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hum along. Graciela seemed startled at first, and paused before smiling encouragingly and continuing on.
    “What are those called again?” Celeste asked when the last of the little loaves had been stuffed.
    “Tortas.”
    “Tortas,” she repeated. “And these?”
    “ Verduras encurtidas. Pickled vegetables.” Then, taking the fork from Celeste, she speared a chunk of vinegary carrot. “Zanahorias.”
    Celeste repeated the word, then bit into the delicious, crunchy piece.
    “Pepino,” she said, handing over an herb-crusted piece of cucumber.
    “Pepino.” These were her favorites back home, and the taste linked the two kitchens. Then Graciela offered a long, red, shiny strip of something unfamiliar.
    “ Pimiento. A pepper, but it’s sweet, not hot.”
    Celeste held it gingerly between her thumb and first finger. “Pimiento?” The color was vibrant and inviting, and she was about to bring it to her lips when Mother’s voice invaded.
    “Just what are you doing?”
    “Señora DuFrane. Miss Celeste is such a good helper. And so smart.”
    Celeste beamed with pride, hoping some of the praise would warm Mother’s disposition.
    “You shouldn’t run off like that,” Mother said, slightly deflated.
    “I didn’t run off, Mother. This is our home.”
    “Yes, of course it is.” She crossed over into the kitchen and placed a warm, dry kiss on Celeste’s cheek.
    “Pimiento,” Celeste said, dangling the strip of vegetable between them. “It’s a pepper. Only it’s sweet, not hot.”
    Mother’s eyes looked sad for just a second; then she opened her mouth wide, and when Celeste dangled the pepper into it, she snapped it shut, cutting the pepper in half.
    “What does it taste like?”
    Mother was chewing, looking quizzical. “You tell me.”
    Enthralled, Celeste popped the remainder into her mouth, and her senses immediately flooded.
    “What do you think, mija ?”
    It was new and fresh and sweet. She looked from Graciela to her mother and said, “It tastes like California.”

DANA GOES FOR A DRIVE AND LEARNS TO HOLD ON TO HER HAT
    1925
    DANA HEARD THE CLATTER of shoes on the marble floor and braced herself.
    “Just a minute! Just one more minute. I can’t find my scarf!”
    Dana smiled but remained silent. She wasn’t one to holler in the house, not the way these walls echoed. And what would she say? It wasn’t her place to grant or deny permission. There was a narrow, upholstered bench in the entryway by the front door. Dana sat down on it and commenced fiddling with her pocketbook. It was a small bag made of some sort of thick, tapestry-like material, with a gold-plated clasp. Nothing in it, really. Just a handkerchief, a drawstring pouch with a few coins, a small mirror, and a new lipstick. But Celeste had insisted that every girl needed to carry such things and that they needed to be carried in a pocketbook. As in everything else, Dana acquiesced.
    Clatter. Clatter. Clatter.
    Celeste arrived, a frothy vision in a dress of sea green and a long, gossamer scarf knotted at her throat, flowing down. How one could ever misplace such a thing, Dana didn’t know. But then, for Celeste, things of beauty were not so rare.
    “I’m ready!” Announced as if some great accomplishment. She stopped short in front of the large mirror in the hall for a final inspection. She wore her hair in a bob of soft curls, dark-blonde and perfectly set. She dropped a hat on top of them and tugged it down, studying the result from every angle, then turned. “Well?”
    “You look lovely,” Dana said, as expected.
    Celeste pouted. “Wish I could say the same to you. Honestly, would it kill you to use a little bit of rouge? It’s one thing to be fashionably pale, but you look absolutely dead.”
    Dana shrank under the younger woman’s scrutiny and reached for her long-shorn hair.
    “I’m sorry.” Celeste moved to reach for Dana’s arm, but Dana leaped to her feet before she could be tugged up and made a show of