“Is this what I think it is?” Estelle asked. She held out her arms and encircled Irma in another hug, this one long and hard. “When?” Without releasing her hold, she slipped the invitation out of the envelope, reading it past Irma’s right ear. “October sixteenth,” she whispered. “Irma, that’s wonderful.”
Releasing the hug, Estelle contemplated the engraved wedding invitation. For eight years, Irma had helped what she called the Guzman Corporación avoid going bonkers with their impossible schedules: Francis the busy physician, now in clinic partnership with Dr. Alan Perrone, and Estelle the Undersheriff of Posadas County, on-call 24/7. Irma had become more than a well-paid nana- a dear friend now to Estelle’s aging mother, to the little boys who had never known a household without her, and to the undersheriff herself.
“It will be a grand occasion.” Estelle looked quickly at Irma, since the girl hadn’t yet had a chance to offer her plans.
“Gayle is excited,” Irma said. “She wants to put together the wedding of the century.” She smiled wistfully. “Maybe something a little less grand than that, but Gary would like a nice traditional ceremony, and so would I. It’s a chance to kinda catch up on what we all missed when Gayle and Bobby got married.”
“You do it the way you want to,” Estelle said. “No matter what, your mamá and papá would be very proud. And so are we. Anything I can do to help…”
“Gayle and Bobby will give us away,” Irma said, then smiled. “Of course, Bobby doesn’t know that yet. It’ll be just like him to be the only one there who isn’t in a tux.”
“He’ll behave.” Maybe Sheriff Robert Torrez would consent…maybe.
Irma reached out and touched Estelle on the forearm. “If you’d be matron of honor?”
“I’m honored. Of course.”
“And I’d really like to borrow Carlos as the ring bearer. He’s the handsomest man in my life.”
Estelle laughed. “He’ll take the responsibility very seriously.”
Irma took a deep breath, obviously relieved to have the whole affair out in the open. Gary Herrera, Irma’s fiancé, would be relieved too, Estelle thought. His willingness to share his beloved with the corporación over the past three years had bordered on the saintly.
Out in the living room, Francisco had settled into Bach as the composer of choice for warm-ups. Irma stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Do you think he’d play for the wedding? May I ask him?”
“Of course you may, querida. ” Estelle chuckled. “The real question is what he might play. You know how he is.” Play-on-demand had always been a concept that had escaped Francisco. “You’re as apt to get his famous Car Crash Composition as you are Schumann, Haydn, or Bach.”
“I’ll work on him,” Irma said. “And…” She stopped, frowning at the cornbread. Nothing in the perfect pan of golden aromas warranted a frown-the crust was just so, neither too dark nor too light, only lightly fissured with small canyons to catch the melting butter. “Gary has been accepted into Stanford’s MFA program.”
“¡Caramba! ” Estelle whispered in delight. She took her time pouring the tea water into her mug, unable not to think of all the ramifications of Stanford University…a long, long way from Posadas, New Mexico. “An MFA?”
“What he really wants to do is write screenplays. Teleplays, really.”
“That’s a side of him that I never realized,” Estelle said. Gary Herrera, a popular middle-school math teacher and basketball coach, did not fit her image of a playwright, working in smoke, caffeine, and alcohol-laced solitude. “You two are going to become Californians, then? Por dios, I can’t imagine.”
Irma grimaced. “Well, for a while, anyway.”
“When does he start at Stanford?”
“We’re going out in June, right after school finishes. And you know the superintendent? Dr. Archer? He promised Gary an unlimited leave-of-absence. I’m so pleased about that. He’ll have a job waiting for him if he wants it.”
“Dr. Archer would be foolish not to. Ay, what an adventure for you two. And what about you, querida? What new vistas for you in California?”
“I would like to study Spanish,” Irma said quickly, as if she had expected the question. “Historical Spanish. I talk to your mother, and she knows so much. I could listen to her all day.” Estelle’s expression was so blank that Irma plunged on. “Like Spain, centuries ago? Not street Spanglish…that’s all I know.”
Estelle slowly shook her head. “You’ve been with us for years now, querida, and why didn’t I know that this was an interest of yours?”
“Well, I never talked about it, I mean except with your mom, Estelle. How could you know?”
“Ay. I sometimes feel as if I live on another planet.”
Irma’s eyes teared, and she wrapped her arms around Estelle. “We just need to do this,” Irma whispered. “Gary and I. We’ll be out there for two, maybe three years. Do I get a leave of absence too?”
“You always have a place in our family, Mrs. Herrera.”
“Oh, not yet!”
Estelle squeezed her shoulders. “I was just trying the name on for size. It suits you.”
“What is this conspiracy going on out here?” The voice that interrupted them was thin, fragile, little more than a croak. Teresa Reyes, bent over her aluminum walker, was so tiny that six year-old Carlos could look her straight in the eye when they stood face to face.
“October sixteenth,” Estelle said. “The best holiday of the year.”
“I know all about that,” Teresa said, wrinkling her nose. “That Gary…he doesn’t know how lucky he is.”
“We’ll all make sure he does, mamá. ”
“You have a month and more to make plans,” the old woman said, and it wasn’t clear to whom she had addressed the remark. “Things are going to be different around here.” She regarded her step-daughter sternly, black eyes bottomless. “It’s an opportunity for you, Estellita.”
Estelle held up both hands in surrender. Teresa was right, of course. Irma Sedillos, cheerful, bright, trustworthy-willing to be on-call, just as were both Francis and Estelle-would leave an enormous hole in the corporación with her leaving. Estelle realized that she had coped with the notion of Irma’s eventual, inevitable leaving by not thinking about it. Now she had a deadline. Seven months after the wedding, the Herreras would move west.
For a few minutes she watched her youngest son playing outside the back door while, in the front room, Bach grew more complex. She nudged the door open and Carlos looked up. He wore a good deal of the excavation on his face. “Time to clean up for dinner, hijo. ”
“¡Mira! ” Carlos swept a hand grandly to include the road he’d been engineering up the side of the mine. A sand box would have been too simple. This excavation, where once there had been a struggling flower bed, sank deep enough that it had earned the name “burglar trap” from Dr. Francis. If the driver of the over-loaded Tonka was careful, the ore truck wouldn’t plunge over the precipice-that had happened a time or two.
“How deep are you going?”
He regarded his work judiciously. “I think seven levels.”
“Ay, ¡caramba! Such a grand mine.” Carlos had been captivated during a stop at the Morenci open pit in Arizona during a family trip the previous summer. Now, with a little more work, he’d be able to sit in the bottom of his pit with his head level with the patio.