Chapter Twelve #2
“Hola, Senora Garcia. Thanks for inviting me to dinner. I brought these for you.” He presented her with the flowers.
Mamá hugged Jaime as if he was her son-in-law. “Mijo, thank you for coming.”
Carlos high-fived him, and Papá shook his hand.
Her brother showed Jaime this new video game he had just bought, and Jaime sat next to him on the sofa. Alma milled nervously in the background.
After a few minutes had passed, she decided she’d had enough of the awkward greeting shenanigans. It was time to start this evening. She would begin with the most important part. The beverages.
She was tempted to run to the outside bar and make them by herself, but she had decided to show Jaime how it was done since he wanted to start a liquor line.
“Jaime, I’m going to make margaritas outside. Want me to show you how?” she asked in Spanish.
His face contorted. “I understood margaritas.”
Ay! How did he still not know Spanish? It wasn’t his fault exactly for not being raised bilingual, but he could’ve taken the time to learn. Alma vowed to only speak to her children in Spanish.
“Do you want to learn how to make margaritas?”
Jaime stood from the couch fast, like a Marine called to attention.
“Sure. I’d love to.”
He followed her to the patio. Alma made sure to swing her hips as she walked. She wasn’t trying to tease him—just torture him a bit for good measure.
They stood alone in the backyard, her body just inches from his.
She grabbed a knife from the bar—she needed something to cut the tension.
“So, we’re going to make a spicy jalapeno margarita.
I’m using a high-end tequila blanco with one hundred percent blue Weber agave, but any tequila can work for this drink because it’s really the flavors of the cucumbers and jalapenos that shine.
This is something easy that you can whip up in advance for parties. ”
He tugged on her hair. “So, what you’re saying is you think I buy cheap liquor.”
Alma laughed. “No, I’m not saying that at all. I personally know how flashy you can be. When we go to my bar, we can do a tasting so I can show you the different intricacies of the higher-end tequilas. I wanted to make this one tonight because my mom loves everything with a kick—even her drinks.”
Alma took down a clean large mason jar from the shelf. She had built this outside entertaining space for her parents once Mezcalifornia became a success. “You can chop the jalapenos.”
“Seeds or no seeds?”
“I like it hot. Leave in a few.”
Jaime licked his lips, and Alma’s own lips quivered in response. She wanted those lips on her again. And not just on her mouth, but on her neck, on her chest, on her breasts, on her—
Focus!
The blade of the sharp knife sliced into the jalapenos quickly and efficiently. He chopped them into tiny, symmetrical pieces with finesse. “I’m impressed with your knife skills.”
“I spent my entire life working in restaurants, remember?” he teased.
She pursed her lips and nodded. Mexican restaurants. Then why didn’t he pick up Spanish? Didn’t he want to communicate with the other cooks? The dishwashers? She wasn’t going to bring it up. Yet.
“I do.” The restaurateur and the tequiladora. They could collaborate.
Ay. Stop.
It was getting hot outside, and it wasn’t from the sunshine. She distracted herself by doing some prep work. “I’ll slice the cucumbers.”
She loved pepinos and the way they cooled off the heat from the jalapenos. She very thinly sliced them up and tossed them into the jar. “Okay, so you add those jalapenos in with the cucumbers and tequila. And then you muddle them.” She offered him a spoon.
His hand brushed against hers, and he grabbed the utensil. “Muddle?”
“Yes, muddle. Pretty much mashing them. The crushing helps to infuse the liquor with the other ingredients.”
He stared at her old wooden spoon. “Don’t you have a fancy tool for that?”
“There are many expensive muddlers and I have plenty at the bar, but at home, I just prefer an old-fashioned spoon.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Probably because I first learned how to make drinks using a spoon. I used to make cocktails for all my dad’s friends and my relatives. There’s something nostalgic and simple about it.”
He brushed a lock of hair off her face.
Her breath hitched.
“I love that.”
“What?”
“That you found a way to do something you love that originated as something you did for your family.”
Alma gulped. She had never thought of her journey like that. Jaime almost made it seem predestined that she would end up where she was now. She liked his idea—it almost romanticized her life.
“Thank you.”
He stared at her for a moment, smiling. “You’re welcome.”
She poured tequila into the jar, and Jaime began to muddle. He was doing an okay job, but he kept missing a corner of the glass. She resisted the urge to take over. His brow was furrowed, and he was trying so hard. She didn’t want to micromanage him.
She took the lid and sealed the jar. “Normally I would let this sit for up to eight hours, but let’s just make it now so we can have it with dinner.”
“Sounds good to me. I’m starving. I’ve been craving your mom’s cooking.”
“She is a great cook. Well, the margaritas won’t be as good as they could’ve been.”
Jaime stared into her eyes. “They will be great. What’s the next step?”
“You can strain everything. And I’ll mix the liquor.
” She squeezed some limes, fresh off Papá’s tree, into a bowl and grabbed the bottle of orange liqueur.
After Jaime strained the tequila, she poured it, the orange liqueur, and the lime juice into a cocktail shaker, which she had filled with ice.
She vigorously shook the drink, Jaime staring intently at her hands wrapped around the shaker.
She took out five glasses, ran a lime around the rims, and dipped them into her mixture of sugar, salt, and Tajín. She filled each glass with ice, poured the cocktail, and garnished each with a wedge of lime and a coin of a jalapeno.
Jaime picked up his glass. “Salud.”
“Salud.” They clinked the glasses and took a sip.
Jaime closed his eyes briefly. He inhaled and then exhaled and opened his eyes. “Wow, this is incredible.”
Alma smiled. “Right? And they were so easy to make!” She studied him. Though they had been together for years, she didn’t know too many of his childhood stories. He had never really wanted to talk about his past.
Maybe he would open up to her now.
“Do you have any fun family traditions you remember from when you were a kid?”
Jaime winced. “No. Just my parents yelling at each other.”
She placed her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. I mean, we used to go to the Padres games together. It was fun. They were good at putting on a public face.”
Alma’s heart constricted. That was so sad. Her mind was racing to offer some word of comfort.
“Dinner’s ready!” her mom yelled out.
Thank God.
They carried all the drinks into the dining room. Jaime pulled out her chair, and she blushed. She didn’t remember him being so chivalrous. Maybe he was trying to impress her since she had given him a hard time about being a gentleman.
Her mother went into the kitchen and returned with a platter of enchiladas. Carlos and Papá brought the remaining side dishes.
Mamá served everyone enchiladas, with a huge helping of beans, rice, and salad. A simple meal, cooked to perfection by both Mamá and Papá.
Carlos said grace, and then it was time to eat.
“So, Jaime,” her father started in, “I hear you want to start your own tequila company.”
Jaime made strong eye contact with Papá. “I do. My father had already started Taco King when he was my age, and I really want to create my own path.”
Papá nodded. “That’s admirable. But why tequila?”
“So many non-Hispanic celebrities have tequila lines and ask Mexican influencers like me to promote them. The liquor is part of our heritage, and I figure why can’t I do it myself?”
Alma perked up. “Wow, Jaime. I didn’t know you thought about stuff like that.”
He winked at her. “Stuff like what?”
“You know. Cultural appropriation.”
He grinned. “With all due respect, Alma, we haven’t talked in years. I’ve changed.”
Alma pursed her lips. Had he changed? Not just when it came to relationships, but in life?
Of course he had. They were older. He’d just been a college kid then.
People can change.
Carlos relaxed into his chair. “Jaime, remember when you stole that donkey for your fraternity?”
Alma’s jaw dropped. “What? I don’t remember this.”
Jaime burst out laughing. “Do I ever. I was dared to do it. I stole it from the mission.”
“Ay, Dios mío, Jaime. From the mission? Which one? San Francisco Solano?” Alma quickly did the sign of the cross.
“No, the one in Sonoma.”
She rolled her eyes. “That is the one in Sonoma. Didn’t you take fourth-grade history?”
“Yeah, down in San Diego. I don’t remember much. Anyway, I went in the middle of the night with Carlos in my truck and we stole the donkey.”
Mamá swatted Carlos with her napkin. “You stole from the mission?”
“Relax, Mamá. We brought him back the next day. No one knew he was even gone.”
Jaime downed the rest of his margarita. “I thought about it the other day because Enrique conned me into doing this Las Posadas event with his now-girlfriend, Carolina, and they had a donkey strolling with them.”
Between bites of sumptuous food and sips of the spicy margaritas, the conversation flowed effortlessly, almost easier than it had in the past when they had actually been together.
Alma’s knees brushed against Jaime’s leg more times than she would like to admit, and she wasn’t even sure herself if it was accidental on either of their parts.
She couldn’t ignore their magnetic chemistry.
Memories from their past, holiday celebrations, and family chisme were shared with love. The awkwardness that Alma had expected at this dinner hadn’t happened, and it couldn’t have been a more lovely evening.
But that was the problem. It had been too normal.
Almost like they were back together, which they certainly weren’t.
Even though he had changed, it could never work between them.
Besides the long distance, which could possibly be resolved, they had a fundamental flaw.
He didn’t want to settle down. And she couldn’t have a casual relationship with him.
Papá brought out Alma’s favorite dessert, tres leches cake.
Alma was so grateful that her mom would take the time to make it for her, because Alma never baked herself.
Moist with three different types of milk, it literally melted in her mouth.
Jaime devoured his slice also and went back for seconds. How did he keep his eight-pack abs?
“I gotta go. Tequila needs me.”
Jaime looked perplexed. “Why didn’t you just bring her?”
Mamá stroked the fabric on her armrest. “I don’t want all that on my beautiful velvet sofa.”
“Wasn’t she here yesterday?”
“Yes! And I had to clean all day.”
Alma rolled her eyes. “What about you? Are you heading out?”
Jaime shook his head. “I drank a bit too much. I’ll wait until it wears off.”
Mamá’s eyes lit up. “You can stay here. I’ll prepare Alma’s room.”
Jaime turned to Alma. “Is that okay with you?”
Alma nodded. “Yeah. If you don’t feel safe to drive.”
“I don’t. But I can Uber.”
“No. Just stay here. I don’t mind.” She looked at her Apple Watch. “Okay, I’m off.”
Jaime stood up. “Let me walk you out.”
She hugged her parents then quickly embraced Carlos despite the smirk on his face.
Alma went outside onto the porch with Jaime.
He took her hand, an electric shock jolting through it. “That was fun. Better than I expected it would be.”
“Yeah, it was nice.” Her throat tightened. “Too nice.”
“I know this is weird. But I don’t regret coming here.”
She lowered her voice into a soft tone that hopefully only he could hear in case her parents were listening. “I just don’t want to get used to you again. It’s so easy between us. I’m going to miss you now, when you leave.”
Jaime stared at her. “Alma, I—”
She placed her finger on his lips, silencing him. “Good night, Jaime.”
Alma stepped away. But he pulled her back to him. His hands cupped her face. Was he going to kiss her? Did she want him to?
He leaned in and she closed her eyes. His lips pressed softly on her forehead.
“Good night, Alma.”