Or at least, that was what I was supposed to do. One of the biggest reasons I was hesitant to open was something I could never admit to Adeena, something that pained me to even think about. Something that proved the timing wasn’t right. Because I wasn’t right.
And as if on cue, Adeena asked about it. “OK, fine, I’m sorry. I do appreciate all the publicity you’re drumming up for us. But we still haven’t seen your part of the menu. When do you plan on getting it to us?”
The tinkling of the door chimes interrupted us, announcing the arrival of an unexpected savior, my not-related-by-blood cousin, Bernadette. The sight of her got my adrenaline going, as if my body were gearing up for a fight, but I tamped it down. A year older than me, we’d been rivals almost our entire lives, but had formed a truce a few months ago back when things were bad and I needed her help.
“Hey, Ate Bernie. What’s up? Do you need me to let you into the restaurant?”
My family’s restaurant, Tita Rosie’s Kitchen, was conveniently located next door to the cafe. I technically still worked there since the cafe hadn’t opened yet, but my aunt and grandmother only called me in on the weekends and the occasional lunchtime rush. They’d even hired a new server, which was the first time a non-Macapagal worked at the restaurant. She was the sister of one of Bernadette’s old college friends and also Filipino, which in the eyes of my aunt made her family, so it was close enough.
Bernadette shook her head. “This isn’t a social visit. You’re needed next door.”
I’d barely succeeded in calming myself down and those words got my blood pumping again. “What happened? Are Tita Rosie and Lola Flor OK?”
A look I couldn’t read crossed her face. “Detective Park is there and he wants to speak to you. He needs your help on a case.”
Chapter Two
Tita Rosie’s Kitchen was most famous for our breakfast platters and Sunday lunch specials, and usually at this time of day, Tita Rosie and Lola Flor would be busy preparing for the Saturday-morning breakfast rush.
Instead, they were setting platters of garlic fried rice, sunny-side up eggs, and Filipino breakfast meats on the large table where Detective Park and the Calendar Crew sat waiting for me and Bernadette.
“Took you long enough.” Ninang April looked me up and down, then gestured toward her eyes. “You look tired. Staying up late is bad for your skin, diba? And you’re getting too much sun.”
I sighed. “Good morning, everyone.”
Tita Rosie waved me over to the seat between her and Detective Park, who’d quickly become part of the family. Shocking, considering a few months ago he got me locked up for murder and tried to convince everyone I was a small-town drug queenpin （it’s a long story）。 Anyway, I caught the real killer—at no small risk to my own life, I might add—and as if to make up for his mistake （and possibly to get back into my aunt’s good graces）， the detective had been nothing but kind and solicitous ever since, which I appreciated. He also insisted on referring me to a therapist and talking about feelings, which was not appreciated.
My aunt shoved a piece of pandesal that she’d thickly coated with my grandmother’s special coconut jam, minatamis na bao, into my hands. “You look hungry, anak. Kain tayo!”
She gestured to the plates on the table, urging everyone to help themselves to the do-it-yourself silog platters. I dished up a big plate of longsilog—longganisa （the delicious sausages I loved so much I’d named my adorable dachshund after them）， sinangag （garlic fried rice）， and itlog （fried egg）。 Traditional Filipino breakfasts typically included sinangag and itlog, as well as some form of protein, and the name of the dish changed depending on which protein you chose—tocilog, tapsilog, spamsilog, bangsilog, etc. It sounded intense, but this hearty meal was the only real way to start the day. No bowls of cereal or skipping meals in the Macapagal household. We worked long, hard hours and needed the delicious fuel to get us through the day.
Once plates were full, everyone except for Detective Park crossed themselves, which I copied belatedly, before tucking into the food. Joy Munroe, the teenager my family hired to help out at the restaurant since I was busy with the cafe, came out with a tray of drinks, her willowy arms straining as she tried to place the carafes of coffee and tsokolate on the table without spilling anything.
I offered to help her, but she demurred politely. “Thanks, Ate Lila, but I’ve got it. This is good training for me.”
Bernadette smiled at her as she accepted a mug of tsokolate, our version of hot chocolate. “Love your positive thinking, Joy. Remind me to work more strength training into your routine in addition to your lessons on grace.”