Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

3. Rico

I manage to wrangle the chickens-from-hell back in their cage and load the luggage in the trunk. Shoving into the driver’s seat, I buckle in, looking straight at la profesora, daring her to say a word as she primly sits in the passenger seat.

What in the Murphy’s Law just happened?

Call me optimistic, but it sounded simple enough in my mind. Pick up Socorro’s chickens, drop off chickens, then go on to the airport to pick up a Spanish genealogist.

Judging by the age demographic in all the symposiums and meetings I’ve attended, said colleague would be a sweet, sixty- something Angela Lansbury in practical shoes. Not a young Audrey Hepburn with knives in her eyes. (Julia would be proud of the Old Hollywood references. It’s all her fault that’s where my mind goes.)

But, of course, Socorro did not have her chickens ready to go and honestly could not physically gather them herself. So I had to chase, intimidate, and corral these uncooperative suckers, and load them up into the cage—wasting precious time and working up an unholy sweat. Already it had been a mess, and then when I arrived to drop off, the chickensitter was nowhere to be found. I called Abuela and was told to come back later.

I had a van full of chickens and was already late to the airport, even accounting for the time Ms. Martín most certainly spent waiting on that luggage carousel. I mean, Profesora Martín.

Adding insult to injury to this whole mess of an afternoon, the chickens—now symbolic of the rustic islander—had to get out of their cage and manifest for Her Academic Snootiness. It’s not enough to have to fit in this unscheduled research project and cart around a stranger on what is probably a genealogical wild goose chase, but this intensely uptight vibe is exactly what I’ve been trying to get away from.

I can already tell all she cares about is getting the job done. I’ve had more than my share of that hyper-focused, relentless drive, and I’m done mowing down others—and myself—for the sake of “success” that could be snatched in a second.

When she looked at me as a monarch does a peasant and shoved that suitcase at me, I started calculating exactly how many extra tours I would have to book to make up for telling her to solve her own aristocratic lineage mystery and speed out of here with my chickens.

And yet, duty won out. I wouldn’t want to lose Navarro’s confidence by bailing on his colleague, and I might as well get the extra project income. I just have to endure the ignorant snobbishness and help find what needs to be found, so she can catch a plane right back to the land of the supremely civilized.

I drive out of the parking lot, and the professor gazes out, resting back in her seat. Jet lag might be working in favor of silence. There have been no comments at all about our fellow van passengers clucking from the backseat, so I’m able to calm down a bit.

Even with the van’s air conditioning blasting, the beads of sweat coming off me from this whole ordeal need attending to. I grab the essential hand towel I keep handy for this sweat-your-buns-off weather. When I see all the dirt it picks up from wiping my face, I can’t really blame the professor for assuming I was a driver who stopped working in the fields to arrive late to get her.

As we exit the airport and head down the main avenue, I realize I don’t even know where I’m taking her. Another frustrating nod to the lack of planning.

She might be more sedate at the moment, but she’s aware enough to realize this because she says, “Tell me your phone number. We will need to be in contact anyway, and I will send you my rental’s location.”

I rattle off my number. She sends the address but seems to not have saved my contact yet as she asks, not looking up from her phone, “So it is ‘Rico,’ not Federico?”

I can’t help but try to lighten the mood. “Yep. Rico—Best Historical Guide in Puerto Rico. Very memorable for clients. And how do you prefer to be addressed, profesora ?”

I can sense the eye roll from here. “Magdalena should be fine.”

“Ay , but it’s so long and formal. Could not make it fit on that paper sign. I had to cut it to ‘Lena’”

She rubs at her forehead. “But that is not my name. You can manage two more syllables, no?”

Nevermind. I tilt my face up to the heavens as a silent prayer for patience. “ Magdalena it is.”

But it won’t be in my head.

Lena sighs. As I drive the so-familiar route, I sneak glimpses of her now that she’s riveted to the urban sights on our way to Old San Juan. How can this be someone who just sat on an airplane for so many hours? Not a wrinkle on her elegant outfit, smooth porcelain skin, not a hair out of place—not a hint of a smile. So much contained, icy refinement when she can’t be more than twenty-five.

Wait. Such a long flight. Even condescending academics need to eat.

We’re already near where she’ll be staying in the sixteenth-century quarter of the city. At this hour, in the midst of national historical patrimony structures and tourist traps, eating options will be limited. It’s that awkward time of day when the breakfast and lunch places have closed, but the pubs have yet to open for the evening.

I’d happily limit our interaction and head home, but I wouldn’t be my abuela’s grandson if I left someone with an empty stomach to fend for themselves. Great.

Miracle of miracles, I find a parking spot right on the narrow, blue cobblestoned alley in front of her rental. Like most of these Spanish colonial row houses that have been converted into separate apartments, all one can see of the place is the large wooden double door right on the sidewalk. If it weren’t for the entry keypad, you wouldn’t even know the rental was there.

I brace myself as I shift the car to park and venture to say, “Chickens can still hang for a bit. Are you hungry?”