ME: Samantha Stephens? Bewitched? Really?
Jamie responded immediately, just as I knew he would.
JAMIE: Fucking brilliant. Am I right?" Then he added a bunch of laughing emojis. One of our favorite things to do growing up was binge on old shows. The classic black and whites. Jamie thought the modern stuff didn't carry the same quality. I always felt he was just born a few decades too late.
I was shaking my head just as a black 1967 Pontiac GTO pulled up to the curb and came to a stop. When the door opened, my father stepped out wearing a gray T-shirt with a faded logo, khaki cargo shorts, and flip-flops. I walked to greet him.
"Hey, kiddo," he said, pushing his sunglasses up to rest on the top of his head, then pulled me into a tight hug.
"Hi, Daddy," I said, giving him a squeeze then stepped back to look up at him.
"I'm back to being called Daddy. You must want something." He grinned, his golden copper hair messy from driving with the windows down, and the only signs of age showed through the white patches in his neatly trimmed beard. His blue eyes had never changed. Those had always been my daddy's eyes.
"I see you went with the GTO today." I smiled, changing the topic, and gestured to the car, which was becoming a spectacle as passersby stopped to ogle the vintage hot rod. Jamie and I had stopped calling our parents Mom and Dad years ago. At first it was out of anger over the divorce, then because we had gotten used to it.
"Yes, she was getting a bit jealous of the ole' Chevelle, so I decided to bring her out today." He chuckled, his heavy Southern accent as pronounced as ever. "Good grief, girl." He grunted while hefting my suitcase into the trunk. "Did you forget anything?"
"Ha-ha," I deadpanned, too tired to defend my packing decisions as I slid into the soft leather seat. The old car still had a new car smell, something that seemed impossible. I noted how impeccably clean the GTO was as I gently pulled the door closed. Nothing could piss Ritchie Risto off faster than slamming his car doors. A sacred rule that had been drilled into me at a very young age. Going for a ride with him had been a privilege, but the moment you slipped up and let that door bang shut, it would be a long time before he allowed you to go anywhere with him again.
Dad had always been a voracious collector of American muscle cars, both vintage and new. It was the one thing that brought him joy. He was also an equal opportunity kind of guy, meaning, if he liked the car, he bought it. The year, make, or model didn't matter. He knew when it was time to let a car go, how to love them for a time, then send them off to be appreciated by others. He'd always been a "car guy" and the fact he was living in Mexico instead of South Carolina made no difference.
Ritchie got onto the highway and headed for Santicero, a little village near Lake Paraiso that was about an hour from Guadalajara. We passed huge trucks, small cars, with yellow taxis swerving in and out of traffic. The roads were busy in the early afternoon. Knowing I still needed to be discreet, I slumped down in the seat, lowered my ball cap over my eyes, and put on my sunglasses.
"Relax," my dad said, then turned up the radio. He'd always been fond of the oldies. Leo Dan and Juan Gabriel. Musicians way before my time, but their songs were good. The windows were down, and the warm breeze flowed through the car as Ritchie mumbled song lyrics in Spanish. He'd always been fluent in the language; his grandmother had been born in Santicero. Mexico had been a big part of his upbringing and the place he had settled after the divorce. He'd been wise to put as much distance between him and my mother as possible.
We drove past a young man pushing an ice cream cart up a tiny hill, and my heart began to ache—thoughts of Miguel and the boy he used to be filling my head.
****
I was sixteen and full of sass. Ritchie had given me a handful of funny looking coins, and I had no clue which ones to use. The ice cream stand attendant enjoyed my confusion for a full minute before he reached over and picked the correct amount of change from my palm. After that, I returned to the stand every day for a week to see him, and I got a kick out of the way he innocently mimicked my Southern accent whenever I corrected his English. Neither of us could speak much of the other's language, but for some reason, it didn't matter. He was cute, and I was smitten.
****
The closer we got to Santicero, the more rural the area became. The streets were narrow because village roads had been built to accommodate horses and buggies, not cars and especially not a '67 Pontiac GTO. Ritchie handled the streets like a pro. Nobody knew the four corners of a car the way he did.
The large familiar gates came into view, and my excitement grew. For five years it was my home, my haven. After the divorce, my father voluntarily moved out of the family home for good, a house that had been at least a hundred years old and on land that had belonged to the Ristos for centuries. He merely handed it all over to Madelyn and never looked back. It had been a hostile time, and my mother had done everything in her power to destroy what was left of his joy. Mexico was the only place her venom couldn't reach. By sixteen, I'd become a mouthy little brat. Jam
ie and I had been alternating between Mexico and South Carolina. The older I got, the more I began to resent her. In my eyes, she had stolen Silverwood from my father and had destroyed Captain Silver Eye's legacy. All the tales of his bravery and cunning evasion from capture. He'd set an example of courage that we all wanted to model our lives after. Madelyn had been selfish and greedy. After saying those exact words to her, she purchased me a plane ticket to Mexico, dumped me off at the airport, and never looked back.
That had marked the turning point in our relationship. I'd chosen my father over her. Madelyn had never forgiven me for that.
Ritchie never bad-mouthed her, and he wouldn't let me do it either.
I'm the one who made a mistake, not her.
Though he never shared what sort of mistake he'd made.
Ritchie pressed a button on a little remote in the car, and the fence slowly opened to reveal the hacienda-style courtyard. Flowering vines wrapped around tall columns that lined the walkway and a tranquil water fountain sat in the center of the stone patio. The gates closed behind us and we came to a stop. I was getting out of the car when a shaggy brown dog came barreling from the back of the house, tail wagging, and tongue flapping.
"There he is," I cooed and fell to my knees. "I missed you. Did you miss me?" I said and kissed him over and over as he wiggled and squirmed.
Ritchie grabbed my bag from the trunk and opened the door to the house.
"Come on, Tito," I said to the dog I'd raised since he was a puppy. "Where's Bash? Let's go find your brother." Tito lumbered along behind me as I walked along the side of the house, through the small garden area, and down the stone path that led to the pool. "I bet I know where he is," I said and hurried as the sounds of splashing water grew closer.
"Careful, mi amor," a woman said, then there was another loud splash, "Sebastian," she warned.
When the pool came into view, a beautiful woman wearing a straw sun hat and a one-piece bathing suit was wading behind a little boy who was happily splashing and kicking in a manner that resembled swimming. When the woman lifted her head, her warm brown eyes lit up.