1 Chapter 1

1

California, the early 1970s

He stood at the bottom of the wraparound porch—turning the brim of his straw hat over and over in his long, damp fingers. He hated to be in this position—hat in hand, one foot on the lowest step. But the wide-brimmed hat made his coarse, curling blond hair feel like a wool cap in the noonday sun—even as it shielded his fair skin from a blistering burn. And though the porch—spacious and gracious—opened its arms to him, he knew Se?or did not appreciate those who overstepped their bounds.

He wiped his brow with the long sleeve of his striped shirt and jiggled the hat absentmindedly. The only thing he dreaded more than being summoned by Se?or was being left to wait and wonder which of Se?or’s seemingly unlimited rules he had violated. The more he waited, the more extravagant the wondering became, until he feared his pounding heart would pull his legs out from under him. Fear was his constant companion. Indeed, he had lived his whole life as if the other shoe—or in his case, the other work boot—were always about to drop.

He was rarely disappointed.

Presently, the screen door snapped and the floorboards creaked under Se?or’s weight as he rolled onto the long, shadowy porch in his wheelchair.

“You’re late, John Virgil,” he barked. “Late as usual.”

“I came as soon as you called, Se?or Rodriguez,” he said softly.

John Virgil did not bother to reply that he had been weeding a garden on the far side of the estate. To do so would be useless. And anyway, he was well-aware that Se?or had not summoned him to discuss punctuality.

“It has come to my attention that Miguel is out sick again. That’s twice this month,” Se?or said.

“Yes, Se?or, that’s correct. His wife has cancer. She’s very ill, sir. I believe she’s dying.”

Se?or paused for a moment. It was not like him to miss a beat.

“We’re all dying, John Virgil, dying all the time. Some of us are just on a more definite timetable than others, that’s all. In any case, it’s not my affair.”

“No,” John Virgil countered, “but it is mine in as much as Miguel works for me.”

“As you work for me,” Se?or reminded him. “I want you to dock Miguel’s pay for the days he’s missed.”

John Virgil reeled back ever so slightly, his eyes widening. He steadied himself, took a deep breath, and said, “No, Se?or, I will not.”

“Then I have no choice but to dock yours.”

John Virgil looked straight at Se?or, something he rarely did, for his face had a terrible, predatory cast, with its hawkish nose and hooded eyes, at once piercing and filmy. It was a face that had never looked on anything—or anyone—with love, John Virgil thought, least of all me.

He held Se?or’s gaze but could not return its fierceness. His features were just too melting for that—the full lips too ready to curl upward into a smile, the large blue eyes too apt to betray hurt or express forgiveness.

“As you wish, Se?or,” was all John Virgil said.

Just then the screen door swung open, and a woman appeared in the doorway, a fist resting on a generous hip.

“Old man,” she called. “Old man, you don’t mean to tell me you’re keeping this boy out in the hot sun when you could at least invite him up on the porch for a glass of my lemonade iced tea? John Virgil, would you like a glass?”

People always called him by his first and middle names as if they were the only names he had.

“No, thank you, Paris,” he said. “I have to get back to work.”

His throat was caked with heat and soreness. But John Virgil thought he’d be damned if he’d take anything from Se?or that he hadn’t earned.

It was a scene played out too many times, ever since John Virgil had returned from the war in Vietnam three years ago to become the foreman of Bethzatha—the name Se?or’s father had given the estate. Although John Virgil did the work of a manager, everyone in the town of Madrugada knew the real boss of Bethzatha was Joao Rodriguez, the man who was known simply as “Se?or.”

What no one could grasp, however, was why, oh why John Virgil had returned to Bethzatha in 1968—instead of moving on as he said he would—and why Se?or had made him overseer in the first place.

Many remembered a sunny little boy who followed the gardeners around the 250-acre estate, pestering them to let him help or playing hide and seek by himself amid the stone sculptures—mostly copies of famous classical statues—that dotted the cloistered gardens. It was there amid pungent stargazers, pink tea roses, and peach-colored day lilies that John Virgil felt safest, happiest, and he would fall asleep under the stars, far from the fish-eyed gaze of Se?or and the ravings of his mistress, Adelia, who was John Virgil’s mother.