He keeps saying that. No one has called me mija since my mother passed.
“Did you visit Mamá’s house?”
“Yes.” His brow lowers. “I saw the pit you lived in at Villa de Santa María.”
“It was not a pit!” I shift in my seat to face him.
Granted, I was only a kid when I left my mother’s ranch, but it was a beautiful place full of art and light and happiness.
“It’s a broken-down shack with no air conditioning, no Wifi. I’m surprised it had indoor plumbing.” Disgust permeates his tone. “Our family are not peasants.”
“It was a lovely place. The night breezes kept us cool, and we didn’t need the Internet. We talked and sang songs.” My eyes go out the open window to the brown, dusty road, and I remember the colors, the joy I felt as a child in Mexico. Everything here is brown and dusty, and the wind never stops blowing.
His nose curls. “You should have lived like queens.”
“We’re not royals, Beto, no matter how proud you are.”
“All that changes now.” He pulls into the driveway of the small studio. “Tonight you’ll pack your things. You’re coming to live with me.”
“Live with you where?”
“Lakeside Estates.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Lakeside!” It’s one of the richest gated communities in the city. “How?”
“I bought a house there last week.” His eyebrows rise, and he looks proud but also a bit smug—like he had something to prove, and he did. “Closed on it this morning before I came to get you. You’re not working at that coffee shop anymore, either.”
All this new information has my head spinning. “I like working at the coffee shop.”
“If you owned it, that would be one thing. You’re not working as a waitress. It’s beneath you.”
“It helps pay my bills. And the schedule is flexible so I can do my art—”
He leans towards me, holding up a finger. “End of discussion.”
Fat chance of that.
“I’m not quitting my job.” I jerk the door handle and slide out of his truck.
Just before I close the door, our eyes catch. Anger flashes in his, but I flash right back. I’m not afraid of Roberto. He’s my brother, and while we might not be close, we’re still family. He won’t hurt me.
“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
“I’ll catch a ride like I always do.” My heart’s beating fast, but I’m doing my best to hold my ground.
“I’ll be here in an hour.”
“Let your inner child play.” Professor Roshay circles the small room, giving feedback as we work. “Relax… Set her free!”
Every year, one of Farrell Roshay’s students wins the Arthaus “Artist in Residence” award. It’s a massive, twenty-thousand-dollar gift that includes six months to create, culminating in a private show at the Palladium Gallery in downtown Dallas.
Uncle Antonio has helped me pay for these studio classes since I graduated from community college two years ago, and I want that award so badly, it hurts.
I’m standing in front of my latest piece, a four-foot canvas covered in energetic swirls of red-orange and coral with yellow and white, brown and forest green cast highlights and depth.
Rising above it all is a black charcoal outline of a horse with its tail fanning out. Its mane swirls up and around its powerful, bowed head. In the foreground is the rear and back legs flexing and stomping.
The horse is in a gallop, consumed in the colors like a cyclone.