Chapter 26
Gustave
She takes me to the kitchen at Mi Tierra, and it’s like stepping into a world that hums, sizzles, and sings.
The walls are bright, hand-painted tiles, faded photos, and a Virgin of Guadalupe candle flickering by the spice rack. The counters are crowded with trays of tamales wrapped tight in corn husks, baskets of pan dulce, and tubs of salsa in shades of red and green.
The scents of masa and cumin drift through the room, blending with the warmth of roasted chiles, caramelizing onions, and a trace of sweetness…cinnamon or piloncillo?
Big copper pots bubble on the stove, their lids rattling from the steam. There’s a massive comal covered in tortillas puffing like little golden clouds, and the rhythmic slap of dough echoes between bursts of laughter.
A woman in an apron is rolling enchiladas with impossible speed. Another stirs a cauldron of something that smells like heaven itself.
“What’s that?” I ask Tara, despite the murderous look she’s giving me. Curiosity tugs at me, a desire to know her world as well as she knows mine.
“Pozole,” she retorts.
I follow her out of the kitchen through the back door, onto a patio. It’s a vast, open-air courtyard strung with lights that glow like fireflies. Even here, there are people, and I can hear something sizzling on a grill somewhere.
I spot a man in an apron tending to a smoking parrilla, turning carne asada with the solemn concentration of a priest performing a sacrament. The orange glow from the coals flickers over his weathered face.
Long wooden tables are set beneath a tangle of vines, their surfaces crowded with plates and bottles of Mexican beer sweating in the heat.
Someone has set up a small speaker on a crate, blasting whatever the band is playing inside.
A few of the children are running around between the tables, barefoot on the cracked concrete.
This is one hell of a party! And a whole lot more fun than any I’ve ever attended.
Tara takes me past all of that to the back, where there’s a metal bench. There is a trash can next to it. It appears to be the place where smokers gather.
She sits down on the bench and folds her arms. “Well?”
The light from the string of papel picado above catches in her hair, and I don’t know why, but it undoes me. This is her space, and I’m encroaching, I know it. But I love her. I love her like I’ve loved no one but Aubert.
“I’m sorry.”
“You already said that.”
“I know. And I am. Very sorry.”
“About what?” she challenges.
“Tara, I was wrong. I was blind. Simone—”
Her head snaps up. “Don’t.” Her eyes are wounded. “Don’t you dare stand here and blame someone else. You didn’t believe me. You.”
I step closer, but she holds her ground, fire blazing in her gaze.
“I know,” I whisper. “And I will regret it for the rest of my life. I threw you away. I was a coward. I didn’t protect you.”
“I didn’t need you to protect me. I needed you to trust me.”
“I do. I….” What the hell am I supposed to say? I didn’t trust her. I do now, but I didn’t then, when it mattered.
Her laugh is short, brittle. “I lost my job. My reputation. Everything I worked for.”
“I know, and I’m sorry,” I say again. The words are ash in my throat. “The Louvre wants you back and—”
“I don’t want the Louvre or you,” she shoots back, cutting me off.
My heart shrivels.
I’ve hurt her beyond repair, I fear.
“All you worried about was what people would say if they found out. And the freaking tabloids. You didn’t care about me.”
“I know.” I crouch down and set my hands on her lap.
She glares at me. But she doesn’t push me away, so I take that as a positive.
“I don’t care about that anymore. I don’t care what anyone says or what anyone thinks. The only thing I care about is you.”
She shakes her head and blinks, stubbornly holding back the tears pooling in her eyes.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’ll earn your trust back, mon amour.” I feel the tremor in her breath. “If it takes the rest of my life, I’ll prove to you that I was a fool—that I am still a fool—but one who loves you beyond reason.”
Her lips part, her chest rises, and for a heartbeat, the air between us burns.
The chemistry is still there, bright and undeniable, but her eyes shutter.
“Don’t say that.”
“Say the truth? That I love you? I do, Tara. Very much.”
She shudders. “No. I…can’t.”
The music swells, and laughter bursts from inside the restaurant.
“Give me another chance. Give us—”
“No!” She pushes me away as she stands up. I fall on my ass. She looks at me with tears in her eyes that break my heart.
“Go away, Gustave. Leave me alone. You’ve done too much damage.”
She runs away, inside the restaurant. I sit on the ground like a fool.
Once I get my breathing in order, I stand up, brush off my pants, feeling like the pompous ass she’d accuse me of being. A part of me had thought that I’d show up and she’d forgive me. She’d be mine again.
I didn’t want to believe that this would be a possibility, that she wouldn’t be able to forgive me.
“You hurt her,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn to see her mother. “Oui, I did.”
“You know, you’re the first man she’s ever fallen in love with?”
I nod. I do know that. “She’s the first woman I fell in love with.” That’s the truth, too. I didn’t know love until her. What I felt for Simone, even in those early days, is a pale representation of what I feel for Tara.
Estrella studies me for a long moment, her dark eyes steady. She crosses her arms. Her bracelets and bangles clattering softly.
“She’s stubborn, mi hija*,” she says finally.
“Has been since she was little. When she was five, she found a hurt bird in the street. It was freezing, dying. I told her we couldn’t save it.
But she sat all night with it in her hands, crying, praying, refusing to let go.
When the bird died—there was no saving it—she cried and cried and cried.
That’s Tara. When she loves, she loves until it hurts. ”
I swallow hard, my throat thick.
Estrella’s smile blooms slowly. “She’s not angry because you hurt her pride. She’s angry because she trusted you…and you didn’t trust her back.”
Her words strike with surgical precision.
“I destroyed her trust,” I whisper. “I don’t know if I can fix it.”
She tilts her head. “Do you love her?”
“With everything I am.” My voice breaks. “I wake up thinking of her. I go to sleep hating myself for what I did. I don’t care about my name, my family, or my reputation anymore. I only care about her.”
A small smile flickers on her lips. “Good. Because if you didn’t mean it, I would’ve thrown you out on your fancy French ass.”
Despite everything, I let out a shaky laugh.
Estrella steps closer, resting a hand on my arm. “Tara forgives slower than she loves—but she does forgive. You have to show her. Words won’t be enough. She needs to see that you’ll fight for her.”
“I’ll do anything.” I mean it. “I’ll move mountains for her.”
She studies me a moment longer, then nods once, satisfied. “I can see why she likes you so much. You won’t give up on her, will you?”
I shake my head. Give up and do what? Go where? Without Tara, what the hell do I have? Nothing.
“That’s good, Gustave, because love like yours doesn’t happen all the time. It’s a miracle.”
I blink hard, emotion catching me off guard. “Gracias*,” I manage to say.
She squeezes my arm before heading toward the kitchen. “Go easy on her. And remember, actions speak louder than apologies, Comte.”
“I can do that,” I say, even though I have no idea how.
* My daughter (Spanish)
* Thank you (Spanish)