Holiday Home Run - Priscilla Oliveras Page 0,17

is not home for the holidays?” her mother steamrolled on. “That when I ask when she will return to celebrate Las Navi-dades with her papi, hermanos, and me, to help with the cooking and preparations, she will not answer me?”

Reproach dripped from Mami’s words. Each one a tiny pinprick of guilt to Julia’s heart.

“Who will I rely on when the catering orders come in?”

“Allegra is there,” Julia answered. “She does a better job at being your right hand than I do.”

“Ha!” her mother scoffed. “Esa nena no sabe.”

“Yes, she does know, Mami. More than you give her credit for.”

In fact, her older cousin had been getting her hands messy in the kitchen several years before Julia had been allowed to even step inside.

“She’s too much like her mother, and you know I can only take so much of your Tía Sonia. Why my brother had to marry that woman . . . ay, do not get me started.”

Too late. The litany of woes had begun.

Complaints about her sister-in-law, a recent issue with bookkeeping for the business, a new recipe she wanted to try but hadn’t found the time because she was short a helper . . .

Julia rubbed her temple, desperate to ease the pounding slowly increasing in her forehead.

“Mami, me tengo que ir,” she interjected, when her mom finally stopped for a breath.

“What do you mean you have to go? We have barely talked.”

Correction, Julia had barely talked. As for Mami, her guilt trip was flying first class.

“I told you, I’m at the Taylors’ for a post-Thanksgiving dinner party. It’s rude of me to have disappeared this long already.”

“Bueno, you should not be disrespectful. I will let you go.”

Julia let out a heavy sigh, quickly pulling the phone away from her face so her mother wouldn’t hear. The woman had the ears of a bat, capable of picking up the slightest sound. Especially one you didn’t want her to catch.

“Gracias, Mami. Adio—”

“Wait!” Her mother’s cry stalled Julia’s good-bye.

“¿Sí?” she asked, taken aback by the urgency in her mami’s plea.

“When I called to check on Rosa, she mentioned your big fiesta to raise the money for the children is in two weeks. After that, your work there will be done, no?”

Julia’s knees buckled under the weight of parental expectations and she sank onto one of the leather love seats. Elbow bent on the armrest, she cradled her forehead in her palm, Lili’s cell phone pressed to her ear.

“¿Hola, nena? ¿Estás allí?”

“Yes, I’m here,” Julia answered, like the obedient child she had always been. Until now.

Her heart pounding, she gazed into the fireplace. The flames danced and teased, suffocating the pieces of wood in the same way she felt her life being suffocated by the plans her mami and papi had mapped out for her.

“I’m—I’m not sure. There may be something more for me to do here.”

Another heavy sigh came through the line.

“Bueno, cuídate nena. Te quiero.”

“You take care, too, Mami. And, you know I love you, too, right?”

“Sí. I do.”

On her mami’s melancholy words, the call disconnected.

Julia dropped her head into her hands, hunched over, engulfed by the guilt of keeping her true intentions from her mom. Yet, disappointed and keenly frustrated that those closest to her couldn’t understand or see how her dreams differed from theirs.

* * *

Ben eased his way down the hallway leading to the library, straining to hear any hint of conversation. If Julia was still on the phone, he’d turn around and go back.

Twenty minutes had passed already and his unease hadn’t quieted. Not when he couldn’t stop picturing the worry that had knit Julia’s brow earlier.

Then again, a twenty-minute chat between Julia and her mom might be the norm. Simply because his parental phone calls were the epitome of a quick three-pitch strikeout didn’t mean hers weren’t more along the lines of a batter knocking off foul ball after foul ball, making you throw a slew of pitches to get the guy out.

Ben paused at the library door, unwilling to interrupt her. Silence greeted him.

Cautiously leaning against the wood frame, he peeked inside. As soon as he saw Julia, shoulders hunched, palms covering her face, he hurried over to her side.

The heels of his wing-tip shoes slapped the tile floor with each step. She didn’t even seem to notice.

“Hey,” he said softly, not wanting to startle her.

She glanced up, dejection blanketing her delicate features.

“Hey,” she answered.

The edges of her wide mouth quivered, as if trying to smile, but finding the effort too difficult.

Ben sat