When We Found Home

They passed by the desk and made their way to the seating area at the far end of his office. Malcolm preferred to use a conference room when he had a meeting, but he kept the sofas for the same reason he kept the desk—because they belonged.

Malcolm’s assistant walked in with a tray. She smiled at them both, set the tray on the coffee table and left. His grandfather picked up one of the two mugs of steaming black coffee, along with a piece of biscotti. After dipping the latter in his mug, he said, “I found her.”

Resignation, irritation and inevitability battled for dominance. Malcolm realized it didn’t much matter which won—it wasn’t as if he was going to change his grandfather’s mind about any of it. To Alberto, family was everything. A trait to be admired, even if it occasionally made everyone’s life more complicated.

About the time Alberto had decided to cut out the middleman and sell his food directly to the public, through a mail-order catalog, he’d met, fallen in love with and married the pretty Irish girl who lived next door and they’d had one son—Jerry.

Alberto’s Alfresco had been successful, with steady but modest growth. Jerry had little interest in managing the company, a disappointment to both his parents. Instead he’d taken over corporate sales, traveling all over the country. He’d never married, but he had managed to father a few children. Three, to be precise, all by different mothers.

When Malcolm had been twelve, his mother had brought him from Portland, Oregon, to Seattle and had demanded to speak with Alberto. She’d presented Malcolm as Jerry’s son. Alberto had taken one look at Malcolm and had smiled, even as tears had filled his eyes. Malcolm was, he declared, the exact image of his late wife.

Jerry had been more reticent, insisting on a DNA test, which had proved positive. Within the week, both Malcolm and his mother were living in Alberto’s huge house.

Malcolm remembered how confused he’d been at the time. He’d been ripped from the only home he’d ever known and moved to Seattle. His grandfather had been adoring, his father indifferent, and Malcolm had taken a long time to accept that the large house by the lake was his home. Back then he’d been unable to figure out why his mother had suddenly decided to change everything and for the longest time she wouldn’t say. When she finally confessed she was sick and dying, he’d been forced to accept there was no going back. It would never be just him and his mom ever again.

When she’d died, Alberto had stepped in to take care of him. Jerry had remained indifferent—something Malcolm had come to terms with eventually.

Then two years ago, Jerry had died leaving—everyone had presumed—only one child. A few months ago, Alberto had finally brought himself to go through his son’s belongings. There he’d found proof of two additional children—daughters. Keira, a twelve-year-old living in foster care in Los Angeles, had been easily located and moved into the house six weeks before, but an older daughter, Callie, had been more difficult to find. Until now, apparently.

Malcolm gave in to the inevitable and asked, “Where is she?”

“Texas. Houston. She’s twenty-six.”

Eight years younger than him and fourteen years older than Keira.

“She’s living off the grid, as you young people like to say,” Alberto told him. “That’s why it took so long. The private detective had to trace her from Oklahoma. The lawyer will speak to her and confirm everything using DNA.”

“Do you want me to go meet her and bring her home?”

Because like Keira, Callie would be invited to come live with her paternal grandfather. While the twelve-year-old hadn’t had much choice—Alberto and Malcolm were her only living family—Callie was an adult. She could tell her grandfather to go pound sand. Malcolm honestly had no idea what she would do. But the promise of inheriting a piece of Alberto’s Alfresco would be difficult to resist.

“I’m sending a lawyer,” Alberto said. “That makes it more official.”

Malcolm wondered if that was the only reason.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about the sudden influx of siblings. Keira confused him—he knew nothing about twelve-year-old girls. After enrolling her in a quality private school that was conveniently across the street from the office building, he’d asked Carmen, their housekeeper, to keep tabs on her. Every now and then he suffered guilt, wondering if he should be more involved in her life, but how? Take her shopping and listen to teen music? He held in a shudder.

“I’m hoping she’ll move here,” Alberto told him. “We’ll be a family.”

Before Malcolm could respond, his grandfather shifted in his seat. The late morning light caught the side of his face, illuminating the deep wrinkles. Alberto wasn’t a young man. Yes, he was in good health, but at his age, anything could happen. Malcolm didn’t want to think about what it would mean to lose him and he sure didn’t want his last years to be unhappy.

“I hope she does, too,” he said, wondering if he was lying, then telling himself it didn’t much matter. When it came to his grandfather, he would do what Alberto wanted. He owed him that for everything that had happened...and everything he’d done.

chapter two

At six thirty on an unexpectedly sunny Saturday morning, the condo building’s impressive gym was practically a ghost town. Santiago Trejo split his attention between the display on his treadmill and the small, built-in TV screen tuned to ESPN and a list of games scheduled for the first Saturday of the year’s baseball season.

Santiago enjoyed sports as much as the next guy, but the thrill of baseball eluded him. Seriously—could it move slower? Give him a sport where something happened. Even if the score was low in hockey or soccer, the players were always doing something. But in baseball entire innings could pass with literally absolutely no action.

The show went to commercial just as the treadmill program ended. Timing, he thought with a grin. He gave the machine a quick disinfectant wipe-down before grabbing his towel and water bottle and heading to the elevators.

His condo was on an upper floor with a view of Puget Sound and the peninsula beyond. He could watch the ferries and cargo ships making their way to port, have a front-row seat to Fourth of July celebrations and admire the storms as they blew through. When the weather was clear—not something that happened all that often in Seattle—he could see the Olympic Mountains. The gorgeous views and accompanying sunsets were very helpful when it came to the ladies—not that he needed props, but a man should have plenty of options in his arsenal.

After showering and dressing in jeans and a Yale Law School sweatshirt, he went down to his two parking spaces in the underground garage. A sleek, midnight blue Mercedes SL convertible sat next to a massive black Cadillac Escalade.

“Not today,” he said, patting the Mercedes. “I have the munchkins.” Not only would their mother not approve of them riding in a convertible, there wasn’t any back seat.

Santiago made his way to his favorite bakery. Unlike the gym, the bakery was jammed with people out on a Saturday morning. He took a small paper number from the machine up front, then waited his turn. When seventy-eight was called, he walked up and grinned at the short, plump woman wearing a hairnet.

“Good morning, Brandi. Is your mother here? You know how I enjoy saying hello to her.”

The fiftysomething woman behind the counter rolled her eyes. “You know it’s me, Santiago. No one is fooled by this game you play.”

He clutched his chest and feigned surprise. “Valia? Is that really you? You’re so beautiful this morning, even more so than usual and I didn’t think that was possible.” He held open his arms. “Come on. You need a hug and so do I.”

She groaned, as if the imposition was too much, but made her way around the counter. Santiago picked her up and spun her around until she shrieked.

“Put me down, you fool! You’ll break your back.”

He set her back on her feet and kissed her cheek. “It would be worth it,” he whispered.

She laughed and slapped his arm. “You’re incorrigible.”

“That’s why I’m your favorite.”

“You’re not my favorite.”

“Liar.”

She chuckled. “How’s your mama?”

“Well. I’m going to see her right now, then take the rug rats to the zoo.” He’d promised them a trip on the first sunny Saturday. Both of them had texted him yesterday with links to the weather report.

“They’re good children.” She eyed him. “You should be married.”

“Maybe.”

“You need a wife.”

“No one needs a wife.”

“You do. You’re getting old.”

“Hey, I’m thirty-four.”

“Practically an old man. Get married soon or no one will want you.”

He held his hands palm up and winked. “Really? Because hey, it’s me.”

Her lips twitched. “You’re not all that.”

“Now who’s lying?”

She handed over a box with his name scrawled on the top. He’d placed his pastry order online after hearing from his niece and nephew.

“My cousin has a daughter,” she began.

He passed her twenty dollars. “Uh-huh. So you’ve mentioned before. I love you, Valia, but no. I’ll find my own girl.”

“You keep saying that, but you never do. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he called as he headed for the door. “I’ll know when I know. Of that I’m sure.”

He crossed the street and got two grande lattes from Starbucks before driving just north of the city to a quiet neighborhood of older homes. Most were either remodeled or in the process of being upgraded, but there were still a few with the original windows and tiny, one-car garages.

He wove through narrow streets until he reached his destination and pulled into the long driveway.

The lot was oversize and had two houses on it. The front one was large—about three thousand square feet, including the basement, with a nice backyard and plenty of light. Behind it was a smaller house—with just a single bedroom—but it was comfortable, private and quiet.

Santiago would never admit it to anyone but every time he came to visit, he felt a flush of pride. He’d been able to do this for his family. Him—some farm worker’s kid from the Yakima Valley. The property was paid for and in a family trust. His brother Paulo and his family lived in the front house and Santiago’s mother lived in the smaller one.

He parked by the latter and walked up the front steps. His mother answered before he could knock.

“All your cars are loud,” she said with a laugh. “You were never one for subtle, were you?”

“Never.”

He gave her a hug and kiss before following her into the bright kitchen decorated in various shades of yellow. As usual, it was scary clean, with nothing out of place. His condo was clean, too, but only because he was rarely there and he had a cleaning service. He handed his mom one of the lattes before opening the pastry box. He got in a single bite before it began.

“How’s work?”

“Good. Busy.”

“Are you eating right? Do you get enough water? You’ve never liked to drink water, but it’s good for your kidneys and keeps you regular.”

“Mom,” he began, not knowing why he bothered. What was it about women over fifty? They just said what they wanted. He tried to summon a little indignation, but he couldn’t. Not about his mom. She’d earned whatever attitude she had now through years of pain, sacrifice and hard work.

She sipped her coffee and leaned against the counter. “Are you losing weight?”

“I weigh exactly the same as I did last time you saw me and last year and the year before.”

“Are you getting sleep? You stay out too late with those women. And why don’t I get to meet any of them? You never bring a girl home.”

“You told me not to unless I was serious.”

“That’s because you go through them like you’re in a revolving door. Look at Paulo. He’s your younger brother and he’s been married twelve years.”

Santiago took another bite of his cinnamon roll, thereby avoiding answering the question. He loved his brother, and his sister-in-law was one of his favorite people on the planet, but there was no way he wanted his brother to be his role model. Paulo had gotten his girlfriend pregnant when they’d both been seniors in high school. They’d married quickly, had their kid and another one two years later.

Paulo had gotten a job on the assembly line at Alberto’s Alfresco and never left. Santiago had tried to talk to him about going to college, or learning a skill but Paulo said he preferred to work the line. He’d moved up to supervisor and that was enough for him.

Hanna, Paulo’s wife, had stayed home with the kids until their youngest was five and then had gone to community college. Now she was in her final year of her nursing program and would graduate in a few months.

“We each have our own path, Mom.”

“You don’t have a path,” his mother grumbled.

He winced. “Please don’t say I have to get married. Valia already lectured me when I stopped by the bakery.”

“Good for her. I worry about you.”

He stood and crossed to her, then kissed the top of her head. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m fine.”

The sound of running feet on the walkway offered salvation. Santiago released his mother just as the front door flew open and his niece and nephew raced toward him.

“The zoo opens at nine thirty,” twelve-year-old Emma said. “I have a list of all the baby animals we have to visit. I’m monitoring their development.”

“Of course you are.”

Noah, her ten-year-old brother, scoffed, “She thinks she’s so smart.”

“I am smart,” Emma told him. “I’m going to be a veterinarian. What are you going to be?”

“I’m going to play football!”

Santiago eyed his skinny frame. From what he could tell, Noah took after his mother in build, but maybe the kid would blossom. Or learn to be a kicker. He grabbed them both and squeezed tight enough to make them squeal.

“We’ll look at the baby animals and the bears and the lions,” he said. “Maybe one of you will misbehave and the lion can have you for dinner.”

“Oh, Santiago.” Emma shook her head. “You always threaten to throw us in but you’d never do that. You love us.”

He walked back to the table and sank into his seat. “How can you know that? You’re growing up so fast. It’s depressing.”

“I’ll be thirteen in ten months.”

He looked at his mom. “I don’t like this. Make it stop.”

“Children grow up, Santiago. Sometimes they grow up and get married and have children of their own.”

He faked a smile and thought about banging his head against the table. What was going on today with the women in his life? With his luck, Emma would want to fix him up with one of her teachers. He was happily single. He dated plenty. Some would say too much. He liked his life. One day he would meet the right one and then everything would change but until then, why mess with perfection?

Noah grabbed a jelly donut then slid onto Santiago’s lap. “Can we go to the Lego store after the zoo?”

“Of course.”

Emma perked up. “And the bookstore?”

“Definitely.”

“You spoil them,” his mother murmured.

He looked at her. “And?”

She smiled. “You’re a very good uncle.”

He winked. “Thanks, Mom.”

* * *

Blowing ten grand on a five-year-old’s birthday party was beyond the definition of insane, Callie Smith thought as she positioned the car-shaped cookie cutter over the sandwich and pressed down as evenly as she could. When she carefully peeled away the excess bread, she was left with a perfect car-shaped PB&J sandwich—sans crust, of course.

The menu for the event was fairly simple, and all based on the Disney movie Cars. Small cups contained carrot, celery and cucumber sticks—aka dipsticks. Two kinds of organic punch along with organic apple juice were at the refueling station. The catering firm’s famous mac and cheese had been remade with pasta in the shape of wheels, and there were car-inspired mini hot dogs ready to go. Callie had already put half a cherry tomato and slice of cucumber to simulate wheels onto one hundred toothpicks, ready to be shoved into place when the mini hot dogs were heated and put in the buns.

The cake was an incredible work of art—a stylized twelve-inch-high modified layer cake shaped to look like a mountain with a road circling up to the top where a small car sat, along with a banner reading Happy Birthday Jonathan.

The previous afternoon Callie had filled the loot bags with Cars-related toys, and had carefully rolled all twenty-five Pit Crew T-shirts with the names facing up. Yes, each boy would get a personalized T-shirt to wear for the party and then take home with him.

Janice, her boss and the owner of the catering company, hurried into the kitchen. “I already have a knot in my stomach. The rest of the staff has a pool going on how long it takes the first kid to throw up, but I’m hoping we can get through this one without any disasters. How are you doing?”

Callie pointed to the tray with the PB&J sandwiches. “All ready. I’ll cover them with plastic wrap to keep them fresh. The hot dog wheels are done. Just have someone stick them on before putting in the hot dogs. Veggies are finished, the cake is in place and I’ve put out the loot bags. Oh, and the T-shirts are by the front door to be handed out as the guests arrive. Just so you know, there are three Brandons.”

Janice groaned. “Of course there are.” She looked around their client’s massive kitchen. “You’ve done it again, Callie. You took this idea and ran with it. I would still be trying to figure out how to pull it all together.”

Callie did her best to offer a sincere smile—one without a hint of bitterness. What was going to happen next wasn’t Janice’s fault. Instead, the blame lay squarely on Callie’s shoulders. She could whine and stomp her feet all she wanted. She could point to her ex-boyfriend, but in the end, the decision had been hers and so were the consequences.

Rather than make Janice say it, Callie untied her apron. “I need to get going. The first guests will be arriving and I shouldn’t be here.”

Janice’s mouth twisted as guilt flashed in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just can’t risk it.”

Callie nodded. “Do you want me back at the shop to help with cleanup later?”

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? We have to prep for the Gilman wedding Tuesday morning. I’ll see you then.”

Callie nodded, doing her best not to calculate how much she would have made if she’d been able to stay and work the party. Being an hourly employee meant every penny mattered, but there was no way. She got that...sort of.

“Have fun today.”

Janice gave a strangled laugh. “With twenty-five little boys? I don’t think so.”

Callie got her backpack from the utility room closet, then walked out the back door. She dug out her phone, opened her Uber app and requested a car.

Normally she would just take the bus back home but this part of River Oaks didn’t have a whole lot of public transportation—especially not on a Sunday morning. So she would splurge.

Ten minutes later she was in the silver Ford Focus and heading for her more modest neighborhood. It wasn’t close to work, but it was inexpensive and safe—two priorities for her.

She had the Uber driver drop her off at the H-E-B grocery store so she could get a few things. Only what she could carry home and consume in the next couple of days. The room she rented came with kitchen privileges, but Callie preferred to use the small refrigerator and microwave she kept in her room. She’d learned that storing anything in the main kitchen was a risky proposition. House rules were clear—don’t take food belonging to someone else. Unfortunately enforcement was haphazard and Callie didn’t want to chance someone taking her food.

She heated soup—the dented can had been 50 percent off!—then got out a four-month-old copy of Vogue that she’d fished out of a recycling bin to read while she ate. Janice only took day jobs on Sundays and the caterer was closed on Monday, giving Callie almost thirty-four hours off. At ten on Monday night she would start her other job, cleaning offices in the financial district.

She finished her lunch, then loaded her biggest tote with clothes, sheets and towels before heading to the local Laundromat. The afternoon had warmed up and gotten more humid—fairly typical for Houston in early spring, or any time of year.

The temperature inside the Laundromat had to be in the upper nineties. The crowded, noisy space was filled with families completing chores before the grind of the new week began again.

Callie found two free washers together, loaded her belongings and inserted a ridiculous number of quarters. She was lucky—she had to take care of only herself. Her bed was a twin, so the sheets were small. She could get away with two loads every two weeks, but how did people with kids make ends meet when it was three dollars to wash a load of clothes?

She went over to one of the empty chairs by the window and pretended to read her library book, all the while secretly watching everyone else.

There was a young couple who couldn’t stop smiling at each other. Newlyweds, she decided, noting the modest diamond ring on the woman’s left hand. They were probably saving for their first house. There was a family in the corner. The kids were running around while the parents carefully avoided looking at each other.

Uh-oh. They were fighting big-time. Neither of them wanted to back down. That was never good. One thing she’d learned over the years was the power of saying I’m sorry. People didn’t say it nearly enough.

“Can you read to me?”

Callie looked at the pretty little girl standing in front of her. She was maybe three or four and held a big picture book in her hands. Callie’d seen her mom come in with two other kids and more laundry than she could manage. In the flurry of finding empty washers and loading clothes, the toddler had been forgotten.

“I can,” Callie said. “Is this a good story?”

The girl—with dark hair and eyes—nodded solemnly. “It’s about a mouse who gets lost.”

“Oh, no. Not a lost mouse. Now I have to know if he finds his way home.”

The girl gave her a smile. “It’s okay. He does.”

“Thank you for telling me that. I was really worried.” She slid to the front of her chair and held out her hand for the book. “Would you like me to start?”

The girl nodded and handed over her precious book. Callie opened it and began to read.

“‘Alistair Mouse loved his house. He loved the tall doors and big windows. He loved how soft the carpet was under his mouse feet. He liked the kitchen and the bathroom, but most of all, Alistair loved his bed.’”

Callie pointed to the picture of a very fancy mouse bed. “That’s really nice. I like all the colors in the bedspread.”

The girl inched closer. “Me, too.”

Callie continued to read the story. Just as she was finishing, the girl’s mother walked over and sank down into a nearby chair. She was in her midtwenties and looked as if she had spent the last couple of years exhausted. She waited until Callie was done to say, “Thanks for reading to her. I didn’t mean to dump her like that. It’s just the boys are hyper and there’s so much laundry and damn, it’s so hot in here.”

“It is hot,” Callie said. “No problem. I enjoyed reading about Alistair and his troubles.”

“Again,” the little girl said, gently tapping the book.

“Ryder, no. Leave the nice lady alone.”

“It’s fine,” Callie told her. She flipped back to the front of the book and began again. “‘Alistair Mouse loved his house.’”

This was nice, she thought as she continued with the story. A few minutes of normal with people she would never see again. A chance to be like everyone else.

She read the story two more times, then had to go move her laundry into a dryer. By then Ryder, her brothers and her mother had gone outside where it was slightly cooler and the boys could run on the grass. Callie watched and wondered about them. Where did they come from and why were they here now? Ryder’s mother must have gotten pregnant pretty young—her oldest looked to be seven or eight. So she’d been, what, seventeen?