Auntie misses our turn to the road leading to the hospital and has to make a right at the next street, then backtrack. She always messes up when she’s telling a story. Usually I get impatient because I can’t stand being late, but today I don’t care. I want to hear the rest.

“Was Uncle Fernando there?” Olivia asks.

Auntie smiles. “Yes. Fernando was across the room, staring at me. I’d noticed him earlier because of his fine square jaw. He walked toward me, passing Celia and the other pretty dancing girls. He introduced himself, held out his arm, and said, ‘Let’s dance.’

“I looked down at my bad hand and said, ‘I haven’t done the cha-cha in years. I’ll make a terrible dance partner.’ But he stood there with his arm out until I agreed to join him. And you know what, Olivia?”

“What?” she asks.

“I wasn’t bad. In fact, Fernando was such a great dancer, he made me look like one, too. Somehow my feet remembered those playground steps. Fernando’s eyes never left mine and we’ve been dancing through life together ever since.”

Olivia scrunches her face. “But Uncle Fernando doesn’t dance—he just sleeps.”

“That’s not what she meant, Olivia,” I say. But how do you explain true love to a seven-year-old?

I’ve known Auntie and Uncle Fernando my entire life, but today I feel like we’ve just met. The next time I see Uncle Fernando, I’m going to check out that fine square jaw.

Good

Good

Ed is eating fried chicken today instead of a Big Mac. He opens a towelette and wipes his fingers before shaking my hand.

“Isabel, I have some good news. My friend has a cousin who is a swim coach at the university. They have an opening on their junior team. He said you could try out.”

“But I’m not that good. I’ve just dived a few times.”

“Let’s let him decide, okay? Tryouts begin at nine. Maybe your father can take you Saturday.”

“I doubt that.” He’d be too busy fishing.

Ed pauses like he’s about to ask why. Then says, “Or maybe your auntie?”

“Maybe.”

My stomach rumbles. I wish Ed would mind his own business.

“Isabel, you’ve taken on a lot of responsibility since your mother died and I suspect since before she died, too. You need to have something of your own that has nothing to do with taking care of your family. Maybe it’s the diving.”

“But I’ve never had lessons.”

“Maybe it’s not diving. But it’s got to be something. By the way, Frank is playing the ukulele. He’s great.”

I nod. “My mother was great, too. She taught Frank.”

Ed smiles. “So you remember?”