open, halting what-ifs Patricio didn’t bother with anymore.
“Bienvenido a nuestra casa.” Berta Capuleta welcomed him to their home with a friendly smile, the soft lines arrowing out from the corners of her brown eyes deepening.
Arturo Capuleta stood behind his wife, sans the warm smile. Dressed in a short-sleeved, brown plaid western button-down, dark Wranglers, and boots, he appeared as rugged as his craggy features. Questions loomed in his dark eyes, but the thin line of his lips remained unmoving.
Pressing his black cowboy hat to his chest, Patricio tipped his head with respect. “Muchísimas gracias for meeting with me on such short notice.”
“Ay, ni lo menciones,” Berta assured him. “Really, don’t mention it at all. We’re honored to have you visit.”
Arturo humphed under his breath, and his wife frowned at him over her shoulder. Known in the local mariachi comunidad as generous and easygoing, Arturo Capuleta exuded a definite protective-father vibe.
“Por favor, come in.” Berta stepped back, elbowing her husband out of the way for Patricio to enter.
He eased by the couple with a mumbled “Gracias,” his misgivings giving way to curiosity.
The front door opened to a large dining area, where a long, scarred wooden table held court. Six high-backed chairs lined each side with another chair at each end. Enough room for the eleven Capuletas and three more to break bread together on a regular basis. Framed pictures of their familia decorated the walls. An early one of the five older girls in full charro, one with the eight that comprised Las Nubes today. A trio of photographs featured them in pajamas gathered around a Christmas tree, in beach attire with the open water and a SOUTH PADRE ISLAND sign behind them, and out back in the courtyard with strings of lights sparkling overhead. Joy was a common theme.
The entire dining room oozed hearth and home in a way that made him long to linger. For someone who’d grown up eating meals alone, or with whomever had been paid to watch over him, rarely with the father who’d been consumed with his career, the thought of Capuleta familia dinners with everyone crowded around the well-used table seemed more storybook than real life.
A fictional world that a secret part of him yearned to step inside.
“Ven, we’ll be more comfortable in the sala,” Berta said.
Hooking an arm with her husband, she motioned for Patricio to follow her through the wide opening that connected the dining area to the kitchen, then into a supersize living room at the other end of the double apartment.
Moments later he sat beside her on a faded olive sofa with worn cushions and multicolored throw pillows. A watchful Arturo perched on the edge of a battered recliner. Patricio’s nosy gaze trailed around the room—from the crocheted doily underneath the Virgen de la Guadalupe statue and half-melted candles in a place of honor in the far corner, to the keyboard with electrical tape wrapped around part of its cord, to the floral area rug with a faint red stain. He’d bet there was a story behind the stain, and he found himself wondering about it.
This was what a home should be like. Full of shared memories. Filled with a sense of belonging.
Catalina would be leaving all this behind to pursue her dreams.
He was aiding her in that endeavor. But he couldn’t deny that a part of him would give up his Grammys, or at least one of them, for a chance to experience what she was walking away from in pursuit of the limelight.
“To what do we owe the honor of your visit, Patricio?” Berta asked.
“And why the secrecy?” Arturo threw in. “Especially from Catalina. ¿Hay algún problema?”
“No! There’s no problem,” Patricio rushed to assure them.
None with their daughter. Not exactly anyway. The problem was his. And he alone could fix it, despite Padua pushing a full-album collaboration on him, a move that necessitated Patricio’s game of duplicity.
Resting his hat on his bent knee, Patricio cleared his throat, swallowing his misgivings. “To be honest, I’m not sure Catalina would appreciate my reason for being here. Given her intense aversion to machismo or anything that smacks of it.”
“Bueno, that’s a sentiment shared by all our girls. We have raised them to know their value, and that this is not only a man’s world.” Berta’s soft voice rang with pride.
Still seated stiffly on the edge of his recliner, Arturo gave a curt nod.
“I completely agree,” Patricio said. “Unfortunately, we all know there are many who don’t think the same way. Our industry can be rough for women performers, as well as for rookies new on the scene. Since it’s my name on the marquee of every stadium or arena we play, I hold myself responsible for every member of my show. That now includes Catalina. And while I don’t normally make home visits like this for others, I felt compelled to relieve any concerns you may have.”
Berta reached over to clasp her husband’s forearm. “You see, viejo, I told you this was a good move for our Cat. She is in good hands.”
The older man’s stiff shoulders relaxed. His skepticism slowly faded, while at the same time his wife’s words shoveled a heap of pressure on top of Patricio.
She is in good hands.
“I can’t promise you that life on the road will be easy for your daughter. Like most first-timers, she’s in for a rude awakening. Long hours, cramped buses, living out of a suitcase. Pero les prometo esto . . .” Patricio nodded with certainty, confident in himself and in his ability to follow through on his promise to them. “Padua Records—I want what’s best for Catalina. Knowing that everything she does is with the intent to make you and her sisters proud.”
Tears pooled in Berta’s brown eyes. “Gracias, Patricio. My faith in God and my daughter is strong, pero a mamá always worries.”
Arturo’s smile didn’t quite reach friendly proportions, but he stood and extended his hand.
Patricio rose, and though he towered over the older man by a good five or six inches, Arturo cast a long shadow when it came to protecting his familia. As he should. From his place outside the boundaries of that shadow, Patricio stared at the Capuleta patriarch with admiration.