Here Today, Gone Tamale Read online

  In the kitchen, the ladies all laughed, a rare and precious sound. The cowbell above the front door began to clang, twenty minutes before our guests were scheduled to arrive. Their conversation stopped and then continued, and I realized they trusted me to greet the first guests on my own.

  At the entrance, a young couple waited. They were tall and striking and— Oh, no, my past had come back to haunt me.

  “Howdy, Josie.”

  My heart sank into my socks. “What are you doing here?” He was no longer Ryan Prescott, my college boyfriend, study partner, and French-kissing instructor, yet he was still mighty cute in an all-American way. Years had passed, but his blond hair was still thick and curly. Now he herded football players over at West Texas University, and by the look of things he still worked out as well. Guess his BS degree in physical fitness had come in handy after all.

  I hadn’t seen him up close and personal since I’d made a surprise visit home and barged into his engagement party at Milagro three years earlier. It must be something in the water, because Ryan never made it to the church with his adoring dental hygienist, just as my ex-fiancé, Brooks, left me with fuchsia pew bows and matching thank-you notes.

  “Eddie said you were shorthanded and asked if I’d fill in and tend bar.”

  Everyone enjoyed a margarita or a glass of wine as part of the festivities. It made the tamalada more fun. Strange, Uncle Eddie hadn’t mentioned a conflict to me, but I hadn’t seen neither hide nor hair of him since breakfast.

  Ryan turned to the woman by his side—the willowy, blond woman by his side. “I think you know Hillary.”

  Who didn’t know Broken Boot’s very own beauty queen? Start the drum roll. It was Hillary Sloan Rawlings: the former Miss West Texas University, Miss Texas, and third runner-up to Miss America.

  She lunged into my personal space, giving me an air kiss on my cheek before I knew what hit me. “Josie! You are as cute as ever.”

  Engulfed in the aroma of Chanel and hair spray, I struggled to speak as memories of our college days rolled through my mind. “Why, how are you? I didn’t know you were in town.” This was not quite true, as a little bird—my aunt—had told me Hillary was teaching English and journalism at the college.

  Ryan reached out to give me a hug, but after a quick glance at Hillary he dropped his arms. “Eddie told me you were home. You okay?” His face was open, his voice sincere.

  Hillary’s wide eyes gleamed even as her mouth formed a moue of displeasure. “What happened?” she asked, cocking her head to one side. “Things didn’t work out at the Austin Gazette?” By this time, everyone in Broken Boot had heard about my recent layoff and messy breakup.

  What was the big deal? I couldn’t be the only reporter to mistake two innocent Slovakian brothers for jewelry thieves? To top things off, a week later, the man I thought I loved, the man who argued over every detail of our upcoming nuptials—from the color of the bridesmaids’ dresses to the satin ribbons on the church pews—unfriended me on Facebook, changed his status to single, and flew to Australia to see the Great Barrier Reef.

  “Hillary.” Ryan gave her a look somewhere between surprise and disappointment.

  Two years ago, Hillary and I had both applied for the coveted local news reporter position at the Gazette, and I won. Guess she figured she had the right to crow.

  She smiled and tucked her chin. “I’m playing.” She flicked her shoulder-length hair from her neck. “We go way back. Right, Josie?”

  Way back to me stepping in to save the college newspaper by writing her articles in addition to my own. I wrote my butt off and barely managed to keep my scholarships and shifts at the restaurant while Hillary managed to make it to Atlantic City.

  Ryan gave me a nod and a crooked smile. “Where should she report for duty?”

  “Aunt Linda and Senora Mari are in the kitchen.” I didn’t remember Elaine Burnett, the committee chairperson, mentioning that Hillary was putting in an appearance, but go figure. Hillary was big news and the festival needed big publicity.

  Ryan tried to lead the svelte woman through the swinging doors, but she planted her pink and turquoise cowboy boots on the floor and refused to budge. Before my eyes, her countenance changed from spite to remorse. “Josie, I want to thank you. If the Gazette had chosen me instead of you, I would never have finished my master’s, found this fabulous position at West Texas, or met Ryan.” She tilted her expensive highlights toward his shoulder, her gaze level and clear of malice.

  And the Oscar goes to . . .

  The football coach beamed with pride at the homecoming queen’s performance. He raised his eyebrows at me, demanding reciprocation.

  “You’re welcome?” I shrugged. It sounded like a bunch of hooey to me, but there was Ryan, still watching me with those puppy dog eyes, hoping us girls would be fast friends. “Congratulations,” I offered. “May you enjoy all the success you’ve earned.”

  “Thanks,” she said. She looped her arm through his, and they strolled off to the kitchen.

  Some people catch all the breaks, and the rest of us eat too many tamales.

  Next to arrive was our dedicated committee leader, Elaine Burnett, owner of Elaine’s Pies, where the locals dropped in for homemade desserts, including empanadas, savory pies, and a bit of gossip. She was the ultimate festival committee chairperson. Well-mannered and pleasant, she and her daughters, Melanie and Suellen, handled the tamalada invites and reminder phone calls to the other committee members. Even though she was small in stature, she possessed the Southern knack of asking in such a way that none of them dared to refuse. They knew, as I did, one should try to stay on Elaine’s good side for she enjoyed paddling her fingers in several local pies, like the town council, school board, and chamber of commerce.

  “Buenas noches, y’all,” Elaine called out as she and her daughters entered, carrying a white sheet cake decorated with giant blue roses and the words Happy Tamalada. In spite of their confusing decision to bring cake to a tamale party, Elaine’s daughters were no slouches.

  “Melanie, don’t drop the dang thing,” mousy-haired Suellen chided as her sister stopped abruptly to wrangle the strap of her Coach bag onto her shoulder. Suellen ran Elaine’s Pies now that her mother had retired to play with her grandchildren while Melanie, the source of those little blessings, displayed her Southwest-flavored paintings at her own gallery, Where the Sun Sets.

  “Welcome,” I said, holding open one of the swinging doors to the kitchen. “Right in here.”

  “I don’t know why we both had to come,” Suellen murmured under her breath as they proceeded. “She knows I can’t stand tamales.” To quote Katharine Hepburn, Elaine’s oldest was all elbows and knees. She was stretched tall and thin, and I blamed it on working long hours at the pie shop with little time for romantic interludes. Melanie ignored Suellen and presented her cake for all to see. “I thought we could use something sweet as a reward for all the hard work we’re going to put in.” Elaine’s youngest daughter was Texas tall and tuned tighter than piano wire. Her hair was cut in a glossy, chic pageboy with retro bangs, as if she’d just walked out of a Manhattan salon.

  “¡Ay! What’s that?” Senora Mari asked, wrinkling her nose as if she smelled a dirty diaper.

  My aunt laughed. “Don’t pay her any mind. It looks positively yummy. Y’all are too thoughtful.” Her generous smile went a long way toward smoothing away her mother-in-law’s bluntness. “Bring it right over here.” Aunt Linda opened the large commercial refrigerator and indicated an empty shelf.

  I prayed Lenny had gone to sleep. All it would take would be one yip and catastrophe would strike, but leaving him upstairs would have resulted in canine wailing. A banshee had nothing on the six-pound canine. How would Elaine’s clan react? Would they believe that Lenny had never been near the kitchen or the food? If he made an appearance, the committee members might find it hard to believe the se
tup was sanitary and freak out.

  With a slight hesitation, I asked. “How are those grandkids?” Two energetic boys, with Texas-y names I could never remember. Were they Chase and Trace or Coy and Roy?

  Elaine piped right up, “Wonderful! Smart as a whip, the both of ’em.” With a graceful movement, she smoothed her teased, white curls with a pale, manicured hand. “The question is, how are you?” She turned to my aunt with a sympathetic shake of her head. “Linda, you must be worried sick.”

  “Josie’s fine.” My aunt drew me to her side for a quick, one-armed hug. “You’re ready to skedaddle out of here, aren’t you?”

  Well, no. I’d only been home for three months. The slower pace of Broken Boot along with the warm acceptance of my family and neighbors all served as solace to my feelings of rejection and disappointment. Aunt Linda and Uncle Eddie didn’t worry I’d get rusty out here on the edge of the Chihuahuan Desert. If they had tried to push me back into the wide world beyond Broken Boot, I would’ve dug in my heels. Instead they plied me with work and the mouthwatering comfort food I craved.

  Like I said, my aunt and uncle can be fattening.

  I smiled. “Time heals everything, so they say.” No need to have a pity party in front of company.

  Elaine cocked her head in a dovelike movement and pursed her lips. “No, not quite.”

  On the heels of her weighty pronouncement, I changed the subject. “I’m submitting to the Bugle.” Broken Boot’s humble weekly had yet to accept one of my articles. I’d tried a community piece about the Spring Break Chili Cook-off at Bubba’s BBQ, but the editor said it lacked spice. With an attempt at something more intellectual, I followed with a piece on the Texas drought. He said it was too dry and never cracked a smile.

  “But you have your family,” she continued with a smile for Melanie and Suellen. Her sympathetic gaze turned to Aunt Linda, Senora Mari, and then me. “Family, my dear, is everything.”

  In the next few minutes, the rest of the committee arrived and eagerly donned white Milagro aprons. They were a friendly bunch, mostly local business owners, which led me to believe they were wholeheartedly invested in the success of this year’s tourist season. There was also a pastor, school principal, and PTO president in the bunch, if I had to judge from their perfect haircuts and hearty handshakes.

  Elaine must have given strict orders for one and all to appear in Wild Wild West Festival attire, for there were enough folks wearing plaid shirts, cowboy boots, and blue jeans to provide extras for the next gun-toting, two-stepping, Texas-based Western. Come to think of it, Mayor Cogburn was likely to blame. According to the Bugle, he’d badgered the town council on a monthly basis to pay for a huge billboard on the highway which read, Welcome to Broken Boot, the Hollywood of Texas.

  With the air of a military drill sergeant, Senora Mari clapped her hands. “¡Vamanos! Let’s get started.”

  “But we’re missing at least four people,” Elaine said, glancing at her watch.

  The drill sergeant frowned. “We start without them.” She waved her right hand in dismissal. “Everyone washed their hands, sí? You listen, I give instructions.”

  “That’s my cue to salt some glasses,” Ryan whispered. He gave Hillary a peck, on the lips, and I thought Senora Mari was going to blow a gasket. Her face turned bright red, and when the coach turned to leave she stared at me with raised eyebrows.

  “Let’s wash up,” I spun to the sink and began to lather up with the anti-bacterial soap before anyone noticed her disapproval. After washing their hands, everyone listened politely as the older woman issued explicit instructions in a no-nonsense tone. The ground masa would be carefully blended, the tasty roasted chicken pulled exactly so, and the succulent meat chopped to the correct size and texture. By the seriousness of her expression, everyone knew she didn’t suffer fools easily, and they listened intently, as if their one hope of leaving in a timely manner depended on pleasing the four foot eleven tyrant before them. Only Suellen Burnett dared to roll her eyes.

  “I’ll make sure Ryan has everything he needs,” I said, making my escape.

  I found him behind the bar, slicing limes and humming a hip hop song I’d heard on the radio. “I didn’t realize you were a Drake fan.”

  He laughed and the corners of his eyes crinkled in that way that always made me feel so clever and amusing.

  “Come on, player, I’ll help you set up.”

  “Nah, I got this,” he said and gave me his crooked smile. “I’ve filled in plenty of times.” He stared at me with his dark blue eyes and inexplicably a few tiny butterflies swirled in my stomach. I frowned, reminding my heart it was a glacier, impervious to all male charm.

  Wasn’t it a man who’d forced me to un-invite one hundred wedding guests?

  “Make yourself at home.” I had plenty of things to do, like wrap silverware, double-check condiments, or find the breaker box and flashlight in case the AC unit blew a fuse again. “Where’s Uncle Eddie? Come on, spill it.”

  My uncle liked to watch game film with Ryan while bouncing around ideas for lineups and upcoming strategies. You could say Uncle Eddie had played more than a little football in his day. During his freshman year, the NCAA had named him Rookie of the Year in Division III football, an unprecedented honor for a West Texas University athlete.

  Ryan shrugged his straight shoulders out of his navy suit coat and hung it in the storage closet. “Two Boots, where else?”

  Uncle Eddie and Aunt Linda were high school sweethearts who had married young. About eighteen years ago, they took over an old barn, named it Two Boots, and transformed it into the town dance hall, where every Friday and Saturday locals and tourists danced to the tunes of some of Texas’s best country and rock musicians. On Mondays, Eddie usually completed his liquor and supply orders by five o’clock. If this were a typical fall day, he would come home early and camp out in the den for his Monday Night Football fix, away from all the chatter over whose culinary masterpiece was going to take the prize.

  Lenny barked for attention and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Shush!”

  “Lenster!” Ryan said in a stage whisper as he bent down to squeeze his hands between the crate bars, the better to scratch behind the excited dog’s ears.

  “You don’t mind if he’s your barback tonight?”

  “He’s not going to bark, is he?” Ryan rose to his full height, six feet and change. “Wouldn’t he be happier upstairs where he can run around?”

  “If I leave him upstairs alone, he barks until he’s hoarse or we all go crazy. Down here in his kennel, he’s quiet as a white-tailed deer.”

  Lenny yipped in agreement.

  I bent down and unfolded an old throw blanket from the back of the kennel and draped it over the entire thing so Lenny would go to sleep. “Okay, Lenster, it’s naptime for you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Behind the bar, Ryan washed his hands and dried them on a clean towel. “Kennel it is.”

  Ignoring one last butterfly in my belly, I grabbed a stack of bar towels from the supply closet and carried them over. “How are things at the college?” I wanted to ask why the hygienist had broken off their engagement, but I didn’t know where to start.

  He turned around to open the mini fridge behind the bar. “Same old, same old. Off-season training, lifting, gearing up for two a days.”

  That was what I didn’t miss about Ryan, all his football talk. “Glad to hear it.” I turned away. Obviously, he wasn’t waiting for me to say something about his ex-fiancée breaking up with him. Guys didn’t do that kind of thing. Exhibit A: Hillary.

  “I’m sorry that jerk left you at the altar,” he murmured.

  Or maybe they did. Tears threatened, but I bit the inside of my cheek. The pain saved me from showing my weak underbelly. “Yeah. Thanks.” I racked my brain for something that wasn’t too pathetic to say. “Life sucks, right?”
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br />   He lined up the lemons and limes across the cutting board, and then stared at me again as if he were trying to communicate telepathically. “You deserve better.”

  My stomach did a slow flip-flop. That guy who bought me three corsages for our spring formal during our senior year at UT, so I could choose my favorite, was still in there somewhere and standing right in front of me. “Don’t we all?”

  On a burst of energy, Aunt Linda sailed in from the kitchen. “Any sign of the mayor and his wife? It’s only fifteen minutes to seven, but you know Senora Mari. We’re off to the races.” When Linda Callahan Martinez entered a room, people took notice. Beautiful and slender, with chestnut hair and flawless skin, she often passed for my older and more captivating sister. Ryan started slicing and dicing like a food processor. Was he trying to impress her with his culinary skill or had he learned that her beauty came with an Irish temper?

  I expected the busboy for the evening to transport the drinks from the bar to the thirsty tamale makers, but he was nowhere to be seen. Probably smoking in the alley. “I’ll go find Ivan.”

  My aunt followed closely on my heels as we entered the kitchen. “Ryan’s looking good, right?” she whispered.

  I shot her a sharp glance. “You knew he was coming and didn’t tell me.”

  She shrugged. “It’s only Ryan. No big deal.” A smile played about her mouth as she made a beeline for Suellen, who was struggling to pull the cooked chicken from the bone. The others appeared to have things well in hand. Hillary stood at Senora Mari’s shoulder, watching as she checked the corn husks. After soaking for two hours, they would be soft and malleable, ready to embrace the flavorsome mix of corn masa and meat.