secure in the knowledge that his broken leg and still-mending ribs would keep her from smacking him upside the head with a rubber spatula. “We all love it, but—”
“Ha! You love eating here, trying out new specialties before I put them on the menu and bringing your dates to woo them with the nostalgia factor. But you don’t… The two of you have never—” She broke off, eyes burning, and spun abruptly, turning her back on her brothers. I will not cry in front of them. It would be such a clichéd girl thing to do.
She battled the threat of tears with a stream of words that would have made her dad grin and her mother threaten to ground her from the kitchen. Colleen Torres had once said Grace was the only teenager in Texas who got more upset about losing cooking privileges than being forbidden to go to the movies with friends. Grace and her friends had rarely gone to the theater, though. They’d had movie nights at her house, where Grace prepared a menu of snacks themed to go with the rented DVDs.
“Guess I should brush up on my Spanish,” Victor said behind her. “I consider myself bilingual, but I only understood half of that.”
“I got all of it,” Ben said. “Trust me, you’re better off not knowing.”
When she faced them again, Grace was calmer. “I realize you’re both going through difficult times.”
Ben, the lawman, was on medical leave, and Victor, who worked for a local bank, had recently separated from his wife of nine years.
“But let’s not panic,” she continued, “and do something we can’t take back.” Like sell the restaurant, her heart and soul. My home.
Of all the things she’d inherited from her family, The Twisted Jalapeño was what she most cherished. The modest restaurant nestled in Texas Hill Country was a Torres legacy. It not only kept her close to the beloved father they’d lost three years ago, the Jalapeño gave her an opportunity to develop her own talent, putting her stamp on the place. She had big plans and hoped to bridge the gap between the past and a bright future for generations of Torreses to come.
Victor sighed, running a hand through his inky-black hair. All three siblings had the same dark hair and eyes. Colleen, a pale redhead with ethereal features, used to laugh at the surprise on people’s faces when they realized she was their mother. “It’s not only Ben and I who have hit bumps in the road,” Victor pointed out gently. “You think we’re so preoccupied with our problems that we don’t see how hard everything’s been on you? Putting in crazy hours here, breaking up with Jeff last week, the situation with Mom.”
Grace winced at mention of their mother, recalling the stab of guilt when she’d gone to visit Colleen yesterday. The woman had been confused about where she was and how she’d gotten there, asking her daughter, “Are you here to take me home, Gracie?” I hope we did the right thing. Grace and her brothers had agonized over the decision to move their increasingly disoriented mom from her longtime home to an apartment in a supervised facility.
Instead of dwelling on that, Grace focused on the far less painful split with her boyfriend. “It was fun for a few months, but Jeff clearly doesn’t understand me. He was mad I wouldn’t make huge Valentine’s Day plans with him because I needed to be here. He should have been more flexible! February 14 is a number on the calendar, not a test of loyalty. We could have been just as romantic together on the fifteenth.”
Ben held up a hand, his expression pained. “I’m gonna stop you there. Don’t really want to hear about my baby sister’s romantic escapades.”
“I’m twenty-six.” She rolled her eyes. “Plenty old enough for…escapades.”
But her grumbled words were a matter of form, not a declaration of interest in dating. Truthfully Jeff had been right about her priorities, which was why she’d kindly told him he should find someone else. Once the restaurant was back on its feet—and her brothers weren’t hounding her to sell it—she could worry about romance.
“I was saving this for Sunday dinner,” she said, “but since you two decided to ambush me…” She strolled out of the kitchen with no further explanation, confident they’d follow.
Grace really had been planning to share the big news with her family this weekend. Even before they’d moved Colleen into one of the assisted-care apartments, they’d gone to the complex on Sundays to have dinner with Tía Maria. The wizened seventy-four-year-old woman had outlived both her husband and her younger brother, Grace’s father. Unlike Colleen, Maria’s mind was still as sharp as her tongue had always been. She’d moved into the apartments willingly after breaking her hip one year, claiming she liked the smaller living space and the twice a week housekeeping help. Grace took some comfort in knowing Maria visited her sister-in-law every day and helped soothe Colleen when she became confused.
Inside the tiny office adjacent to the storeroom, Grace opened the bottom drawer of the scarred wooden desk and withdrew a manila envelope with her name on it. Just seeing it made her heart beat faster in a combination of exhilaration and nerves. She took a steadying breath while she waited for Ben to roll his way into the office. Victor walked behind his brother.
“This better be good,” Ben said. “It’s not a piece of cake to wheel down that hallway.”
She shoved away her remembered horror at hearing he’d been hurt, keeping her tone light. “Oh, quit your whining. Wheeling yourself around is probably good for your upper body strength.” She waved the envelope. “Behold, the next step in my plan to revitalize the restaurant.”
Ben widened his eyes in a comical attempt at fear. “We’re still trying to adjust to your last step. You know she has people drinking something called a blueberry tequila sour?”
A couple of months ago, Grace had hired Amy Winthrop, a mixologist from Austin who’d been adding signature twists to traditional cocktails. Some of the regulars had been shy about trying her more outlandish margarita flavors, but Amy was slowly winning them over, just as Grace was gradually winning fans with her fusion dishes. The restaurant still served some of the classics that had been on the menu since her grandparents first opened the doors, but there were a thousand places from here to the border where a person could order a burrito. Grace wanted the Jalapeño to stand out.
And my brothers want to sell it. The three of them owned it jointly, which meant Ben and Vic held the majority vote. She had to convince them she could do this.
Her gaze swiveled from Ben in his chair to Victor in his suit and tie. “I realize you guys watch ESPN and that Wall Street show, not Food Network, but even if you’ve never seen them, you have to know there are a lot of cooking shows on the air. There’s a new one called Road Trip that focuses on different regions of the country, hosting multiepisode competitions in each location. In March, they’re spotlighting the Texas Hill Country Food and Wine Association and filming challenges at Frederick-Fest.” The ten-day annual festival was always a major draw for both tourists and culinary professionals.
“And guess who made it through the selection process and is one of the semifinalists!” Despite her best efforts to demonstrate businesslike competence, her voice squeaked with excitement.
“They picked you?” Victor asked.
“Of course they did.” Ben winked at her. “They’d be fools not to! Way to go, hermanita.”
She beamed. “Thank you.”
Victor was not as caught up in his siblings’ enthusiasm. “I assume this televised competition is going to take a lot
