Page 84 of Careless Whisper

“You miss Seattle?” she asked me one evening in month two of my sabbatical.

“Yes.”

“You?”

“I do,” she admitted. “But…I’m not ready.”

“That’s okay.”

She looked at me and I could see her question, so I answered it after I kissed her nose. “I’ll stay here for as long as you’re here.”

“But you don’t have to,” she murmured, uncertain of my commitment.

“I do, Gigi.”

She licked her lips. “My parents want you to come to dinner—officially meet them.”

I grinned and raised my eyebrows. “Really?”

I’d met Anna Sanchezunofficiallyat the clinic. She called meNew Hireto everyone’s amusement, including mine. I’d only had a few occasions to even be in the presence of Ignacio, who glared at me with a look that said:I have a gun, and I’m not against using it on assholes who hurt my daughter.

The fact that I was nowinvitedmeant something.

“Ay, por fin! Finally, yes?” Juanita lit up when I told her I’d be having dinner at the Sanchez home next Friday night. “Now I can stop flirting with you and start flirting with him.” She tilted her head toward the new intern who’d just started the day before. He wastraining to be a paramedic, and this was part of his rotation.

“Good luck.” I laughed.

Ignacio and Anna Sanchez’s home sat nestled on a hill, shaded by lemon trees and lush with color—bougainvillea climbing up iron trellises, terracotta pots spilling over with marigolds and lavender. The front door was hand-carved, old, and beautiful—one of a kind.

Inside, everything was warm wood, soft fabrics, and walls lined with art and book shelves. It didn’t feel curated—it felt lived in.Loved.

There was music playing when I arrived—some old jazz standard drifting through the rooms. Reggie met me at the door, her expression grim, and for a second, I feared she might send me back out into the street.

Instead, she said, “Don’t make this weird becausetheyare definitely going to,” and led me in.

I wasofficiallyintroduced to Anna and Ignacio.

Anna was warm and welcoming—nothing like Faye Lancaster, as I’d assumed she might be. In fact, she reminded me more of Reggie.

Ignacio, on the other hand—though not related to Faye by blood—had a quiet watchfulness about him that felt a little more like a Lancaster, which made meslightlynervous.

Dinner was served in the garden, where charming café lights crisscrossed overhead. A long wooden table had been set under the guava tree, draped in colorful textiles and mismatched plates that still felt curated. Handwoven napkins were folded neatly beside each setting, and candles flickered gently in glass jars.

Ignacio was at the grill, commanding it like a man who had done this a hundred times. The air was thick with the mouthwatering smells of fire-roasted peppers, garlic, citrus-marinated fish, and slow-braised pork that had been simmering since morning.

Anna poured me a glass of red wine before I could offer to help. Then she told me about how she once curated a Picasso exhibit and received hate mail for putting a Picasso next to a Rothko.

Ignacio loosened up as the evening progressed, and when they cracked a joke about family gossip being more dangerous than state secrets, which he’d been privy to before he retired, Reggie laughed.

Big. Loud. Honest.

I realized how much she was a part of her parents’ lives. How much they were a part of hers. This wasn’t just a close-knit family; it was a fortress of loyalty, humor, and history. She fit here. She belonged. And…I wanted to belong, too.

Later, over flan andcafecito, the conversation turned to work. Reggie described how she patched up a little girl with a broken wrist who’d fallen off her uncle’s horse.

“She gets that from her mother,” Ignacio teased. “Anna once saved a Degas from water damage with a hairdryer.”

“Are you comparing a child with a painting?” Reggie said in mock exasperation.

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