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Unbelievable. I scrape my hands down my face. I’m just beside myself here.
“I think if his wife stole all his money, then he deserved it.”
“Don’t worry, Nacho. I know Dos Panchos are your restaurants now, but I’ll deal with mi tocayo myself. In my own way.”
“Yeah. I don’t think I like the sound of that. What are you going to do, Dad?”
He scrapes the backs of his fingers along his jowls and thinks for a second. “I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
“You… what?”
I want to dive deeper into this conversation—find out what he’s planning and hopefully talk him out of it. But a public park is not the place for it—especially with the tent neighbors looking snoopy.
I wouldn’t have the chance to continue our talk, anyway. A lady in a yellow parks and recreation t-shirt shouts into the mic, creating screeching feedback. I suppose that’s one way to get a crowd’s attention.
She blabbers on about the upcoming city activities, including the lobster bash, reminding everyone to buy their raffle tickets. Then, after about five minutes of city of commerce announcements, she finally introduces Mateo’s sea shanty band. The High C’s
I groan at the band name.
Seconds later, Mateo enters the stage with his acoustic guitar, along with a ragtag group of musicians with various instruments. I only recognize one of his band mates, Desirée, because she grew up next door to us. Her older brother was Mateo’s good friend growing up. He spent a lot of time at our house hanging out with Mateo and having dinners with us. He’s serving in the military now but he comes by from time to time.
Desirée sets herself in front of a microphone with her mandolin while the fiddle player, bagpiper, a few percussionists, and a guy with a tin whistle take their places.
Okaaay, and they’re all dressed like pirates, but with Mateo’s long hair pulled into a ponytail, he’s rockin’ more of a Hamilton vibe than Jack Sparrow.
Mateo makes one long hoot into the mic, and the music hoists right into the Drunkin’ Sailor song. The crowd cheers and several people flood to the dancing area.
From my viewpoint, I can still see Olive and Mom, linking elbows and skipping back and forth. Olive joyfully bouncing and dancing, her dark, wavy hair tossing behind her back—her blue dress whooshing around as she spins.
My heart thunders in my chest and I feel a rush of adrenaline flood through me. Every part of my body is light as air, just watching her. What she does to me—I can’t explain it.
Before I realize I’ve moved, I find myself on the dance floor, joining Olive and Mom in their circle.
“Whew, I’m tired,” shouts Mom over the music, and she gestures that she’s going to go back to the tent with Dad. The music segues into the next song without pause and I take Olive in my arms, spinning her around and around, doing an atrocious jig.
She laughs joyfully, throwing her head back in unbridled mirth. Her smile harnesses the very sun, and she’s shining it brightly upon me with abandon.
Before I know it, she clasps hands with a lady next to us, who, in turn, clasps hands with her friend. A guy—who I hope is part of their party—joins in, taking my hand to complete a circle.
We’re going round and round, doing the grapevine, kicking our legs, and Olive is just blasting pure glee from her face.
“We’re doing the horah!” she shouts, laughing, leading the dance. She lifts her arms, and because we’re all connected, the rest of us raise our hands, too. In we go to the center—the ladies hooting and wooting. Then the circle stretches back. By this time, more people squeeze in, then more people until the circle becomes so large, a smaller circle forms on the inside. It’s a little nuts.
When the song ends, Mateo works the crowd, shouting some kind of pirate nonsense and getting people riled up.
“Ahoy landlubbers. How fares yer day?”
There’s clapping and hooting. An older woman with leathery tan skin and hardly any clothes shouts a drunken, “Yeah, baby.”
“Some of ye maidens are already three sheets to the wind, I see.”
That gets him a few laughs.
“We give no quarter to those of you not doing a jig. All hands on deck and sing along. We be goin' t' play a happy shanty for ye scallywags. It’s called Whisky in the Jar.”
I take Olive’s hand as the song begins, lest we get dragged into the crowd. The horah she started was fun, but I want her all to myself now. Plus, she seems a little overheated.
We stand to the side, but still within a good view of the stage, swaying together. My arm claims her shoulder—her head fits right on my chest. I could stay like this forever. A few beach balls appear out of nowhere, and the crowd bounces them back and forth. One of them comes our way and I pop it into the air. I don’t know why that’s so fun, but it is. I can’t remember the last time I touched a beach ball, let alone gone to the beach. Maybe I really do work too much.
