As they’d done this past Sunday over barbacoa breakfast tacos after mass and the previous Wednesday for dinner after her and Patricio’s visit to Nuestros Ninõs—the site of her infamous interview—Cat joined via someone’s cell phone or tablet. The miracles of modern technology. You could take the girl out of San Antonio’s West Side, but you couldn’t take the West Side, or her familia traditions, out of the girl.
And tonight this West Side chica needed her home fix.
“What’s with your huele mal face?” Mamá asked, dishing up a steaming beef enchilada, cheese and red sauce dripping off the ends.
Her expression might say something smelled bad, but Cat knew what didn’t: the home-cooked meal everyone was digging into at Casa Capuleta. She couldn’t actually see them because of the screen’s angle, but if she closed her eyes, she could picture the darker flecks of chili powder, taste the tangy tomato-based sauce on her tongue. Her stomach rebelling, she picked at her dinner, her nose wrinkling even more.
“¿Qué pasa, mija?” Mamá pressed.
Blanca, Mariana, and Violeta stared at the camera with differing levels of interest. Blanca’s, as usual, leaned more toward troubled; she’d wind up with an ulcer at some point, the worrywart. Mariana’s intuitive gaze scanned Cat’s image searching for signs or symptoms of illness, like she did with her ER patients. No doubt Violeta would tell Cat she needed a better concealer for the dark circles under her eyes. To which Cat would respond, “Bite me, I’m not wearing any.” Thus earning an oye language glare from Mamá.
Just like old times.
“It’s nothing and something. I’m not sure which,” Cat said on a beleaguered sigh. “The songwriting collaboration with him’s been a bust, and this meal . . .” She forked a piece of the bland enchilada and held it up to her tablet camera.
“Ew!”
“Bleh!”
“Gross!” Blanca, Mariana, and Violeta complained in unison.
“Hey, I wanna see!” Teresita’s voice chimed in from the other end of the table.
A hand hovered over the camera before covering it completely. The screen went black, then the tinny sound of utensils clattering onto ceramic plates mixed with a rustling and a thump that indicated the tablet being passed down.
“Hi, Cat!” Teresita’s sweet, braces-filled smile greeted her. “It’s so good to see you! ¡Me haces falta!”
“I miss you, too, chiquita. How was your guitar practice this week?”
“Stellar!”
“That’s what I like to hear. Just ’cuz I’m not there, don’t let yourself slack with practice, okay?” Cat waited for her youngest sister, one of the most talented guitarists on the Texas mariachi circuit even at thirteen, to nod. Once Teresita had given her a thumbs-up, the tablet made the circuit of those seated at her end of the table, from Teresita to Fabiola, Claudia, then Nina—the teens ultimately trying to fit all their heads within the rectangle so they could take a screenshot with Cat before passing the tablet along. Sabrina slid into view, waving and sharing an “I miss you,” her soft smile a contrast to her twin’s sly grin.
Finally, their father’s craggy face appeared, framed by the sala behind him with their well-worn sofa on one side and the TV and keyboard on the other. Late-evening sunlight streamed through the window blinds behind him, creating a halo around his salt-and-pepper hair. He wore one of his typical plaid flannel shirts with silver snaps, and she knew that if she were there to rest her head on his shoulder for comfort, the soft material would smell of his piney aftershave. The same brand he’d worn for as long as she could remember.
“Hola, mija, how’s our rising superstar?” Papo winked, the laugh lines around his eyes deepening.
Love for her biggest cheerleader swelled in Cat’s chest and she blew him a kiss.
“Tell me, why are you having trouble with the songwriting?” Papo asked.
“Ay, Patricio is a hard man to pin down,” she complained.
“According to the chismosa who wrote that story last week, you’re doing a good job getting your Cat claws in him,” Violeta called out.
Papo frowned at her from his end of the table, and Cat heard an “ow, I was just kidding,” which probably meant one of her other sisters had given Violeta either the back-of-the-head slap or under-the-table kick the brat deserved.
“Don’t even mention the yellow journalism that rag published!” Cat warned. “I hope no one’s been poking around the Center trying to dig up info and bothering you or any of the students.”
Papo shook his head. “Don’t worry about that, mija. Between Tonio and me, we’ve got it covered. You keep working hard like you always do. Don’t listen to those chismosas. We know who and what you are. So does Padua and Patricio. He promised me—” Papo broke off. His gaze cut somewhere above the camera, and a beat later he gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Bueno, we know he’ll take care of you.”
“What do you mean ‘he promised’? When did you—?”
“It does not matter.” Papo shook his head, then tapped his fork on the green vine decorating the outer rim of his plate. “What’s important is meeting the terms of your contract with Padua. I’m sure they know how busy Patricio is—perhaps they can help by scheduling time for you two to meet.”
Cat pushed her now-cold meal away and leaned back in the hotel room desk chair. “Maybe. It certainly doesn’t seem like it’s a priority to him. I mean, he skipped town as soon as our concert in Hidalgo finished Saturday night, and I haven’t heard from him since.”
“He’s in Guadalajara,” one of the teens piped in off-screen. “Wining and dining and, from the looks of the pictures, a lot more. With Miss Mexico. Bueno, she was Miss Mexico a couple years ago.”
Wining and dining and more. Yeah, Cat had seen pics and read the corresponding captions that popped up in her social media feeds. Good for him. The jerk.
Not that Cat was jealous of the slender, statuesque former cover model who “worked tirelessly for her charity,” or so People en Español had noted in the caption accompanying their photograph of El Príncipe and his Beauty Queen. At least the “royal couple’s” hot date had pulled interest away from Cat, a win-win for them all.
The only thing the woman had that Cat wanted was Patricio’s time. Miss Mexico could have all the “and more” he offered. Cat wasn’t interested in any of it.
Mentirosa.
The taunt whispered in her ear, her subconscious calling her out for the liar she was.
After their near kiss a week ago, she had made a point of changing her behavior onstage, worried she might melt into a puddle of lust if he touched her. Dios forbid he put his arm around her and gently tug her to his side like he normally did when they sang “Somos Novios.” Or softly trace her jaw with his knuckle when he crooned the lyric in “No Me Olvides” about how he missed seeing her beautiful face in the morning. The first time he had caressed her jaw during their Houston concert, she nearly missed her next line.
She had wondered if deliberately keeping her distance from him and ignoring her instincts while performing might have been an overreaction. But Patricio running away to play footsie with some model? That was too much. Por favor, there was work to be done!