Phần I
The taco truck came up the hill at eleven every morning during crush, and the picking crew lined up for it in the shade of the equipment barn with their hats pushed back and their hands still purple.
Mateo Ortega was sitting alone on a stack of pallets with two carnitas tacos and a phone. He looked up when her shadow fell across him, and his eyebrows went up in the middle, and Claire had to look away for a second.
"You're the aunt," he said. "From New York."
"Is that what they call me?"
"Nonno calls you Chiara. He says you've got the best nose in the family. Better than his." He moved over on the pallets to make room. "He says it about once a week. Then he asks me if you're coming home for Christmas."
She sat down. Up close, he wasn't Luca. Not really. His eyes were Ines's, darker and calmer. He held himself more carefully, the way kids do who grew up knowing something about themselves that the adults wouldn't say out loud.
"How long have you known?" she asked. "Who your father was."
"Always." He shrugged. "Mom never lied about it. She just never talked about it. There's a difference." He turned a taco over in his hands. "I know he died in an accident in the winery. I know Nonno pays for my school. I know your mom comes to my birthday every year and brings a cake and pretends she just happened to be driving by."
Claire stared at him.
"Every year?"
"Since I was born." He glanced at her. "You didn't know."
"I didn't know anything."
They sat for a while in the noise of the crew and the smell of grilled pork.
"The key," Claire said. "The one my father gave you last night."
Mateo's hand went to the pocket of his work pants. It stayed there.
"He gives me stuff," he said. "A watch. A corkscrew. A picture of a boat. I keep it all in a shoebox. The next morning he asks for it back and doesn't remember he gave it to me." He looked at her. "He gave me that key three times this year. Every time he says the same thing. Keep it safe. Don't let your sister find it." A small, crooked smile. "I don't have a sister."
"He meant me."
"I figured." He stood up and brushed off his pants. "He asked me to keep it, Aunt Claire. He doesn't ask me for much."
He walked back toward the rows. He did not take his hand out of his pocket.