Chapter 1

I took a puff of the cigar as I drove along the long dusty unpaved road, blowing smoke out the open window. I loved cigars, especially these; Cuban, Romeo y Julieta, very illegal.

The powerful v8 growled quietly. Ford had done a fine job with these new F-150 King Ranch pickups, I thought - well balanced, comfortable luxury, and enough power to handle any weather or terrain.

Ahead, the narrow, winding road sloped down through progressively smaller hills. Sparse stunted trees, scattered bushes, hardy yucca plants, and waving brown wild grasses couldn’t hide the ochre dirt-covered and rocky hills that undulated ahead. In the far hazy distance, the Santa Rita Foothills rose again across the valley to line the horizon. An intense early summer morning sun washed out colors and made me squint.

The temperature was rising as I approached the Sonoita Mountain View Highway nestled in the valley. It would eventually take me north to the Tucson International Airport.

I took another puff of the Cuban and let my mind drift back to the conversation with my daughter.

Cara was never a calm, logical girl. How could she be? It was in her genes to be passionate, opinionated, and forceful - even when she was in the wrong. It was my fault for marrying an Italian girl, but her mother had been such a dark, gorgeous beauty I’d been blinded to her shortcomings. Michaela had been everything I wasn’t. My style was more laid back, easygoing, non-confrontational; a trait I’d inherited from my father. Michaela, at first enamored with my laid back character, grew to interpret my calmness as disinterest and eventually used it as an excuse to divorce me and flee back to Italy, leaving me with a two-year-old daughter.

Luckily, the small food distribution business I’d started in Tucson had flourished, providing me with enough income to raise Cara in reasonable comfort.

My daughter’s telephone calls followed no pattern. She called me if she remembered me, called me if overly excited, or called me when she wanted a non-judgmental ear - although that was a rare occurrence. Our relationship was an electronic one. Cara, at eighteen plus one week, had moved to Los Angeles with her boyfriend, both convinced they’d be movie stars. Stardom wasn’t in their future. A surprise pregnancy led to a hasty marriage. The need to eat drove my daughter to work for a talent agency, and the prospect of responsibility for a newborn daughter drove my son-in-law all the way home to the East Coast. Divorce followed in short order. Stubbornness, pride, and a rift between us stopped my daughter from moving back, despite my offer.

Cara’s recent phone call had worried me. Puttering around in the rock garden, the cordless phone on the patio table had warbled.

“Hello?” I’d answered, wiping perspiration from my forehead.

“Dad! I’ve had it! I can’t take it anymore!” my agitated daughter exclaimed.

“Hi, Cara. Can’t take what anymore?” I asked calmly.

“Your granddaughter, Rachael! I almost smacked that girl yesterday! I’ve had it, Dad. I don’t know what to do, but I know one thing. We need space. We need to be away from each other or I’ll probably kill her!”

“Calm down...”

“I AM calm!” Cara yelled. “Yesterday I wasn’t.”

I chuckled. “If you’re calm now, I’d hate to have seen you yesterday.”

“It’s NOT funny, Dad! That girl ... She ... She...” Cara’s voice trailed off, replaced by heavy panting.

Somewhat cautiously, I prompted, “That girl ... what?”

“She pierced her eyebrow!! Can you believe it? Without asking permission! It’s the last straw, Dad! Between that and constantly skipping school, sneaking out at night, and dressing like an I-don’t-know-what, I’ve reached my limit!”

It sounded like a teenage girl in full rebellion.

“Want me to come and stay?” I offered, an offer I’d made many times before and been turned down.

“No! What I want is an ocean between me and that girl so I don’t even think about her for a while!” Cara exclaimed. “And for her not to come back until she’s twenty-something and sane again!”

I grinned. “So how can I help?”

My daughter sighed. “Can you take her for the summer? Maybe being isolated in the middle of nowhere with you and away from bad influences is what she needs to come to her senses.”

“Sure. No problem,” I assured her. Having my granddaughter visit might be nice. She’d never visited me before.

Taking another puff of my cigar, I turned the Ford north on the Sonoita Mountain View Highway and thought about Rachael.

I’d seen her three times: at four months old when she was a cute, chubby baby with dark, intense, staring eyes. Her African American father had given her beautiful café au lait skin - the color of coffee ice cream, wild loosely curled hair, a generous mouth and an interesting nose. Cara’s side had influenced her Caucasian features. At six years old she sprouted, her hair raven black, shoulder length and hilariously uncontrollable. She was full of make believe and wonder at little things. I saw her again at ten years old. She was surprisingly taller, still as skinny as a drought-plagued bean pod, her face still childish, eyes very big, and her hair misbehaving and full of character. She was full of restless energy, unable to sit still, always busy, curious, and doing something. She developed a smile that was so radiant it brought light to darkness, her eyes sparkling and dancing with irrepressible personality.

Just under a month ago, for her fourteenth birthday, I’d sent her a book on amazing trivia from around the world hoping it would fascinate her curious mind, and I’d received a terse thank you email in response. What had happened to her in the last few years?

I knew from experience that raising a child as a single parent could test you. Cara had rebelled at fourteen, too, for no reason I could comprehend. I wasn’t a controlling parent, or demanding. At seventeen she’d met that idiot she married two years later, then divorced within six months. Cara’s rebellious period had lasted until she hit twenty and became a mother. Reality hit her. Stubborn as a mule, she’d refused my help, determined to make it on her own.

For that I felt pride, although I quietly wished she’d needed me; a fatherly desire, I think.

Motoring towards Tucson, I smoked my cigar and enjoyed the memories of Cara, pre-rebellion, that had kept me company for so long. Rachael sounded like she was passionate, opinionated, and forceful; just like her mother. No wonder there was conflict between them.

An hour later, I strolled into the airport and found a spot in the arrivals hall. The electronic arrivals board informed me American Airlines flight 3013 was scheduled to land on time, 12:05 PM, about three minutes from now. I leaned against a concrete pillar and waited.

I almost missed her. The girl that emerged from the arrivals gate looked like a malnourished vampire biker; black jeans, black jack boots with steel toes, black jean jacket, black T-shirt, what looked like dark lipstick, and a frown that matched her outfit. Only her mocha skin color ruined her Goth image.

She stomped along pulling a small roller suitcase behind her, her eyes not even looking around. Without moving, I watched her for a short while. She’d grown quite tall - five feet and some inches - yet had the slender, almost boyish physique I remembered from when she was ten. Her face, despite the frown, was still that of a young girl, hinting at the mature lady she’d soon become: beautiful exotic oval eyes, sculpted high cheeks and delicate jaw line, lips lush. Her eyes still dominated. I couldn’t tell if adolescence had changed her, her clothes hiding any hints of development. Most noticeably, her generous mouth missed that magnetic smile of hers. Her steps lacked the energy I remembered. Worry crept in. What had happened to change her so drastically?