The Rivera family was in distress.

Before the last Día de Los Muertos, they had been perfectly content with their lives—if being a skeletal soul could be called 'living'. There was a certain pride in being the best shoemakers in the Land of the Dead; they had worked in death as they had in life: hard. But now production had slacked off; the twins worked fulfilled the quota of only one man, Julio made more mistakes in one hour than he had in nearly twenty years, Rosita polished with the speed of a tortoise… even Victoria made simple errors, growing frustrated as she kept having to rethread her needle every few minutes.

If Mamá Imelda had seen them, she would have gloated that her ban on music was well and just. It was music—or lack of it—that kept the family working at a plodding pace. They'd had a taste of tunes, a bite of the proverbial Eden apple, and now they were tempted for more. They heard rhythm in the steady ringing of the twins' hammers, in the swish-swish of Victoria's needle, in the scrubbing noises of Rosita's polishing. The Rivera harmony, so easy to recognize, to hum along with… if they weren't in the habit of suppressing those same urges.

But the family matriarch wasn't there, hadn't seen them, and could not scold them from the family living quarters on the second floor. It was early afternoon, so she was in her bedroom, hiding—though no one would have dared suggested such a thing within earshot.

"She sang herself," Julio murmured. "She couldn't blame us now, not when she sang before everyone at the Sunrise Spectacular." It was a conversation they'd repeated over and over again for three months now.

"It's true," Oscar admitted. "She sang again, so beautifully. But if she heard us…." He was irritated, more with himself than with his hermosa. He hated working as though he was a newbie to the shoe business. He wanted nothing more than to finish his quota so he could invent new shoes with his twin. But no matter what he tried, he couldn't stop his foot from tapping along in time with his hammer.

"Let her hear us," Victoria huffed as she squinted over her glasses, the needle inches from her eye sockets. "If she hears us, she might come down for a change."

"She won't." Felipe looked over his shoulder at his great-niece. "Not so early in the afternoon."

"Entonces, why not sing?" Victoria lifted her eyes, pushing her glasses up with her pinky. "If she won't come down anyway." The twins shook their heads, and she sighed. "Oh, if Mamá could see us now," she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "How she'd laugh at us all."

"He's coming," Rosita announced, rising from her seat at the window and laying her unpolished shoe on the table. They all paused in their work, looking towards the clock on the far wall.

"Right on schedule," Julio added. "By the way, what's today's excuse?"

"The store?"

"No, we used that one yesterday."

"A walk?"

"We used that two days ago." They stared at each other with growing concern, each wracking their brain for something useful. Finally Rosita shook her head and shrugged at her brother, who blew a breath as he stuck his hands in his pockets.

"You say something," Oscar told his brother.

"No, you say something!" Felipe said, panicking. "I can't think under pressure."

"Neither can I!"

"I'll say something." Victoria stood as well, brushing the dust and bits of cut thread from her apron. The twins sighed in relief, dropping their hammers simultaneously onto the workbench as everyone in the room turned towards the open door, waiting for their daily visitor.

A moment later, there was a self-conscious knock at the door as a man stepped just past the threshold. He was still dressed raggedly (un espantapájaros, Victoria often muttered under her breath), his sleeve barely hanging on by a thread and shoeless as the day he was born, suspenders stretched over his bare ribs. His gold tooth glinted in the afternoon sun as he grinned sheepishly at them all, his hand clutched in nervous hands.

"Hola, Héctor," they chanted in unison, the beginning to their new daily routine.

"Hola, everyone." The hat brim began its revolution, his fingers anxiously beginning to twist. "I've come to… I mean, is Imelda home today?" The twins shared a wince, Rosita's fingers clacking against her cheekbones as she raised her hands to her face. They all turned to Victoria, the self-appointed bearer of today's unfortunate answer. She looked around the room, adjusted her glasses, and then scowled.

"This has gone on long enough," she declared. "Of course she's here. She's been here every day these past two months." She ignored the shocked gasps from her family.

"Yeah, I…uh… I thought that was the case." He sighed, looking down at his bare feet. "A person can only go to the market so many days in a week." He looked so pitiable, dashed hopes and guilt, standing in their doorway like a beggar looking for alms. Rosita clucked and guided him to a chair, inviting him in now that Victoria had broken their routine.

He'd given them all a month before showing up out of the blue, hoping to speak to his wife; they'd been under strict orders after day one to not let him in and, even more, to give him some excuse as to why Mamá Imelda wasn't downstairs with them. She avoided the workshop like the plague every afternoon until he had come and gone away again, leaving her family to scramble and find nearly sixty days worth of excuses to feed him along with sympathetic smiles.

They would have much rather invited him in, treated him as family and marched him up to Imelda's room, but her role as the family matriarch had overruled any personal attachment to Héctor. Now he found himself in Rosita's abandoned chair, the family surrounding him and his hat thrown carelessly on the workshop table.

"She, ah, she asked you to cover for her," he guessed with a sad smile. They nodded, letting Victoria speak for them.

"Yes, but this is getting out of hand." She wiped her glasses on her apron before placing them back on her skull.

"You kept coming every day, even when you knew she wouldn't see you?" Oscar asked curiously, running a finger over his thin mustache. Héctor managed another one-sided shrug. "¡Qué terco!" he exclaimed, visibly impressed.

"She's just as stubborn as you," Felipe said, leaning against the workbench. "She won't come down, even if you came every day for a hundred years."

"Victoria, go up and make her come down," Julio said suddenly, waving his hand in his daughter's face. "For your Papá Héctor."

"No." This was Héctor, looking up at them standing in a circle around him. He scratched at his beard before offering a much happier grin. "Tell me, how much would I have to pay for a pair of genuine Rivera boots?"

"Eh?!" Rosita shook her head. "What on earth are you talking about?! iEs gratis; somos familia!" Oscar and Felipe immediately bent, each taking a foot in their hands and starting to eyeball measure without a word.

"Come now, I'm willing to pay something—"

"No way." Julio crossed his arms, mustache fluttering. "Rosita is right; family doesn't pay for shoes. But…" He glanced at Victoria. "What about Mamá Imelda?"

"You leave her to me." Héctor jerked his foot away from Oscar, "¡Oye! Watch it, that tickles!"

"But—"

"Listen: she's your mamá… but she's my Imelda." His eyes twinkled. "I know how to deal with her. You just leave that to me. I thought that since I'll be around anyway, I might as well need a proper excuse to come by." Héctor leaned in, the family following him as if jerked by a string.

"As far as you're concerned," he whispered once they were in a proper huddle, "I've given up on Imelda. I've accepted that she doesn't want to see me. And if you do see me with her, just… y'know…." He smiled again, this time slyly. "She is still my wife. Act natural."

"Natural?" Oscar parroted, only to get an elbow between the ribs from his brother. "Oh! Natural!" They all chuckled, save for Victoria's modest head shake. Héctor nodded and they broke apart.

"So, I'm sure shoes take a while to make, no?" He said in a much louder tone, loud enough that there was no way it couldn't be heard upstairs. "Especially custom boots for your Papá Héctor."

"You're right, you're right!" Julio agreed just as loudly, winking at his sister. "Custom boots do take a very long time!"

"Oh, yes!" Felipe gushed. "Days!"

"Weeks!" Rosita giggled.

"Then I'll leave you," Héctor nearly shouted, taking his hat and flourishing it at them before jamming it on his head, "to your work!" There was a soft sound, almost like the rustling of skirts at the head of a staircase.

"Come back tomorrow for a proper sizing," Victoria advised, eyeballing the stairs. "That way, we don't have to second-guess ourselves when we begin."

"Got it." He winked once more before turning, offering a little wave. "See you tomorrow."

"Adiós, Héctor!" They waved him out, looking at each other before stifling their laughter. If Héctor was volunteering to take the brunt of Imelda's anger, they were more than willing to sneak around and help him out in any way they could. After all, her mighty arm strength was oftentimes the only thing that kept them in line, and something about his goofy charm made him hard to resist. Maybe that was what she'd meant, when she'd blamed him for Miguel's naughtiness on Día de Los Muertos; his mischievousness was catching.

"It's okay, Mamá!" Julio went to the foot of the stairs, calling up to the second story. "He's gone now." It wasn't a full thirty seconds before Mamá Imelda was among them, eyeing them all suspiciously with her usual motherly intuition.

"It certainly took longer than normal to get him to go away…" she trailed off expectantly, waiting for one of them to explain. Without batting an eye, Victoria took over.

"We ran out of excuses and had to think of something." It was enough of a half-truth that she felt confident, staring directly into her grandmother's eyes without fear of being found out as a liar. "He stayed because he asked us to make him some boots."

"Boots?" she repeated, mouth pursing. "What kind of boots?"

"Custom boots," Rosita explained. "He's tired of walking about in his bare feet."

"And you accepted him?" For the first time, Imelda seemed unhappy about a sale. "Why? Now he actually has an excuse to come inside and—you should have turned him away," she fussed, running a hand over her immaculate hairstyle and patting it nervously.

"It's our fault," Oscar said in false repentance, hands clasped before him. "Felipe and I couldn't turn him down."

"Sí, we haven't had a custom order in so long; we got excited, Imelda. We didn't think."

"And he is our Papá Héctor," Rosita pointed out. "We just couldn't refuse him." Imelda sighed, crossing her arms as she looked out the open door.

"Well…. I can't blame you," she finally admitted. "A Rivera has never been able to turn away someone in need of shoes. Even if it is him. And it's only for a few days."

"Maybe a week," Julio corrected. "Or more. We do have a lot of orders ahead of his."

"…Que Dios me ayude."

Héctor sat at the edge of Shantytown, kicking his feet off the ledge as he thought. People passed by and shouted their greetings to him, but he was too far in his own mind to pay much attention. His thoughts were focused around one goal: Imelda.

He hadn't plotted and planned this much since he had first begun courting her; back then, it had been a grand scheme to get her to notice him. He had rejected the help of his best friend—he had been worried that Ernesto might catch her eye before he could. That was good; he hadn't needed him then, and he certainly didn't need him now. In fact, most of his ideas for getting back in her good graces were the same as his former tricks of the trade: serenading her by moonlight, offering gifts, winning her with his irresistible charms…. He didn't have the dimples she'd admired anymore, but he was still muy guapo, if he said so himself.

But would she indulge him?

Probably not at first, he admitted with a frown, staring up at the lights of the city dancing above him. He'd given her a full month, slipping away after the party and biding his time. He knew just how long she could hold a grudge—he was married to her, after all!—and years of bitterness wouldn't disappear just because they'd had one song together, one small aventura with their living progeny. Before Miguel had come, he'd given up hope of reaching her at all.

But.

"That's for murdering the love of my life!" The thwap of the huarache against bone rang over and over in his head, a sound of hope. She called me the love of her life! Even all these months later, he still couldn't believe it. I still have a chance. I'm the love of her life. It was that mentality that had him coming to the Rivera house every day, standing in the doorway and asking to see her. He knew from first glance that the family was willing, even if the woman was not. He could see the pity in their eyes as they lied to his face, telling him that he'd just missed her, that she'd gone for a walk, or to get more thread, or to deliver an order.

Imelda was a stubborn woman. But he was a stubborn man. After all, he had gone year after year to the marigold bridge, even though he knew full well that he wouldn't be able to cross. Compared to that, romancing his own wife would be easy! He planned it out in his head, night after night of wooing; she'd be begging him to stay within the month.

It was a foolproof plan… as long as she didn't sic Pepita on him.