Right Where I Belong (3 page)
“What?”
“The owner was in a nursing home, but she refused to sell it. So it’s just been sitting there. She died last month, and her family sold it right away. George said it was pretty nasty inside.”
“And we’re just tearing it down?”
“You’ll be gutting the inside so the new owners can remodel. George said it’ll take a good two months to get it all done.”
“Two months? How big is this place?”
“About six thousand square feet,” Dad said. “Oh, and guess who the new owners are?”
Brian leaned over the desk toward his father. “Us?”
“You wish.” Dad laughed. “The Adamses.”
“As in Spencer Adams?” Brian slouched back into his chair, praying it was some other Adams family. Any other.
Dad nodded. “Yep. I’m sure you’ll be seeing him around the site.”
Great. Why couldn’t the house be owned by a supermodel? Or a movie star? Come on, God, you’re killing me. Is this some kind of a test? Because if it is, I think I’d rather just fail.
W
hy would you want to come to Florida with me?” Maureen stood in her bedroom, throwing clothes into suitcases, tears coursing a well-worn path down her cheeks.
It was best to remain silent. Natalia reached in a suitcase and folded one of Maureen’s blouses. Upset or not, Maureen hated for her clothes to be mistreated.
“I’m going back to family and friends who warned me not to marry your father. I can just imagine the ‘I told you so’s’ I’m going to get.” Maureen tossed a pair of fuzzy slippers across the room. Natalia retrieved them.
“And they were right. Why didn’t I listen to them? He didn’t share my faith. We barely knew each other. But I was so sure he meant it when he said I was the love of his life.” Maureen could barely speak between sobs. She took a ragged breath. “But I was just one of a long line of women. Nothing special. And now I have to go back and acknowledge just how wrong I was.”
Natalia took Maureen’s hands and shook her head. “I know you’re hurting. Believe me, I know. But I, for one, am incredibly thankful you married my father. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t know about Jesus. You may not be my biological mother, but you are my spiritual mother. I’m sticking beside you whether you like it or not. So if you want to go back to Florida, I’ll go. If you want to go to Timbuktu, I’ll go there too. My father may not see how special you are, but our heavenly Father does. So stop telling me to stay here and help me pack.”
A few minutes later Natalia left the apartment and took the Metro to meet her father at his office. Papa wanted to meet at his new girlfriend’s
piso
, but Natalia refused to set foot in that woman’s apartment. She could not force Papa to end that relationship, but she certainly did not have to enter into one of her own.
“Mija.”
Papa bent to give Natalia a kiss on both cheeks. “You have something important to tell me?”
Natalia sat in a soft leather chair that faced her father’s large but meticulously clean desk. If only he would be as careful with the women in his life as he was with his business. “Maureen is hurting, Papa.”
He raised a hand. “I know. It will be hard for her at first. But she is a strong, capable woman. And she is beautiful. She’ll find love again. With someone far better than me.”
Natalia wanted to roll her eyes, but she resisted. God would not be pleased with her disrespecting her father. No matter how much he deserved her disrespect. “This move back to Florida, it will be very difficult.” Natalia touched her forefinger to her thumb.
“Muy dificul.”
Papa sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I have tried to help. I will pay alimony. I will pay for her moving expenses. I have plenty of connections all over the United States. I could get her a job. She refuses all of it.”
Natalia’s stomach clenched. Did he really think Maureen’s pain could be softened with his money? “She is too proud to take anything from you. She needs what you will not give her.”
Papa leaned forward. “I wish you would meet Victoria. She is a wonderful woman. Exactly what I need.”
Natalia bit back a dozen angry responses. None of them would be beneficial. Or appropriate. “We are talking about Maureen. Papa, I would like to move to Florida with her.”
Natalia held her breath. She had imagined this conversation in her mind all the way over on the Metro. She still wasn’t sure how her father would respond.
“I think that’s a great opportunity,” he said after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “I went to college in America, you know. Finishing high school there will help you get into the school of your choice.”
She had hoped her father would be angry at her wanting to leave, not see this as yet another opportunity to make her choose her career path.
“I knew I wanted to go into business when I was twelve years old.”
Natalia couldn’t count how many times she had heard her father mention this. Usually in the context of her being seventeen and still not knowing what she wanted to do.
“You are seventeen, corazón. And still, you have no idea what you want to do. Correct?”
“Correct.” Natalia sank down in the chair.
“If you want to be a success”—he glanced around his spacious office—“you must have a plan for that success. Know what you want and go after it with everything you have.”
Natalia stared at the carpet.
“So, yes, go to Florida.” Papa stood and walked to Natalia. He pulled her up from the chair and escorted her to the door. “Do well in school there. That, combined with recommendations from your teachers here, and you will be able to get into a good college, get a good degree, and become a success. Like your papa.”
Natalia stood stiffly as her father embraced her. This was it? She was leaving her home, leaving him, and all he could say was “do well in school there”?
“I do wish you would meet Victoria before you leave. You would like her. She is making a new man out of me.”
Natalia exited the building as fast as she could, trying not to picture her father and Victoria. The “new man” he was becoming was devastating Maureen, and he couldn’t even see it.
Papa was looking for love and fulfillment in the arms of a woman. Even seventeen-year-old Natalia could see he would never find what he was looking for there.
S
o you’ll be living where?” Natalia’s mother, Anita, asked. For the third time.
“Right outside Tampa, Florida, Mamá.” How much of their conversation was her mother actually hearing? Between checking her phone and looking around the plaza to see if she knew any of the passersby, she had a difficult time focusing on her daughter. “It’s in the southeast portion of the United States.”
She glared at Natalia and laid her cell phone next to her glass of red wine. “I know where Tampa is.”
“Sorry. Anyway, it’s in northwest Tampa. Maureen says it’s just a few minutes from the beach.”
Mamá responded to yet another text message, then looked at Natalia with eyebrows raised. “And you’re sure you want to move there with this woman? You haven’t known her very long. You know you’re welcome to move in with me.”
Her concern lasted only as long as it took for her to
spot someone she knew across the Plaza Mayor—Madrid’s town center—a huge square filled with restaurants, souvenir shops, and other small businesses housed in the bottom floors of what used to be the fortress to protect the town from invaders centuries ago.
Mamá waved her phone in the air and motioned for her friend to call her. After blowing the woman an air kiss, she once again turned to face Natalia. “What was I saying?”
“I can always stay with you.” Natalia rolled her eyes.
“What?” Her mother stiffened.
“Mamá, you don’t have time for me. How often are you at home?”
“When I was seventeen, I just needed a place to sleep and store my clothes. I have raised you well, and you are ready to venture out on your own. But you don’t need to go all the way to America if you don’t want to.”
Natalia bit back her desire to argue with her mother’s comment. She had not raised Natalia. That woman was even more work-obsessed than her father. But Natalia didn’t want to argue. This was her good-bye lunch and she wanted it to go well.
“Thank you, Mamá, but Maureen could use help and I would like to go with her.”
“
Vale.
All right. I did speak to your father about it, and he seems to think a few years in the United States will be good for you. We both went to college in the States, you know.”
Natalia was surprised to hear her parents had spoken. They usually used her as a mediator.
“We are hoping this will help you choose a career, get a little more motivated.”
And there it is. The one thing in the world they can agree on—Natalia needs to buckle down and choose her career. God, I need your help here.
“Mamá, I am going because I believe that is what God wants me to do.”
“It’s already three o’clock!” Her mother jumped, picked up her phone, and scrolled down the screen with her finger. “I’m supposed to meet a friend at four over in Las Rosas. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She stood, Natalia taking her cue. After a quick kiss on both cheeks, her mother wished Natalia luck on her trip and left with what they both knew was an empty promise to visit.
Natalia stayed at the table after her mother left, waving away the waiter, and put on her oversized sunglasses to hide her tears. Her mother always changed the subject when Natalia tried to speak with her about her faith.
She looked over the plaza as people passed by. How many of those were mothers and daughters who talked, who shared secrets and stories? Did any of them sit at a table like this, phones off, and discuss their lives and their feelings?
Natalia left the plaza, soaking in the sights and sounds and smells of her native city. She would miss the smell of the
Jamón Serrano
, the leg of ham hanging from the butcher’s windows, being cured before sliced paper thin for people to enjoy with bread and cheese, drizzled with olive oil. The smell of churros. She’d miss the narrow cobblestone streets that wove in and out of the city, the old-world charm that seamlessly mixed with modern luxuries—a Metro system, taking people on underground trains anywhere they wanted to go, with stops outside of palaces and cathedrals; luxury
hotels built inside what used to be convents in the sixteenth century. She could get on the Metro from anywhere in Madrid and exit at a bullfighting arena, a world-class museum, an ultrachic mall.
A group of young people about Natalia’s age crossed the street in front of her, arms linked, laughing. She thought of all the friends she was leaving. Although they disagreed with her faith, they were still good friends. Natalia had grown up with her classmates, sharing years of memories and moments that would all be left behind.
Would the Americans at her new school welcome her? Would she have friends or be an outcast? The little she knew of Americans—other than Maureen, of course—was what she saw on television: beautiful, gossipy, and boy crazy. But Spanish television shows didn’t accurately reflect Spaniards, so hopefully American shows didn’t reflect the average American either.
Natalia made her way past the crowds of people down the escalator to the Metro.
At least one, God. Help me make at least one friend in Tampa.
W
hat did he say?” Natalia had asked that question dozens of times since she and Maureen first landed in the United States.
Although Natalia’s education had been in English, her ears could not adjust to the various accents and slang terms being thrown around by the stewards, immigration officers, and airport workers. All of her English teachers had been from England, and none of the people she encountered sounded like them.
She and Maureen had first landed in LaGuardia Airport in New York. After an overnight flight from Madrid, a tired and heartsick Natalia followed the massive crowd from the plane to the Customs line and had been separated from Maureen because hers was not an American passport. Natalia had to ask three times before she understood that the Customs officer wanted to know if she had brought any hazardous materials with her. All she heard were a series of mumbles and grunts followed by raised eyebrows.
When she didn’t understand, the man simply mumbled and grunted louder. Thankfully, the gentleman behind her—also a Spaniard—was able to translate.
“I have been taking English since I was seven,” Natalia said. “So why am I having such a hard time understanding it?”
“The New York accent is difficult to get used to,” the man said, forefinger touching his thumb in a familiar Spanish gesture.
Their next layover was in Atlanta. Standing at the lunch counter, Natalia tried to adjust to what she was hearing—very different from what she heard in New York.
She turned to Maureen. “Why did she ask that woman what kind of Coke she wanted? Don’t they sell other drinks here?”
Maureen explained that many southerners referred to all soft drinks as “Coke,” so when he asked Natalia what kind of Coke she wanted, she could answer “Sprite.”
“But not Coca-Cola Light,” Maureen continued. “It’s called
Diet
Coke here.”