Page 50 of Winning Match
And he was right. Abuela called us over to inform us that she made sangria, and I need to be the official taste tester. I take my role seriously and Abuela squeals with glee as she pours several glasses. Then, Alejandro, his mom, Abuela, and I sit on the back deck, sipping on sangria and chatting easily.
Nearby, Rubén García’s watchful eye never wavers, but I don’t mind his scrutiny. In fact, I admire it.
After I finish my first glass of sangria, Abuela quickly pours me a second. I tip my head toward the house, needing to use the bathroom and check my phone for any messages from Grandpa. After excusing myself, I locate my purse and my heart jumps into my throat when I scan the messages on my phone’s screen. Without bothering to reply, I call Grandpa.
“Marlowe girl,” he answers on the first ring. “How’s it going, kid?”
“How is he?”
Grandpa sighs. “Dorothy calmed him down. He’s sitting on the back deck now, watching the sailboats.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Of course.” Grandpa hesitates for a second. “Any updates on José Costa?”
“Nothing yet.” My tone is clipped. My worry for my father overshadows anything related to business.
“Okay,” Grandpa says quietly but I hear the thread of concern in his tone. We’re running out of time. If my low bank funds were anything to go by, we’ve been close to the edge for a while now.
I hear the phone pass and then, the hitch in my dad’s breath. “Marlowe, is that you?”
Relief flows through me that he knows my name, knows me, today. I blink back tears, a flood of homesickness flowing through me at the sound of Dad’s voice. “It’s me, Daddy. How are you today?”
“I’m wonderful,” Dad breathes, and I know in his mind, his earlier episode, the one that caused Dorothy to text me in a flutter of panic, is forgotten. As if it never happened. “I’m watching the sailboats. God, Marlowe, they’re something to behold.”
“How many do you see?” I ask, sitting on the edge of a chair in the sitting room.
“At least a hundred. Probably more. They’re majestic.”
“They are,” I agree.
“I have a regatta next weekend,” he says, his mind traveling back in time.
My heart squeezes painfully and I pull a breath in. “Oh? Against which team?”
“Well, definitely Yale. It’s the Harry Anderson Trophy,” he explains, indicating one of the longest-running collegiate regattas.
“Right. I’m sure you’ll beat them.”
“This season? We’re unstoppable…” He trails off and I know he forgot my name. Forgot who he’s even talking to.
“I’m glad. Well, I’ll let you go,” I say gently.
“Yes, good. Nice talking to you.” His tone is clipped as he passes the phone back to Grandpa.
I bite the corner of my mouth hard to keep my emotions in check.
“He sounds good,” I murmur to Grandpa.
“You holding up okay?” is his taciturn reply.
“I’m fine. Good. Just missing you and Dad. I’m at Alejandro’s parents’ house today. We’re having Sunday lunch together. Paella,” I tack on. “And…I guess it’s making me homesick. The Garcías’ home is beautiful, right on the water. But I miss the bay and the breeze and watching the sailboats with Dad.”
“That’s normal, Marlowe. That kind of ache, that never goes away.” Grandpa’s tone is gentler than I’ve ever heard it.
Patriarchs with legacies to protect don’t have many opportunities to appear soft.
“I guess not,” I reply. “Well, I better go. Tell Daddy I love him, and I’ll see him soon, okay?” The words are spoken solely for my benefit and we both know it. Because Dad won’t remember if Grandpa tells him or not.
