Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [63]
“Ayala?” I repeated. “Is she related to Dolores Ayala? The Ayalas who own the Celina Cantina Restaurant on Marsh Street?”
Elvia nodded. “Her mother. Mama was just telling me about talking to Señora Ayala after mass on Sunday. Apparently they almost lost the restaurant a while back. They were damaged heavily during that horrible rain last winter because their roof was bad, and they never completely recouped their losses.” Elvia shook her head, her thick-lashed eyes narrowing in disapproval. “They only carried the minimum insurance and didn’t keep it current. Really stupid move, business-wise. Insurance is the one thing I never scrimp on.”
“Don’t be so hard on them, m’hija,” her mother said. “They lose so much money when Roberto was in hospital with his kidneys.” She stood up and picked up my empty plate. “Sometimes the times are harder than the money you save for them.” Her voice held a gentle reproof.
“I know, Mama,” she said. “I’m not saying anything against them, but it wasn’t a smart business move.”
Señora Aragon stacked my plate on Elvia’s and said to me, her eyes dancing with amusement, “Not everyone is as smart as mi hija la patrona, eh, chiquita?”
“I’ d venture to say no one,” I answered, laughing as I dodged Elvia’s swatting hand.
As Señora Aragon dished up the vanilla-scented puddinglike atole, making sure I got plenty of pineapple chunks just like when I was a girl, I asked, “You said almost, Mama Aragon. Did they get a loan or something?”
“She tells me only that the Virgin Mary answered her prayers, and they got some money from heaven.” She rolled her eyes skyward as if checking to see if any bills would come floating down and bless her. She shrugged and handed me a ceramic bowl of the dessert. “When mass was over, we lit some candles like we always do.” She purposely avoided looking at her daughter. Elvia let out an irritable breath. Her mother had been lighting candles in an attempt to get her daughter married since Elvia turned eighteen. “She whispered to me—for the Sinclairs.”
“The Sinclairs?” I said, puzzled. “Did they loan them the money?”
Señora Aragon set a bowl in front of Elvia and gestured for us to start eating. “No loan,” she said, wiping her hands on her faded cotton apron. “She says they owe no one. She lit a candle for that, too. To thank God.”
I thought about that as I finished my dessert and helped clear the table. Brushing away our offer to do the dishes, Señora Aragon walked with us out to the truck and handed me a Tupperware bowl full of atole. “Tell Gabriel he has not been to see me in a long time and I am keeping count. Next time, he only gets atole if he comes to get it.”
“I’ll tell him,” I said, kissing her cheek. “He’s just been very busy these last few days. I guess Elvia probably told you his son is visiting.”
She nodded and smoothed back a strand of gray hair that had the nerve to sneak out of her tight bun. “It is good for a man to know his son better.”
Elvia hugged her mom and reminded her what the doctor said, to sit down and rest once in a while.
“Ah,” Señora Aragon replied, swatting irritably at the air around her. “Plenty of time to rest when I die.”
“Why would the Sinclairs give the Ayalas money?” I asked the minute Elvia closed the truck door.
“This is the most uncomfortable vehicle I’ve ever ridden in,” she complained, strapping the seat belt around her waist. “You know, Gabe makes a good salary. Why don’t you get rid of that old Harper pickup of yours and buy yourself a new car?”
“If I had a new car, I’d be having to cart Sam around everywhere because I wouldn’t let him drive it, and Gabe wouldn’t let him drive this truck or the Corvette.” I shifted into third with a jerk. I still had a bit of a problem with gears on the steering column. “This is a classic, Elvia. You of all people should appreciate that.” She owned a perfectly restored 1959 Austin-Healey with the original upholstery.
“I feel like a farmhand riding in this,” she complained.
“Don’t be a snob. We both come from a long line of farmhands. Why do you think the Sinclairs