Page 16 of Wrecked With You

“Is that who you’re meeting on the island?”

He shook his head. “No. As far as I know, I’m meeting a woman.”

“All right. Back up and give it to me chronologically.”

He did. It was easier that way, anyway. He didn’t tell his story often, but when he did he started at the beginning. It was familiar. And that meant he could be unemotional. Just a recitation of facts the way he would with any other assignment.

“My dad was a prick. That’s about the sum total of it. But he was a smart prick. Sailed through business school—Harvard, of course,” he added, trying out his pathetic Boston accent and making her laugh. “He ended up in international trade.”

“Is that a euphemism for drugs?”

Tony shook his head. “No. At least not at first. Later, he probably dabbled. There came a point where he thought he was untouchable. That he’d made so much money it gave him carte blanche on the world, morals and ethics and laws be damned.”

She was nodding, so he knew she’d met the type.

“He started out small and he cast a wide net. For a while, he lived in Texas and was going back and forth into Mexico on a regular basis. Eventually, he moved to California and did the same thing, and he started narrowing his business to Mexico and Central America. He was importing all sorts of things, from automotive parts to tequila.”

“That’s not an uncommon story,” she said, “especially for his generation.”

“Well, trust me. My dad was not a common man. At any rate, at one point he met my mother. She was going to school at UCLA. Her father was a math professor. And her grandfather owned about half of the real estate in Mexico City. Not to mention a cattle ranch outside of town. The family was basically local royalty. And as far as I’ve been able to tell, they were powerful without being corrupt.”

“What was your mom’s name?”

“Sanchez. Lucia Sanchez.”

Her brow furrowed. “The same last name as your dad. That’s a coincidence.”

For a moment he was confused. “Oh, no. My dad’s father was as WASPish as they came. Trust me,” he continued, holding up a hand to forestall her question. “Once I finish, you’ll know why I decided to use my mom’s name.”

She nodded, and he continued. “So my grandfather, the professor, died of cancer and my mom moved home to be with her grandfather at the ranch in Mexico. My father followed. They dated, fell in love, got married. At least that’s how the story goes. From my perspective, I think my dad was after the estate all along. And he got it. At least, he got it by marrying my mother.”

He studied her face, wondering if he’d either lost her or was boring her. But there was no sign she was drifting. On the contrary, she looked rapt.

“Go on,” she urged.

“After I was born, we moved to California and dear old dad got richer and meaner. He started running the ranch. He hired someone to start making tequila. Small batches, very high end. There’s more, but the bottom line is he got rich. He got powerful. He started getting pissed off when he couldn’t get what he wanted when he wanted it. Because what was the point of money and power if they didn’t buy him nice things and respect?”

“My father had no money and no power, and he got pissed off, too. It’s not the bank account, it’s the man.”

Tony nodded, hearing more in her voice than she was saying. “I know. Believe me, I know too many people who could have bought and sold my father a thousand times over, with more kindness and class than that man ever had. It’s nothing to do with the bank account. Not really. I’m just trying to paint you a picture of who he was.”

She pulled her knees up and hugged them to her chest, her wide eyes on his face as he continued.

“I don’t remember being happy as a child except when he was traveling. Then my mother was alive. My uncle would come over then, too, and I adored him. He wasn’t really my uncle. Just a family friend. Possibly even my mother’s lover. God knows I wouldn’t have blamed her. I never knew for certain. All I know is that she was happy when my father was gone. When he was around, she was like a hermit crab scared into its shell.”

He drew a breath, watching Emma. Her expression was flat. Emotionless. As if she was trying very hard not to react at all. He remembered what she said about her father, and had a feeling that she understood his story only too well.

“I don’t know if my father beat her,” he said simply. “But I know he beat me. And one day, I heard the word divorce. I was only seven, but I knew what it meant. Most kids would run and cry hearing a word like that. I felt like someone who’d finally experienced sunshine. And then two days later, that sun was snuffed out.”

“What happened?” Her voice was hoarse, barely audible.

“He kidnapped me. Moved us to Mexico. And then—”

“Wait. How? Surely he didn’t go to your grandfather’s. So how could he set up there?”

“Oh, I forgot to say. My paternal grandfather could track his heritage back to the Mayflower, but my grandmother was Monterrey born and bred. My dad was born in Mexico, because that was the way his mother had wanted it.”

“So your dad had dual citizenship.”