Page 76 of Nacho Boyfriend

We begin to stroll past the house when Abuela cries out through the window, “Tómense de la mano, jóvenes.”

Olive laughs. “What did she say?”

“She wants us to hold hands.”

She flashes one of her kittenish grins. “Okey dokey.”

I reach for her, and she takes my hand, falling into step with me. Her palm fits in mine as if a sculptor had formed them out of the same slab of clay. I have at least six or seven inches on her and yet her strides match mine perfectly.

We wander the grounds, taking a little path lined with stones which leads to a grotto. As we get further from the house, the trail becomes more uneven, the surrounding terrain more wild. I forgot how peaceful it is out here. The stress of eight restaurants finally catching up to me has been burning me out. I have managers in place for seven of them. I think it’s time to appoint one for the flagship location where I spend most of my time.

But I can’t do anything until I know there are no more threats or danger.

“Penny for your thoughts.” Olive glances up to me, her face so effervescent in the glow of the setting sun.

“Oh, I was just thinking of the restaurant.”

“Really? All this beauty and your mind is at work? Yeesh. Your dad was right.”

“Wha—? When did you talk to my dad?”

“At the concert in the park. You were super salty about your ice melting all over the cheese and stormed off, cursing. Your mom laughed and said something about the apple not falling far from the tree.”

“I’m not at all like my dad.”

“If you say so. But your dad got all huffy and said he’s not a workaholic like Nacho, and your mom laughed even harder, saying how your dad never took a day off for twenty years.”

“Oh crap. I’m turning into my dad.”

We go over the ridge, down the trail to where the grotto is. It’s a sturdy stone structure with talavera tile bordering the archway under which a four-foot statue is sheltered. The colors of Guadalupe’s robes have chipped and faded over time, but I can tell by the fresh flowers and pristine state of the grotto it’s been well cared for.

“Abuelo built this for Abuela when he bought the farm,” I say, pointing to an engraved plaque on the pedestal.

Olive reads it out loud slowly, chopping her way through the Spanish pronunciation.

“Pa-ra mi her-mosa esposa… que sabe que nece… sito que ore mucho por mí. What does it mean?”

“Um, it basically says this is for his beautiful wife, who knows she needs to pray extra hard for the likes of him.”

She laughs. “That’s really sweet. You know, when you told me your grandparents live separately most of the time, I thought it was because they didn’t get along. But seeing them together, I can tell it’s the opposite. They really love each other.”

“Yeah, they do. Their rooms are on opposite sides of the house, but they do.”

“Hmmm. Rooms on the opposite side of the house? Kind of like yours and mine.”

“Well, our rooms are at least in the same zip code,” I say. “Abuelo likes to be close to the animals in case he hears something at night. So he built a room on the other side of the garage. Far away from the rest of the rooms. Abuela doesn’t like it. She says it’s too drafty in the winter and too hot in the summer, so she stays in her own room. And even though Abuelo employs full-time ranch hands, he still likes to be close to the action.”

“He’s a spitfire,” says Olive. “The way he swooped in and saved me from the turkeys… he’s got a lot of energy for his age.”

“Two cups of coffee in the morning, two shots of tequila in the evening. That’s Abuelo.”

Olive smiles and inspects the statue appreciatively, ticking her head to the side.

“Ha. Look at that. Her toenails are painted pink.”

I lean in to inspect. Sure enough. All ten of Mary’s toenails have been covered in pink, sparkly nail polish.

“So they are. Who could have done that? Maybe Francesca or Bernadette when they were little. But that would have been too long ago for the paint to stay.”

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