Page 67 of Big Britches
Truman greeted them in the foyer. “Well, you must be Pedro. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.”
“I’m afraid he’s biased. But I promise I’ll try to live up to what you’ve heard.” Pedro held his out hand to shake. “Pedro. Pedro Torres.”
Truman's eyes never left Pedro’s. “We hug in this family, son. Handshakes are for business and politics, and I do enough of that all day.”
The hug was brief but robust, and when they parted, Pedro smiled at the couple. Truman was petite and, standing opposite them, he saw they mirrored the couple in height difference. Truman was clearly a charmer, but one thing was abundantly clear to Pedro. Titus had his mother’s magnetism.
The dinner was both formal and informal. They made their plates at the kitchen stove, but ate at an immaculately set table in the dining room. Patricia swiftly arranged the bouquet in a crystal vase on the nearby sideboard, with the dessert bowls and banana pudding.
“There,” she said. “Now we can enjoy them while we eat.”
“Your home is lovely,” Pedro said.
She joined them at the table. “Well, thank you for adding to it.”
“It’s the best of both worlds,” Truman said. “Like Titus, I love that house out in the country. But Pat loves it in Spoon proper. So, a few years ago, when a similar house came on the market here in town, we jumped on it.”
“I love Victorians too. Unfortunately, we don’t have many in Mexico.”
“No,” Patricia said, sipping her iced tea. “But you have those gorgeous Spanish colonials and baroque homes. I would love to see haciendas like that here in Spoon. It’s more of a Florida thing, though, I’m afraid.”
“Where are you from, Pedro?” Truman asked.
“Chiquilá. It’s on the tip of the Yucatan.”
“Speaking of Florida, that’s south of the panhandle, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s funny. We always think of Mexico as being far away, on the western side of the States. But its reach is vast, just across the pond, so to speak.”
“I was telling Titus the same. Chiquilá is very close to Cuba.”
“Near Cancun?” Patricia asked.
“Very, but there’s no direct route, so it takes a few hours by car.”
“Wonderful weather, I imagine. What on earth brought you to Spoon?”
Pedro told them a little about his family, his father’s passing, and their hardships following. Both parents listened intently, with the occasional empathic murmur or gesture. When he finished, Patricia reached out and took his hand.
“I’m so sorry you had to go through all that, and so young. It’s not fair. But it’s noble of you to look out for your mother that way. Coming here to provide a better life for both of you.”
“I miss her terribly. We speak on the phone. But it’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not.” Patricia said, cutting Titus some side-eye.
“A boy’s best friend is his mother,” Pedro added, tossing the movie quote like a breadcrumb.
Patricia did not disappoint.
“Psycho. Norman Bates. Please tell me you’re not going to stab my son in the shower.”
On the contrary, it’s usually the other way around, Pedro thought. “I promise I won’t. I’m too fond of him.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Perhaps this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“Casablanca. Rick. To Captain… Louis, I believe.”