Chapter 1

One

SUMMER 1995

The sun was already warm on Pedro Torres's neck. It was early morning, only seven-thirty, and there was a pleasant breeze in the air. Surprising for mid-June. He welcomed its cool reprieve, knowing its promise was a false one. Pedro was well-acquainted with the Georgia climate. He recognized the polite calling card to what soon would be a weight of blistering heat and humidity by late-morning and into the afternoon.

He closed the door of his pickup truck parked in the gravel lot in front of Compton's Greenscapes. Cooler in hand, he walked past the small office building toward a much larger building in back. They called it the barn, even though it was square and composed of steel. Compton's Greenscapes housed their company trucks there. There were three of them, and Pedro veered toward his own.

Miguel was there already, loading his truck and refilling his gas containers.

"Hola! Buenos días," he said.

"Good morning, Miguel. It's gonna be another hot one."

"Siempre, no? Caliente como una perra en celo!"

"You're in the States, remember? And that's an English idiom you're using. Yet you choose to speak Spanish. Why is that?"

Miguel grinned. He lifted his hand to Pedro's shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze. "Because, my friend. Even though we're living the American dream–" He tilted his head, eyes lifting. "–I miss home. Speaking Spanish with you comforts me. Reminds me that one day I will return."

Pedro scoffed. "Really? You want to go back to Mexico?"

"Fuck yeah. I miss it, don't you? Besides, shit's expensive here."

"No. I like it here. I don't care if I ever go back."

"What about your family?"

"I miss mi madre." Pedro's eyes drifted briefly, before returning to Miguel's. "Badly. But I'm going to bring her here when I can."

"What if she doesn't want to come?"

"Oh, she does. She will. The minute I get citizenship, she'll come. We've already planned it. She wants to start a new life here, too, like me."

"I do like the women here." Miguel leered with bouncing eyebrows. "Especially the blondes with big titties and sweet voices."

Pedro shook his head, chortling softly.

"Oh, yeah." Miguel continued with his playful prodding, inching closer to Pedro and lowering his voice. "I keep forgetting. Tu verga don't point that way. You prefer los hombres de Georgia… You like those big, swinging schlongs, don'tcha?"

Pedro half-snorted, half-gasped, pushing Miguel away. "I don't have time for any of that now. One day, maybe, when I'm here permanently."

"That's your mistake, Pedro. Booty calls happen. You gotta get it while you can. Me? I always make time to eat at the Y. I'm a panty-hamster man, myself. But I'm cool with you riding the baloney pony. More women for me."

"You certainly know enough crude slang for someone just visiting ."

"I do my best, teacher." Miquel capped his last gas can and placed it on the bed of his truck.

"And those sweet voices you're alluding to are called accents–southern accents."

"I know that. But what the fuck is an id—idio?"

"Idiom. It's an expression only used in a particular language. Doesn't translate to others."

Miguel's brow furrowed. He opened the door, got into his truck, and cranked the engine. Before he put the vehicle into gear, he leaned out the window with a befuddled smile. "I still don't get it."

"Like right now," Pedro said. "You're trying to wrap your head around what I said. Trying to understand what I'm telling you about idiomatic expressions. If you translate the phrase— wrap your head around —to Spanish, people wouldn't understand. They would take it literally and question how the hell you would wrap your head around something."

Miguel grinned, his eyes lighting up. "Ah. I see now. You mean I better stop beating around the bush and get my ass in gear before it's time to call it a day ?"

"You're a lot smarter than you let on, my friend."

"It's a means of survival here, no? And you, mi maestro, should–if you'll pardon my crude slang– get laid . You're too uptight. Life is short."

"I'll consider it."

Miguel put the truck in reverse, checked his mirror, and began rolling out. "Bossman's coming. Stay cool out there."

Pedro continued loading his personal gear into the cab of his company truck—his lunch, a backup t-shirt, a hand towel, and a cooler full of water. As the roar of Miguel's vehicle dissipated, he heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel as Silas Compton, his employer and the owner of Compton's Greenscapes, approached him.

"Morning, Pedro. Everything situated?"

"Almost, boss. Just making sure."

Silas looked up at the sun, shielding his eyes. "Man, it's gonna be another hot one. Did you bring plenty of water? Gotta stay hydrated, you know."

"Yes, sir. Cooler's full."

"Good. Because there's been a change of plans. Carlos had an emergency. He had to return home yesterday."

Pedro's eyes met Silas's, concerned. "Oh, no. Is he sick?"

"Don't think so. But it is something long term. He's on his way to Mexico. Not sure when or if he's coming back."

"Really? That's too bad."

"Maybe for him. Not you though. You're getting the Shepherd account, starting today."

"Titus Shepherd?"

Silas cocked his head. "Yeah. You know him?"

"No. I've heard of him, though. Heard he never leaves the house."

"Yeah, that's true. Has been for a while ever since his wife died. It's a sizable property, and he's a very good customer. Now that Carlos is out of the picture, I want my best man on it."

"You sure? That's pretty high-dollar, boss."

"Yes, it is. But you've earned it. I spoke with Big Britches yesterday and?—"

"Excuse me?"

"What? Oh. Big Britches? That's Titus. It was his nickname in school. We played football for HOCO—Hoke County High. Anyway, he's got some big plans for changing up a lot of his landscaping. It's a nice old farmhouse out on Sun Hill Road. Gated. Can't miss it. Ever been out that way?"

"No, I haven't."

"I drew a map." He handed Pedro a detailed invoice with crudely sketched directions at the bottom. Pedro glanced it over, assessing the work involved.

"Wow. That is a lot. Four acres, basic lawn, trim, shrubs, trees, perennial maintenance, custom annuals…"

"And that's nowhere near all. Says he has lots of projects in mind. Extensive projects. I mean it, Pedro. Get in good with Titus and it'll be beneficial for both of us."

"No worries, boss. I got this."

"Thanks. I'm counting on you."

Maestro.

Pedro didn't mind the nickname—liked it, in fact. It stirred embers of nostalgia deep within him. The original plan had been for him to become a teacher in his native Mexico. Like his father, Mateo Torres, Pedro had a passion for English literature. His father had taught high school in Chiquilá—English primarily, so there had always been access to books. But Mateo's teaching had started much earlier, with Pedro at home. There, he'd made certain that Pedro was bilingual at a very early age, when children's brains soak things up more easily.

It's crucial to know the world's predominant language , he had explained to his son. The planet grows smaller with each decade—our distant neighbors not so distant. It's important that we understand and communicate with them for opportunity… as well as security .

If the lessons were a chore, Pedro didn't recall. He learned to read early on, prior to attending school. His father had English copies of several children's books unavailable at their local library. Pedro went from Goodnight Moon to The Cat in the Hat to Where the Wild Things Are and Madeline long before traditional schooling. Once elementary school began, he was way ahead of the other children. But his father had also taught him modesty and selflessness. In class, he would learn his traditional lessons in Spanish, even tutoring his fellow students, before rushing home to Charlotte's Web and The Chronicles of Narnia .

As Pedro reflected, driving slowly on dirt roads just outside of Spoon, bittersweet feelings surfaced. Strange how a single word like teacher could trigger so many memories. Up ahead, he saw a sign for Sun Hill Rd. Pedro signaled well in advance, though there wasn't another car anywhere in sight.

His father was diagnosed with prostate cancer when Pedro was in high school. His mother, Alejandra, took on extra work to keep him at his studies. She was often away at night, leaving Pedro to care for Mateo. Sound sleep for any of them soon became a wistful notion. That freshman year in school, Pedro's last, was a blur. It was for the best, really—a time he wanted to forget.

Mateo died during final exams. Wracked with guilt, Pedro left school against his mother's wishes, stepping into his father's shoes as breadwinner. He found work on nearby Isla Holbox, landscaping and tending tropical gardens for the wealthy. It was on Holbox Island that he discovered his second passion: gardening. Similar to reading at an early age, Pedro found working outdoors tranquil and meditative, the perfect foundation for nurturing and healing wounds of a painfully disrupted adolescence.

He had a knack for it too—both with design and gardening. His vision for landscaping was multidimensional in profound ways, with color, texture, height, depth, size, scale, and volume. He made plants not only grow but thrive and possessed what he eventually came to know as a green-thumb .

There was always work on Holbox, the ferry full most mornings with construction workers and landscapers. It was on that boat that he befriended Rico, a house-painter with dreams of relocating to the United States.

"Why work for pesos here when we can live the good life there?" Rico asked.

"What makes you think it's any better in the states?"

"Because the pay is more. You can make a lot of money there. My girlfriend, Malena, is in Georgia. She makes in an hour what we make in a day."

This intrigued Pedro. Though he loved working outdoors, the wage was terrible. He had started a side gig, hustling at night, just to make ends meet.

"She's going to help me get sponsorship," Rico said. "You should go there too. Maybe I could do the same for you."

"But I can't leave my mother."

"Would you sacrifice a few years if it meant prosperity for both of you long term?"

Six months later, Rico had left for Georgia. Meanwhile, the seed he'd planted in Pedro germinated. He and his mother were getting by on their meager earnings, but it was becoming clear that where they lived was going downhill. Drugs were abundant, and the cartel ruled. Pedro saw its effects on his co-workers, clients, and even the tourists he engaged with. It got to where many of the streets were not safe to travel at night.

When he received a letter from Rico the following year, he broached the subject with his mother.

"I think you should go," Alejandra said.

"But it could be years before we see each other again. I would worry about you here."

She clasped his hands in her own, gently squeezing. "Do not focus on me. I will be fine. I have my work, my friends, church. It's you I worry about, dear one. You're different from other boys your age."

"Oh, I?—"

"Sorry. That is not what I meant. Who you love is your business. Your father had an open mind regarding nature and its diversity. Me, too. I suspect you know that, though."

Pedro nodded.

Alejandra continued. "What I meant is that time cheated you, forced you to mature while others your age were discovering themselves… love… life . I want to give that back to you. Your father would have too. But where we live grows more volatile and corrupt with crime. You see it more than me on Holbox, I suspect, as well as here in Chiquilá. So, if the American dream is your dream, then let it be ours together. You go there if Rico can make it so. Perhaps one day I can join you."

It took a week of contemplation, along with a slightly more attuned scrutiny of his surroundings, and situation to decide. Could he sacrifice precious time with his surviving parent for better years together down the road?

Yes. Yes, he could.

It would be difficult, and he would miss her terribly, but he was determined to make their lives better.

So, he wrote Rico back, explaining that he would like to take him up on his offer.

When Pedro turned off of Sun Hill Road into the designated driveway, he stopped at a gigantic wrought-iron gate with a large letter at the top in an ornate script. To his left was a short pole with a small stainless steel talk box and keypad. Pedro rolled down his window. He looked at the numbered keys for a moment, wondering if Silas had forgotten to give him a code. After a quick search, he located a CALL button and pressed it.

There were three rings before a female voice answered.

"Shepherd residence."

"Hello, I'm Pedro, with Compton's Greenscapes. Here to do the lawn."

"Pedro? Where's Carlos?"

"Sorry, ma'am. He had an emergency and had to return home indefinitely. Mr. Compton sent me in his place."

There was a brief pause, then the voice said. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. Could you hang on for just a moment, please?"

"Certainly."

Pedro heard the muffled rustling of someone moving about while covering the telephone receiver. Two whole minutes passed before the voice returned.

"OK. Sorry for the wait," the woman said. A buzzing sound began and the electronic gates slowly opened. "When the driveway splits, go right. That'll take you to another gate—no code necessary, just hit the button—and the backyard pool and guest house. Park there. Mr. Shepherd will meet you to discuss things… so he says ."

That last part sounded sassy and informal, her tone suggesting she was jesting with a nearby Mr. Shepherd. It made Pedro smile.

"Thank you," he said. "I'll do that."

"And, Pedro, it's nice to meet you. I'm Roz."