Page 40 of One Year Ago in Spain
“An amateur.”
“But it’s where Matías got his talent,” Aracely said, casting a quick but proud look at her papá.
Claire’s heart throbbed, suddenly missing her parents. Even though she’d always dreamed of getting out of her small Florida town, she’d also admired her mom and dad’s steadiness. For all of elementary school, Claire had dressed up on Halloween as a postal worker, collecting candy in a shoulder bag like her dad carried mail in. She enjoyed the reliability of her mom’s macaroni-and-beef casserole and a Hallmark movie every Friday. She loved knowing exactly where home was—with them.
Could she have something like that again? If Matías woke up and recovered, could she say yes to his proposal and find family again with the de Leóns?
“Aracely,” she said. “You mentioned that Matías’s vitals improved again this afternoon?”
“Yes, for about half an hour.” Aracely smiled softly. “I think that’s a good sign, don’t you?”
“I do,” Claire said, blinking back tears. Just like the minute from last night corresponded with her minute with Matías’s soul in the hotel driveway, the half hour today correlated with the time she’d spent with him at the park. Claire’s being with him seemed to make Matías stronger. She would have to figure out how to meet with him again.
But now was not the moment to think about that, because Soledad ushered everyone into the kitchen, where yellow stools surrounded a tile counter, and a well-worn wooden table was crammed into the corner. Garlic filled a small red bowl to the brim; a larger blue one was piled with tomatoes so ripe they scented the entire room.
“Please sit,” Soledad said, gesturing at the stools.
“How hungry are you?” Aracely asked. “Spanish dinner is usually very light—a salad, some ham and cheese and bread, and fruit—because lunch is our biggest meal. But I don’t know if you got to eat much for lunch, because of your nap.”
Claire bit her lip, because of course she hadn’t actually napped. But even though she hadn’t had an appetite since she left New York, suddenly being in a cozy kitchen with kind faces and the smell of tomatoes and garlic filling the kitchen made her stomach growl.
“Okay,” Aracely said, taking that as an answer. “Mamá, Abuelita, we need to feed this woman.”
Soledad nodded solemnly.
While Luis tossed a salad and Aracely cut fruit, Soledad and Abuela Gloria got some leftovers from the refrigerator and warmed a bowl of broth for Claire, followed by a huge plate ofstewed meat, vegetables, potatoes, and chickpeas. Armando sliced crusty bread.
“This is cocido madrileño,” Soledad said. “Spanish comfort food.” She took food seriously, and Claire understood now where Matías inherited his reverence for it.
Claire took a bite of the meat, rich and hot and bursting with the flavors of bay leaves, cumin, tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, and vinegar. “Oh my god.”
Soledad gave her a small smile—the kind shared among people who were suffering but still managing to find brief moments of peace. “A good meal cannot solve everything, but it can make things a little easier, if it is made with love.”
Soledad
Hours later, Soledadlay next to Armando in bed, both staring at the ceiling.
“I can still remember how it felt to hold Matías as a baby,” Soledad said, bringing her hands up to her shoulder as if cradling him. “He was so tiny, but so warm.”
“He always put out more heat than I thought possible,” Armando said.
“Our tiny furnace,” Soledad said, sighing. She closed her eyes briefly and brought her head down, as if she could nuzzle against the memory of her infant son. He smelled sweet, like milk and fresh laundry and that indelible, pure something of newborns.
Thirty-six years later, he was still her baby. It didn’t matter that Matías had been taller than Armando for two decades, or that Matías was well known in the international art world. Or that he was a visiting professor at a prestigious art school on the other side of the ocean. Soledad would always be his mother, and that meant he was her little Mati, no matter how grown he’d become.
If only she could fall asleep, nestling against the peaceful thoughts of the past.
But sleep only came in nips and snatches since Matías’s accident, and Soledad reluctantly opened her eyes. She rolled over to face Armando.
“You have been quiet. What are you thinking,cariño?”
Armando shook his head. “Claire. The poor woman has no family. Matías said her parents died many years ago. She has no one.”
“She has us,” Soledad said.
“She hardly knows us. And Claire lives in New York. What happens to her if Matías dies?”
“Don’t talk about that,” Soledad snapped.
