“I’m sorry all of this came up,” Estelle said.
“Oh, there’s nothing to be sorry about, querida.” Sofía deftly held open the storm door with her hip and hugged Estelle at the same time. “We all have our jobs to do.” She peered out toward the street. “I half expected the good Señor Noctámbulo to be with you.”
Estelle laughed at Sofía’s reference to Bill Gastner, Mr. Night Owl. “No, he went home. I think we wore him out. Either that, or he got hungry and went to find something to eat.”
“Ah, we have plenty here,” Sofía said.
“It smells wonderful.” Estelle closed the door and slipped off her coat, draping it over the back of the nearest chair. “But Padrino is more like the old tejón. He comes out for a while, but then he needs to find a dark corner somewhere, away from everybody.”
“Such an interesting fellow,” Sofía mused. “I am very fond of this old badger, as you call him. That’s most appropriate. But…,” and she waved her hands in a flourish to change the subject. “What can I fix you?”
“A cup of tea would be nice.”
Sofía looked askance at her nephew’s wife. “Tea? Just tea, after such a night? Don’t be ridiculous. Let me fix you a little something.”
“No, really,” Estelle said, holding up a hand. “I need to let my stomach settle a little. It’s too late to eat now.”
“Ah,” Sofía said. “An ugly night, no?”
“Just depressing,” Estelle said. She lowered herself into one of the straight chairs at the dining table with a sigh. “Sometimes I think that people lie awake nights thinking of stupid things to do.”
“Ah,” Sofía said again. “Well, we both know that to be true.” She half-filled a saucepan with water and set it on the stove, and Estelle watched as the older woman methodically double-checked that she was turning on the correct burner. “Do I know Mr. Martinez?”
Estelle rested her head on her hand with half-closed eyes. It felt good not to move. “I think you met him the night we had the big retirement banquet for Padrino a couple of years ago. Short, quite heavy, a very gentle man in every way.”
“His wife is Essie?”
“Yes. I wish I had your memory, Sofía.”
The older woman chuckled. “I remember only things that don’t really matter, querida. But I remember her. We had a nice talk that night, I remember. She was so glad that Arturo…is it Arturo?”
“Eduardo.”
“Ah. She was pleased that Eduardo had retired the year before.” She leaned her hip against the counter and watched the water. “I remember that she was a little bit worried about Padrino…that maybe he’d have a hard time with retirement.” A wistful expression touched her face. “That maybe he wouldn’t find enough to do.”
“Not likely,” Estelle said. “I think Padrino is every bit as busy now as he ever was.”
“I think so, too. But the good doctor doesn’t think it will go so well for Mr. Martinez now.” The “good doctor” was her standard reference to her nephew, Estelle’s husband.
“No.”
“Lo siento,” Sofía said. Estelle watched her husband’s aunt contemplate the steaming water. The lines in Sofía’s face were etched a little deeper, her square shoulders a little more rounded than Estelle remembered. She knew that Sofía Tournál had enjoyed a long and distinguished career in the complex legal and political world of Veracruz by being intelligent, tough, and cool under pressure. Sofía had buried two husbands and, childless herself, had focused her attention over the years on the myriad nieces and nephews in her extended family, in particular her favorite, Dr. Francis Guzman.
The quiet worry that Estelle saw now wasn’t because a man whom Sofía had met only once had suffered a heart attack…or even because she might be worried that retired sheriff William Gastner might not be finding enough to keep him busy.
“These things are always so sad,” Sofía said finally. She glanced at Estelle. “But we had a nice evening. You know…,” and she stopped in midsentence, busy with selecting just the right mug from a cabinet beside the refrigerator. With economy of motion, she filled the tea strainer with bulk green tea, then poured the boiling water. She turned off the burner and carried the cup to the table.
“There,” she said. “And nothing else?”
“No, thanks, tía. This is fine.” It was nice to be waited upon.
Sofía settled in the chair beside Estelle, folding her arms comfortably on the table. Estelle stirred the tea gently, waiting. The older woman’s lips had been pursed in concentration, but now her face relaxed. She took a deep breath, her patrician eyebrows rising with the inhalation.
“I should just go to bed,” she said. “Such a day.”
Estelle smiled and adjusted the mug carefully on the table, lining it up with the pattern of the placemat. “But that’s not what you want to do,” she said.
Sofía reached out and patted the back of Estelle’s left hand. “You’re most perceptive,” she said, and then leaned closer, her voice no more than a whisper. “Listen, querida, I tell myself that this is none of my business, but…”
She stopped, and Estelle took Sofía’s hand in both of her own for a quick squeeze, touched at the woman’s uncharacteristic reticence. Her aunt looked somehow older, more fragile. The skin of her hand felt paper thin, and Estelle felt a jolt at the realization that this amazing woman was actually aging. A quiet force who had simply always been, now for the first time that Estelle could remember Sofía Tournál appeared hesitant and unsure.
“We must talk about Francisco,” Sofía said abruptly.
Estelle’s heart jolted and she couldn’t keep the surprise out of her expression. She instinctively knew that Sofía was not referring to Dr. Francis-any concern she might have about her nephew and his clinic she handled mano a mano with “the good doctor.” That left little Francisco, and clearly, this was not a “boys must have a dog,” “baseball through the window,” or “chocolate smeared on the carpet” moment. Such things, Sofía would shrug off with an expressive roll of her green eyes. Few of life’s vicissitudes appeared to dent the gracious attorney’s serenity.
Giving herself time to think, Estelle turned the tea strainer around the cup, then lifted it out, holding it for a moment to catch the drips. She placed it carefully on the napkin. Sofía said nothing else, but waited as if it might be important that Estelle hold on to the table with both hands.
“It’s important for me to know what you think,” Estelle said.
Sofía’s face softened and it seemed as if some of the tension left her.
“That’s good,” she said, “because I have to speak my mind even if you should hate me for it.”
Estelle smiled at her aunt’s formality. “I think you know me better than that,” she said. “You’re talking about hijo’s music?”
“Ah,” Sofía said, nodding. “Yes. That’s what we need to discuss, you and I. Your mother sat up with me until the good doctor came home. She and I talked this over.” She flashed a smile. “And listen to me now. This is what I mean. Two old ladies discussing what the boy’s mother and father should do. It’s none of our business, no?”
“You have an interest,” Estelle replied. “And you’re concerned. So am I.”
Sofía heaved an enormous sigh. “Tell me,” she started to say, then hesitated. “Tell me what you think about this little boy of yours.”
“He worries me,” Estelle replied. She pushed the mug of tea to one side. “It keeps me awake at night. Here he is, six years old, so drawn to the piano, so sucked into his own private world,” and Estelle collapsed an imaginary ball with both hands until her fists were clenched one over the other, “that I know exactly where he’s going to be when I come home.”