Chapter One #2
La Mariposa is one of those hole-in-the-wall places where you never stop talking about it once you find it.
You tell everyone about that fabulous Cuban café and bakery that had pastries so good, you wonder how you’ve lived your entire life without eating them.
Not to toot our own horn, but I know we are great.
My father created these recipes. Some, I think, even came from his mother.
I remember helping at the restaurant when I was ten, even though it was totally illegal, and my father pulled out what he called “El Libro Sagrado,” the sacred book, in the morning, and I knew we were about to eat something out of this world.
In there, along with other useless doodles and notes, were handwritten recipes older than I was, and you could barely make out what they said, thanks to his undeniable chicken scratch.
My father could, though. Not that it mattered since he never let me see it up close.
He said it held too many secrets I wasn’t old enough to understand.
That one day, I would, but after his passing three years ago, my mother took it and boxed it up along with the rest of his things.
I haven’t seen it since. Even if I wanted to take the book, I wouldn’t be able to get it open since he had a lock on it, because of course he did.
My father was notorious for three things: his killer food, his obsession with Sherlock Holmes—since it was the first movie he saw dubbed when he arrived in the States—and his using said obsession to practically torture me with puzzles my entire life.
Before his death, he emailed me PDF versions of several of his recipes while I was at college so I’d feel closer to home.
And now, I run the restaurant that houses all of these recipes for the public to enjoy.
The format of the restaurant is simple: you walk to the counter, place your order, and we bring it to wherever you choose to sit. If it’s takeout, even better.
I hear the rumbling sounds of a truck just outside the store. It’s Sunday, so that must be Carlos with the delivery. Late, of course. He knows exactly how to irritate me. I rush to the door to prop it open since he insists on using the front door instead of the back.
“It’s faster this way,” he’ll argue.
I used to argue back, but my mother waved me off and said it was okay. So, I guess, now I just let him through the front door, much to my annoyance.
“Hey, Carlos, you’re late again, I see,” I say between clenched teeth.
“I just like to keep you on your toes, Isa,” he says, winking.
“Do you need help? I can grab those extra boxes in the—shit.”
“Hey, it may be old, but I wouldn’t call my truck shit.”
“Sorry, no. Not you,” I whisper.
Carlos looks over to where my eyes have fixated to see a tall man in a light grey suit walking towards the restaurant. Not just any man, but Gabriel, the owner of the building that houses the restaurant—and my father’s longtime friend.
“Who’s that acere?”
“Our landlord.” I swallow, but my throat is dry. “Is it okay if Faye helps you instead?”
I run inside in a panic and grab my bag. I never let anyone help with the food order, but if I have to, Faye is the only person I trust to do it right. It pains me to ask, but I must keep the landlord outside the restaurant.
“Faye! Can you help Carlos with the inventory today? I have to go…deal with something.”
“Really?” Faye pipes up excitedly. “Hell yes!”
We both rush toward the door, but I cut ahead.
“Here’s Faye—bye,” I say as I scurry toward the landlord, stopping him from heading any closer.
“Hola, Isa. How are you doing today?”
“I’m great, Gabriel. Thanks for asking. So”—I rock on my toes back and forth, feeling antsy—“what brings you to La Mariposa? Here for lunch?”
“As much as I love Roberto’s media noches, I’m actually here on business.”
“Oh, is that so?” I try to act as blissfully unaware as possible, but I know exactly why he’s here. I’ve been anxiously waiting for this day for months. I brace myself for the dreaded words. The ones I know are coming.
“Your last check bounced, mija. So that’s three months now that you haven’t paid rent.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Here, let me write you another check—I promise it won’t bounce this time!” I quickly reach into my bag and pull out my wallet, slowly unzipping it, trying to hold back tears.
“Isa—” He pauses for a moment. “Maybe if you stopped spending money on designer bags and wallets, you’d have money for the rent.”
I stiffen, my fingers tightening around my Marc Jacobs wallet. “It’s not like that. I… I had money saved—my father’s life insurance. It kept us going for a while, but…” My voice trails off as the weight of it all hits me. The money is running out, just like everything else.
I hand over the check. “This should be fine.”
“Mija, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be harsh.
You know how much your father meant to me.
He was my best friend. You’re like a daughter to me.
It hurts me to see you struggling to keep the restaurant afloat.
I’ve been putting off coming by to tell you this, but it’s been three months.
I have mortgages and utility bills I have to pay myself. ”
“I know, I get it. I’m sorry. If you can just give me a couple more months, I promise—”
“I have someone interested in opening up a burger shop here. They have six months’ rent to give me up front,” he says softly.
Gabriel really was my father’s best friend.
He basically helped raise me—like a wacky uncle who always had pockets full of candy to share with me.
Whenever he came over, he’d help around the restaurant and just crack jokes with my father for hours.
Now he’s just an old landlord to me, his grey strands shining through his dark beard and hair.
He’s just someone who collects our money and leaves.
“I see,” I say dryly.
“I can give you one more month to catch up. That’s the best I can do, mija. I hate to be this guy, but I’m losing money here too.”
“No, I get it. I do. I’m sorry I put you in this weird spot. I’ll have the money in a month. Don’t worry.”
How I’m going to make up three months of rent in one month is beyond me. I can already picture myself putting the “For Rent” sign on the door and losing everything my father built. But I can’t give up my father’s restaurant so easily. It’s all I have left of him.
“Well, I have to get back and open up so we can make some money for you.” I turn to walk back to the restaurant, feeling completely defeated.
“Wait, Isa,” Gabriel exclaims.
I turn around, watching him pull a white envelope from his suit’s inner pocket.
“This is going to sound crazy, but I have something for you. From your father.”
“Wait, what?”
I walk back toward him, and he hands me the envelope. It’s sealed, and the outside is blank except for my name written dead center: Isabella.
“What is this?” I ask.
“I have no idea. I never opened it. Before your father passed—you know, when he started to get really sick—he gave this to me. Told me to give it to you when I felt you needed it the most.”
I nod, feeling the weight of it. Everyone rallied around the restaurant at first, helping out, keeping it alive. But as time passed, people moved on, and then it was just me trying to hold everything together with the little bit of life insurance money we received.
“I figured it was maybe money or a hidden will with a trust fund or something. I’m hoping it is. Something to help get you and your mother back on your feet. I know it’s been tough since his death, mija. You’ve always struggled, but not like this. I hate to see it.”
I barely make out the words he says as I’m completely fixated on my name written in pen on the envelope. My father wrote it. I rub the pen marks to feel the indent of each letter.
“Thanks, Gabriel. I’m going to go now,” I say in a daze.
My heart pounds loudly in my chest. It’s been a while since I found another puzzle from my father. The last one was over six months ago—a simple necklace hanging off it. Now I wear it around my neck, hoping to figure out what exactly it’s supposed to open. Maybe the answer is in this envelope.
I tear it open and take out the letter.