Josie Callahan is trying to make the best of things after
returning home to Broken Boot, Texas. Unemployed and
single after being inexplicably dumped by her fiancé,
Josie is helping out in the family business of making and
serving Tex-Mex. Broken Boot is preparing for their huge
Wild Wild West Festival, and Josie is trying to ignore
all the nasty town gossip surrounding the preparation as
she just wants the festival to succeed- and provide her
family with the money they need to remain in business.
Unfortunately, business comes to a grinding halt at
Milagro when a prominent townsperson is found dead in the
alley behind their restaurant. Worse yet, one of
Milagro's employees is the primary suspect. Josie shines
up her reporting skills and sets off to investigate. Will
she uncover the real murderer in Broken Boot?
HERE TODAY, GONE TAMALE is the first book in the Taste
of Texas Mystery series. However, the plethora of
characters had me rechecking that fact on more than one
occasion as it was a bit difficult to keep everyone
straight. Very few characters, including Josie herself,
seemed to really stand out. I would have liked the voices
of the characters to be a bit more distinctive and
perhaps this will evolve over the course of the series. A
character list would be helpful and might help readers
get better acquainted with the town of Broken Boot.
But oh, I can't talk about HERE TODAY, GONE TAMALE and
not mention Lenny! Without a doubt, my favorite character
is Lenny. Lenny is Josie's Chihuahua and he is one of the
most likable pets I've read about in a while. Rebecca
Adler's writing really shines in the scenes with Lenny as
his emotions come through the pages so clearly. I wanted
to pick him up and comfort him on more than one occasion.
HERE TODAY, GONE TAMALE is an intriguing, albeit slightly
uneven, start to the Taste of Texas Mystery
series. I like the family atmosphere and friendliness of
Milagro and suspect that I will like the series more as
it progresses and the characters begin to stand out a bit
more to me. The recipes sound absolutely mouth-watering
and I can't wait to try making some of them!
Reporter turned Tex-Mex waitress Josie Callahan is
about
to go from serving queso to solving cases…
After losing her newspaper job in Austin and having her
former fiancé unfriend her on Facebook, Josie Callahan
scoops up her Chihuahua, Lenny, and slinks back to Broken
Boot, Texas. Maybe working as head waitress at Milagro—
her
aunt and uncle’s Tex-Mex restaurant—isn’t exactly living
the
dream, but it is a fresh start.
And business is booming as tourists pour into Broken Boot
for its famous Wild West Festival. But when a local
jewelry
designer is found strangled outside Milagro after a
tamale-making party, Josie’s reporter instincts kick in.
As
suspects pile up and alibis crack faster than taco
shells,
Josie needs to wrap up this case tighter than her tía’s
tortillas—before another victim calls for the check…
INCLUDES TEX-MEX RECIPES!
Excerpt
Chapter 1
“Josie!” Aunt Linda’s high-pitched drawl soared like a
heat-seeking missile up the wooden stairs from our
restaurant below, through my quaint living room, and into
my sweet but tiny bedroom.
There are three things Aunt Linda and Uncle Eddie have in
common with tamales: they’re unpretentious, comforting,
and fattening when consumed in excess.
“Be right there,” I bellowed.
“I’ll believe it when I see it, monkey.”
I groaned, but it was all for show. Long gone were the
days of hiding beneath the warm cocoon of my quilts. I
was no longer that grieving twelve-year-old orphan,
yanked from the concrete glamor of Dallas and plopped
into the dust bowl of the West Texas desert. Back then,
Aunt Linda forced me to partake in what she knew best,
the banality of folding napkins and the comfort of
tamales. Now I craved the nostalgic aromas and chaotic
chatter that would soothe my eviscerated heart and
humiliated pride.
And it was time to boogie downstairs to set up for
tonight’s festivities before the stink of self-pity
started oozing from my pores. I scrunched up my nose at
my reflection. “You may not be a waitress, but you can
toss plates with the best of them.”
My dog, Lenny, barked from the doorway in disbelief, his
bright button eyes and long, silky coat trembling with
excitement.
“Little man, watch and see.” With a sigh, I smoothed the
red bandana at my neck and yanked up the neckline of my
peasant blouse so as not to inspire a lecture on modesty
from the matriarch of our clan, Aunt Linda’s mother-in-
law, Senora Mari. I tightened my ponytail and turned to
my four-legged confidante. “Where is your bandana?”
“Yip.” Wagging his shaggy, miniscule tail a million times
a minute, Lenny trotted to his doggie bed. The bed’s
designer had gone to a lot of trouble to create a
sophisticated bed for beloved canine companions, and I’m
sure in her mind it was a thing of beauty. Unfortunately,
it reminded me of a crunchy taco with a golden outside
and a brown lumpy cushion. It even emitted the faint
fragrance of meaty dog bones and beefsteak with just a
hint of flea powder. Lenny nosed around under the cushion
until he found his own neckwear, wet from drool.
“You are the smartest Chihuahua in all Broken Boot,” I
said, tying his bandana so as not to pull his long black-
and-white coat. I scratched behind his ears. “Yes,
sirree.”
I know what you’re thinking: Another Latina with a
Chihuahua.
Ah, but I am Irish, and Lenny is a Jewish Chihuahua, or
so his previous owner told me. And how many of those do
you come across?
My Irish-American father, Galen Thomas Callahan, had
planned on naming me Joseph, but after my petite mother
survived the rigors of her first, and last, childbirth,
he was devastated to find that a girl’s name was needed.
It was Aunt Linda’s new husband, the young Eddie
Martinez, who suggested Josefina.
Scooping Lenny into my arms, I headed downstairs into an
aromatic cloud of mouthwatering possibilities.
“Don’t bring that dog down here,” Linda said as she stole
him from me only to cradle him in her arms. “You know you
don’t belong at our tamalada,” she said in a baby voice
reserved for Lenny. “But you are the cutest doggie in all
of Texas, so you can stay.”
On Monday nights we closed to refuel after a busy weekend
of takeout tamales and endless tables of fajitas and
enchiladas. Lenny and I would plop on the couch, prop up
our feet, and haze the cheesy TV dating shows. Or if we
happened to be in the mood to eat dinner at Casa
Martinez, otherwise known as the home of Aunt Linda and
Uncle Eddie, we would join my family for burgers and
brats while we argued over the culinary choices of the
contestants on MasterChef.
But tonight was special. Milagro, our family’s
restaurant, was hosting a tamale-making party. Though a
tamalada was typically a Christmas holiday tradition in
our family, a night of sharing stories and reminiscing
about the past year’s events, this year, the Wild Wild
West Festival committee decided to celebrate the arrival
of their annual weekend shindig by gathering to make
tamales. While partaking of yummy Tex-Mex and margaritas,
the committee would also be contributing fodder for the
festival’s kickoff event, The Broken Boot Tamale Eating
Contest, which raised a healthy sum each year for the Big
Bend County Children’s Home. Our staff could have easily
made the tamales on their own, but we were more than
happy to oblige the community movers and shakers who
served on the committee.
“That dog should be roasted on a spit and fed to the
hogs,” Senora Mari said, more from habit than any actual
aversion to Lenny. Shoot, we didn’t even own hogs. She
emerged from the restaurant kitchen with her hands on her
hips, wearing her usual uniform of a peasant blouse and a
red flower in her hair. She had added the apron we gave
her for her seventieth birthday that read Get It
Yourself.
“Hola, Abuelita.” I ran to give her a kiss on her soft,
wrinkled cheek. She wasn’t truly my grandmother, but she
had invited me to use the endearment. If she was
displeased with me, like when Lenny ran into the kitchen
to sniff at her ankles and break several health code
violations, I was expected to call her Senora Mari—same
as her daughter-in-law, Aunt Linda.
“Don’t Abuelita me.” She pointed her finger at the
trembling dog. “He’s not going to get under my feet and
trip me up tonight.”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not.” A slim young man with dark expressive
eyes stepped from behind Senora Mari.
I tried hard not to grin at his cheekiness. “You do
realize you have tonight off, right?” Our newest busboy
and fill-in dishwasher, Anthony Ramirez, was a cutie pie
of charming efficiency. If our newly laid plans for
expansion panned out, he’d soon be promoted to waitstaff.
When that happened, his pockets would overflow with tips
from our female customers.
“Yes, Miss Josie.” Anthony dropped his chin and gazed up
at me through his inky lashes. “But with all these people
coming tonight, I thought you might need an extra pair of
hands.”
Linda slung Lenny under her arm and gave Anthony a
motherly pat on the back. “Come on.” And with a patient
smile she started for the office. “You can pick up your
paycheck.”
As they left the room, Senora Mari raised her eyebrows.
“Why didn’t she ask me? I could have used the help.”
“You’re not fooling me.” I gave her a smile. “You’d
rather die than have anyone help you tonight.”
“Humph,” she grunted, wiping down the already clean
counters.
While her back was turned, I slipped into the office.
Amber Rose, my favorite country band, was playing in
Odessa in July, and I was in need of someone to take my
shift so I could satisfy my craving for their howling
blend of Southern rock and Texas blues. It would be the
perfect opportunity for our newest employee to gain more
experience, if Aunt Linda would agree.
My aunt was planted in her monstrous wooden swivel chair,
flipping through one of the many stacks of papers on her
desk. “Anthony, I promise,” she said, not looking up, “if
we get slammed during the festival, I’ll give you some
tables.”
“I’m ready.” He cast a glance my way. “Tell her, Miss
Josie. I can handle waiting tables.”
“Absolutely.”
Shooting a look of exasperation my way, Aunt Linda handed
Lenny back to me. “He could be the best waiter in Big
Bend County, but he doesn’t have seniority. And I’m not
going to take a shift from Camille. She has mouths to
feed.”
He fisted his hand, crumpling his paycheck. “My brothers
and sisters need me. They couldn’t support themselves if
they wanted to—they’re too young.”
Aunt Linda’s voice rose. “I’ll give you some tables when
we bring in more customers.
“If we want to keep our doors open,” she continued in a
quiet voice, “we’d better pray for a stampede of tourists
during the festival.”
He looked at me in surprise, and I nodded. We’d tried to
keep it quiet, but Milagro was limping along from payday
to payday.
After a moment of awkward silence, Anthony relaxed his
hand and smoothed out his crumpled paycheck on the edge
of the desk. “Thank you, Miss Linda. You treat me fairly.
I’m sorry.”
My aunt pushed back her swivel chair, stood, and held out
her hand. “No hard feelings?”
“No, ma’am.”
I flashed a grin at Anthony. “Uh, Aunt Linda,” I began in
my most beguiling tone of voice, “when I go to Odessa in
a few weeks—”
“Absolutely not. Everyone works the week of the Fourth.”
My best smile flew out the window with my patience.
“Don’t worry. I’m not talking about the Fourth of July.
And I have an excellent replacement standing right here.”
I placed my arm around Anthony’s shoulders.
In a flash, a “no” formed in her eyes.
I held up a hand. “It’s not as if I’m leaving tomorrow.”
With a nod at Anthony, I headed for the door. “You can
think about it while we entertain the committee.”
With me leading the way, we filed into the kitchen.
“See you tomorrow night, Senora Mari,” Anthony said,
slipping his paycheck into his pocket.
“Wait, wait,” she called as he reached the back door.
With a frown in my direction, she reached into the front
of her dress and pulled out a folded bill. “Ask Dayssy to
bring me a few jars of pickled okra.”
Beaming, he returned to take the fifty from her hand.
“How many jars do you need?”
Her brow furrowed. “Ten.”
If memory served, we still had nine of the last ten jars
Senora Mari had purchased from Anthony’s sister.
“Gracias, Senora,” he said with a nod and a saucy wink.
I waited until the door closed behind him. “I knew you
had a heart.”
“So I like pickled okra. So what?” she said, shrugging
her narrow shoulders.
Lenny whined and tried to wriggle out of my arms. “Be
still. You’re going to supervise Uncle Eddie while he
makes margaritas. Isn’t that right?” I scratched him
under the neck.
“Ah, Dios!” Senora Mari narrowed her eyes to slits, once
again the tough-as-nails matriarch. “Put him in his box,
we don’t have time to dance over his tail all night. You
want us to lose our license?”
By box, she meant crate, which I had already hidden in
the storage room behind our rustic oak bar. “Say good-bye
to the angry lady,” I crooned into his ear.
“Yip,” Lenny said.
We walked into the other room and, after a quick kiss on
his delicate head, I placed him inside his spacious
second home and washed my hands.
No one made tamales in our restaurant without the
ironfisted oversight of Senora Mari, otherwise known as
Marisol Ramos Martinez, and tonight would be no
exception. Delicious, traditional tamales were our
specialty. They had a secret ingredient. Lard. We weren’t
foolish enough to share this secret with others, but
everyone who makes real, old-school tamales knows the
truth. Real tamales, at least in the Martinez family, are
made with pork fat.
Much to Aunt Linda’s chagrin.
After years of towing the Martinez traditional line, she
taught herself to make healthy tamales with veggies,
brown rice, beans, and healthy oils. At home, she even
ventured into dessert and fruit tamales. Uncle Eddie and
I loved her cooking, even if they didn’t fill us up in
quite the same way. Once, a few years back, she made the
mistake of suggesting we add her healthy recipes to the
restaurant menu, for health-conscious tourists. Senora
Mari threatened to creep into her bedroom while she slept
and pull out every hair on her head. I knew she wouldn’t
do it and so did my aunt, but sometimes Senora Mari would
get that look in her eye, the one that made me think one
day the crazy on her side of the family would bust loose.
Aunt Linda must have thought so too, for she had yet to
ask again, though she often made her healthy and
flavorful tamales for the rest of us.
Earlier in the day, Senora Mari had supervised our
kitchen staff in assembling and preparing all the
precious tamale ingredients: corn masa, succulent pork
and beef roasts, roasted chickens with crispy skins,
onions, garlic, spices, lard, and our giant steamer, the
tamalader. I had only to light the ivory pillar candles
in the wall alcoves for ambiance and the restaurant staff
would be ready to greet our guests with open arms. I sent
up a prayer that Senora Mari’s Saltillo tile had
completely dried from its recent mopping. The evening
would be an epic fail if the mayor slipped on the wet
tile.
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
setup 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?”
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.
With a slam of my hand against the push bar, I stepped
into the alley and was slapped upside the head by the
cloying smell of greasy Dumpster. “Ivan, come on.”
Instead of catching a teenager throwing his cigarette
butt into the weedy gravel, I caught Mayor Cogburn and
his wife in a heated embrace. It was like watching cowboy
Woody and his cowgirl sidekick make out. I was horrified
and riveted at the same time.
The mayor released his wife with such speed that she lost
her footing and only a quick hand to the wall kept her
from falling on the sparkly pockets of her too-tight
jeans.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
With a glance of warning at his wife, he straightened his
bolo tie. “We didn’t want to arrive too early,” he said,
polite as a poker, unaware his wife had left coral lip
prints on the side of his mouth.
I had no idea what to say or where to look. Mortified, I
blurted, “Great outfits.”
She started to smile, but then realized her leather vest
was hanging off one shoulder. If looks could kill, hers
would have skewered my gizzard to the doorframe. She
thrust her arm back into place. “Why don’t you go inside
and fold napkins or something?” With a flounce, she dug
out a small mirror and inspected her makeup.
Dutch and Felicia Cogburn frequented Milagro on Friday
nights. He never left without making a suggestion on how
to improve our tamales, and she made sure to complain
about the temperature of the air, water, coffee, and food
—all too cold, so it was odd to see her so hot and
bothered.
It wasn’t every day I walked outside to find two people
making out in our alley, especially not local dignitaries
of a mature age. My face burning, I tried to keep it
light. “I’m sorry if I, uh, interrupted. You’re more than
welcome to come inside . . . when you’re ready. We
started early.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, drew back his
expensive shoe leather, and kicked an abandoned soda can
with a loud thwack. “Nah, you didn’t interrupt nothing
much.”
“You can say that again,” Felicia muttered, withdrawing a
tissue from her handbag. “We’ll enter through the front
door if it’s all the same to you.”
“You can enter here,” I said with a plastic smile, “or
walk all the way around.” I shrugged. “Your choice.”
Mrs. Mayor spoke up, “Why don’t you go back inside and
check on your other guests?” In other words, get lost.
“No problemo.” They could stay outside and bark like dogs
for all I cared.
None of the gossiping chatterers in the kitchen noticed
me as I made my way through the fragrant aroma of onions,
garlic, and eye-watering peppers and out the swinging
doors into the dining room, grateful to leave the
Cogburns behind me.
© 2003-2025 off-the-edge.net
all rights reserved Privacy Policy