Her Soft Memories
Ten Years Ago
The air was soft and supple, perfumed with honeyed jacaranda, lavender, bougainvillea, and spicy geraniums. No place in the world smells the same.
My hands were tired, the pleasant ache that came from an all-day shoot.
My stomach was full—I’d been taste-testing the tamales.
No sense letting them go to waste. I was on the rooftop of the Rosewood Hotel, drinking tequila on the rocks.
The hotel was a splurge, but the per diem the magazine was paying covered more than I was used to, so I figured, Why not?
I’d been working hard the past few months. I could afford a few nights of luxury.
The nights were special here. An owl was hooting.
The flowers were riotous. The city’s lights glowed, bell towers and church spires, and from my vantage point, I had a perfect view of La Parroquia.
My hair was sticking to the back of my neck, so I wound it up in my hand, fanning my collar.
The tequila was sharp and the sky brilliant with stars.
And there was a man, standing in the shadows. Tall. Lean. Handsome. His hair was black and wavy, curling over his ears. I couldn’t see his eyes, just had the sense that he was watching me.
A server dropped another tequila on my table. “Tequila del senor,” he said with a quick smile and a nod to the shadow man.
I didn’t speak much Spanish, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist. I was feeling loose, happy. I picked it up and tipped it toward him, eyebrow cocked. Your move, mate.
The chatter was genial, people enjoying their night. Fleetwood Mac sang “Go Your Own Way.” And the shadow man walked toward me.
In the meager light, I couldn’t see his eyes until he got close.
The candle showed them to be the same color as my excellent aged tequila.
He hadn’t shaved in a few days, the shadow along his jaw soft, and when he smiled, his teeth were perfect except for a slight overlap of the front two.
As tall as I was, I could tell he would tower over me.
“Is this seat taken?”
“All yours,” I invited. He sat.
“I’m Trey,” he said.
“Brooklyn.”
“Like the city?” He sounded amused.
“The very same. I have a twin named—”
“Let me guess.” He studied me. “Queens?”
I burst out laughing, and he joined me. “No. Her name is Margot. When we were born, my parents each took a kid. Dad named me Brooklyn because he was born there. Mom named Margot after Margot Fonteyn, her favorite ballet dancer.”
“Does she dance? Your sister?”
“Yes. We took lessons for years. I tapped out when I was ten. Got interested in photography after we went to a black-and-white retrospective featuring Ansel Adams, at the Frist. That’s an art museum at home.
Margot’s still in it, though, she was a principal dancer for the Nashville Ballet.
Now she teaches, and she’s going to design school. ”
“You’re from Nashville?”
“Yes. Have you ever been?”
“I have not. Always wanted to, though.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“That’s amazing. There’s always a Nashville connection.”
We sipped our tequila. “It was meant to be,” he said softly.
“What was?”
“You and me.”
I laughed. “How do you know I’m not married, with a passel of kids at home?”
“Because you’ve been waiting for me. And I was meant to find you.”
The way he looked at me, deep into my eyes, deep into my very being, made me believe it might just be true.
I had been waiting to meet the right person.
Someone who didn’t stifle me or want to possess me.
Who understood my need to roam, to experience the world.
Who wouldn’t be intimidated by my need not to be shackled to one place, to a traditional life. Someone the opposite of Alex.
I pushed his ghost away. Comparing them was silly. And Alex was gone.
“You just got sad. Why?”
I shook my head and finished my drink. “Where are you from?”
“Connecticut. Hartford. Boring stuff. Only child, don’t get along with my parents.”
“Why are you in San Miguel?”
“I’m traveling the world. Why are you?”
“I had a shoot. I’m a photographer. I wrapped this afternoon. I’m celebrating.”
And on it went. We talked for hours. Trey was smart, he was funny, he was devastating to look at. We had too much tequila. Sparks flew. We flirted, hard. When the bar closed, I invited him to my room.
I thought it was going to be a fun one-nighter with a really cute guy.
But then he kissed me, and I felt it in my soul.
I had kissed, and been kissed, plenty of times. I’d even been in love before. Serious love, do-anything-for-you love.
But no one had ever kissed me like that. An elemental kiss. A kiss that changed everything.
We didn’t leave my room for three days. And then we moved to a smaller, more intimate space—the place with the rainbow blanket—and made Four.
God, we were so happy. Love happens fast sometimes. You just know that you’ve found your person, and your life before peels away, and your life ahead becomes the only thing that matters.
The day I realized I was pregnant, we were shopping for dinner. We’d fallen into a groove—wake, make love, walk the city, explore, have coffee, shop, cook food. Trey was watching me from across the orange stall. “We should stop at the farmacia.”
“Not feeling well?” I asked.
“Not me. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Why? I feel fine.” I stopped to think about that.
I was a little tired, but I didn’t feel ill.
But looking at him, that fabulous grin he had now sparkling with anticipation, I started counting.
We’d been careful, but it had been six weeks since my last period—not unusual for me, I’d always been irregular.
The second I allowed myself to think about it, though, I knew.
I dropped the basket I was carrying with all the food and juice and marched directly across the plaza to the farmacia.
Trey danced around the living room while I went to the bathroom.
A second line turned pink before the control line was even reached.
The emotions coursing through me were overwhelming, but Trey assuaged all my fears. “I told you it was meant to be. Marry me. Let’s have a bebé. We’ll go back to Nashville, I’ll find a job, get us a sweet little house, and we can have a life together. I love you, Brooklyn Thomas.”
As proposals went, it was not a bad one. I accepted with alacrity, and that was it. We were bound together, forever.
Instead of going home immediately, though, we toured around Mexico and South America for the first several months of my pregnancy.
Only then, when it was clear I needed to set up a nest, did we rent a place in Nashville.
My aunt and uncle hired him because I asked them to.
Just before I had Four, we found the house in Franklin.
I took his love at face value. Trey worshipped me. He was mad for his son. When Neve came along, he was over the moon. He worked hard, we had a good life, a nice life. We were happy.
Now
I open my eyes. These details are great, and I’ve enjoyed the stroll down memory lane.
Glad that I’m able to, really. But none of it tells me what he said in Argentina that was relevant to him going missing now.
He said a thousand things. New love does that.
We talked constantly, all day, every day.
From the moment he said “I was meant to find you,” our paths were cemented together.
“Meant to find you.”
Wait a minute. Was that what he said? I jam my eyes closed, try to bring back the soft air and unspoken promises of the rooftop. It’s wavering, though, the scents and sounds disappearing. And my own memory, faulty as it is, is screaming at me. I’ve misremembered something.
He said it differently. He said “I was sent to find you.”
Sent to find you.
And I said, “Sent? By whom?” And he’d shaken his head. “Meant to find you.”
I am sure, now, that he said he was sent to find me first.
Meant to find me—fate put our paths together, which is what I’d always believed.
Sent to find me is something altogether different.
Sent to find me means he wasn’t there by accident.
Sent to find me—by whom?
And it hits me. Everything—Trey leaving, the accident, the threats, the stolen money, the dead wife—ties back to San Miguel. There is a pattern to it all that I can finally see.
And I remember. I remember it all.