Chapter 41
"Lovely Day," Bill Withers
Victoria
“Wake up, baby, we’re here,” he said. I blinked at the late afternoon sky—too early to be back in Saratoga.
I instantly recognized the New York skyline in the windshield, scanning left to One World Trade Center then trailing north a few blocks, my mind still programmed like a homing beacon to rest on the familiar skyscraper that once consumed all my waking moments. But if lower Manhattan was on my left …
“We’re in Queens?” I asked, rubbing my brow as I examined the street where we were parked.
When Eric told me he grew up in Queens, I imagined the rundown neighborhoods near the airport. But out the passenger window, I saw semi-detached row homes on narrow lots with fenced-in yards and bars on the windows. Small and dated, but well-maintained for their age.
“Quick pit stop for homemade chilaquiles,” Eric pointed to the right door of a brick duplex. “Mine are a cheap replica of my mama’s.”
“You brought me to meet your mother?” I screeched, looking down at the comfortable clothes he’d encouraged me to wear. I pulled my hair out of its messy topknot and tried to smooth it into a bun.
“I warned you I was a mama’s boy.” He flashed that boyish grin, taking my hand before I could pull my hair out and try again.
“I look like a schlub,” I whined. “I didn’t bring wine or flowers, she’s going to think—”
“She doesn’t care about that. I told her you had a shitty weekend. The cure is her chilaquiles with homemade queso fresco. They all know you—”
“They?”
“She may have told my sisters that I’m stopping by,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. I pulled my hand from his, dropping my forehead into the cradle of my hands. “We’ll be quick, no more than an hour. We can still make it to Saratoga tonight, ok? I’ll set a timer on my watch.”
Goddammit. He’d come to the Hamptons and endured criticism without complaint. And our route upstate went straight through Queens … on the drive down, he’d done a Sign of the Cross for the Mets when I drove past Citi Field.
His puppy dog eyes were pleading with the request to visit his mother. His favorite person. “At least try the chilaquiles before you dump me, ok?”
I nodded in resignation. Not like anything this weekend had gone according to my plans, and as much as I hated being unprepared, at least Spencer wasn’t going to corner me in this kitchen.
Eric was out the driver’s side door before I had a chance to change my mind, his hand outstretched to help me balance on sleepy legs. With a hand on my back, he guided me through an iron fence to the right side of a duplex, the concrete steps softened by rose bushes below the windows.
My heart dropped into my stomach as the door opened to reveal a Latina woman who ushered us into the small foyer.
She looked like Eric, with the same brown eyes, a compact body, and dark hair flecked with gray. Her welcoming grin sent a pang through my chest, but I shook it off and plastered on a tight smile.
Eric pulled her into a gentle hug, greeting her in Spanish. The way she brought her palm to his cheek to stroke his dimple told me that she preferred him clean-shaven too. Though I had to admit, I missed the beard …
He rolled his eyes, placing his hand on my back. “Mama, this is Victoria.”
Her arms rose as she said in accented English, “I heard you had a hard weekend and might need a hug, mija.”
Her expression was hopeful but understanding if I declined. I stepped cautiously closer and her arms wrapped around my shoulders with the gentle care I’d grown to expect from him. My throat tightened at the comforting smell of cumin and vanilla. “Nice to meet you, Mrs.—”
“Please, call me Gloria,” she said as they guided me into the house, where an old soul song echoed from the kitchen about a lovely day.
The living room was tiny, with an overstuffed mustard sofa, fabric worn in patches.
The small TV sat on a scuffed walnut stand.
The room had mid-century modern vibes—with an emphasis on mid-century.
But even with the dated furniture, the room radiated warmth. A handmade afghan was thrown over the sofa, slippers were tucked under the worn coffee table, textbooks cluttered the side table.
“You have a lovely home,” I said. They exchanged a skeptical look, but I meant it. Sure, the throw pillows could use a facelift, but it was tidy and warm, a welcome change from Beverly’s pristine estate, so cold you could do surgery on her kitchen island.
A framed photo beside the TV caught my eye: A younger Gloria sat on this same couch with a bright-eyed girl leaping off her lap. A man rested his arm casually along the backrest. Between them sat a young, dimpled Eric, carefully holding a swaddled baby.m
“He was so protective of his baby sister, even then,” Gloria murmured, pointing out Adriana, baby Luisa, and her late husband Jim. Her fingertip traced his face in a gentle motion that reminded me so much of my mother that it made my chest ache.
“Beautiful family,” I forced out.
She knelt in front of the TV stand to pull out a photo album. “You need to see his baby photos, all cheeks.”
My breath caught, considering how different this weekend would have gone if my mom was still around. Would she have embarrassed me by subjecting Eric to my baby albums? Did Dad even know where they were anymore?
Eric ran a hand over his flushed cheeks. “Mama, she doesn’t want to see—”
“I’ve waited 27 years to show these off—”
“I don’t turn 27 until June.”
“You think my dreams for you started the day you were born?” Gloria teased. “Go check the black beans, give us some space.”
He mouthed, ‘Sorry,’ before retreating to the kitchen.
Next thing I knew, I was on the couch with Gloria flipping through page after page of photos, swallowing down the resentment rising at her pride in every soft memory she shared of his toothless smiles, first steps, and chubby thighs.
I couldn't hold back a laugh at a photo of a preschool Eric in tightie whities, surrounded by kitchen pans, smacking one with a spatula and grinning widely with that familiar charismatic smile. “So he’s always been like this?”
“He’s been a walking iPod shuffle since he was a baby, wiggling that cute little butt to every song he hears. RIght, Cruz?”
She called him Cruz too?
“Mama, basta,” he called from the kitchen.
“What, I’m not allowed to talk about your cute butt? It’s not like you’re shy about showing it off,” she teased. “She’s your girlfriend, I’m sure she’s seen it.”
And now my cheeks were flushing, but mostly in disbelief at how playful they were, and how well she knew him … wishing my mom were still around to tease me like that. What would our relationship be like now?
Richard forced Spencer on me to unite the company. Dad approved of Alexander’s intelligence and tenacity. But Mom never had a chance to see me with either of them. What would you think of Eric, Mom?
Kids had never been in my plans, not after Spencer’s family tried to use my uterus like an incubator.
But as we flipped through pages of photos, watching Eric grow up from a charming kid into a goofy brother, Gloria fawning over his karate belt ceremonies and backyard birthday parties, my stomach churned with a painful longing—not for my mom, but for the feeling in Gloria’s voice.
The joy at her children’s antics, her pride in their accomplishments.
As those pages turned, I felt a longing.
She pointed to teenage Eric, behind his first drum kit, dripping with sweat and beaming with joy.
“Always music with him,” his mom laughed. “Be glad there are no Victoria songs or he’d never shut up, you poor girl.”
“He already doesn’t stop singing,” I said, which made his mom’s easy smile widen. “Once we got stuck in an elevator and I dared him to be quiet, just so I could get a minute of peace.”
“Let me guess, he fidgeted the whole time,” she said with a knowing grin.
I smiled. “Yeah, he rubbed my feet.”
Her eyes softened. “Just like Jim. He used to pull my feet into his lap to massage them after a long shift.”
I jolted at the loud thwap of the front screen door slamming.
Eric returned from the kitchen with a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder, a huge grin and outstretched arms. A small body raced through the room and crashed into his chest, arms flung around his shoulders so all I could see was her wild black hair.
He swung around as her laughter chimed through the living room.
When her toes touched down, her palms came to his cheeks. “Thank God you shaved, I was ready to take the train up to Saratoga with a straight razor.”
“No need for a security threat, Adriana,” he grinned, flashing that damn dimple. “My girlfriend shaved it.”
“Shut the fuck up, you have a girlfriend?” she exclaimed as I put aside the photo album and stood to greet her. Her perfectly lined dark eyes widened as her impeccably-lined lips dropped comically open. “Oh my god, you’re even hotter in person. Kate sent that picture, but—”
“Kate?” I asked as Eric’s cheeks flushed.
“Kate & Adriana were debating who had a better business coach.” His arm circled my waist. “Victoria’s smart as hell, too. Went to Yale and Stanford, runs her own law firm.”
“Can’t be that smart if she’s with you,” she said with a shit-eating twist of her lips.
“Tell me about it,” he muttered.
“Hey,” I said, mimicking their playful dynamic while kissing his cheek. “Don’t talk about my boyfriend that way.”
“Oh my god, gross,” his sister said. His huge palm rested over her skull and shoved slightly.
“Mama, did you see her eyes? They’re mesmerizing,” Adriana said. “Please let me do your makeup, my Instagram followers will eat this up. Please, Victoria?”
She bounced on her toes and I bristled at the hope in her eyes. If she wiped off my foundation, would she mock my freckles?
“Maybe next time, we’re only here for an hour and still need to eat,” Eric deflected. “Wasn’t sure you could get off work. When’s curtain?”