We are delighted to be revealing the cover for The Waves Take You Home by María Alejandra Barrios Vélez! Releasing on March 19th 2024, this is a heartfelt story about how the places we run from hold the answers to our deepest challenges, the death of her grandmother brings a young woman home, where she must face the past in order to become the heir of not just the family restaurant, but her own destiny.
The Waves Take You Home is now available for pre-order and to add to your Goodreads! Read on to discover the synopsis, a stunning cover, and the first chapter, but first, here’s what María thinks about her cover!
“Seeing the cover for The Waves Take You Home was surreal. It was one of the rare moments in my life where the result was even more incredible than I could have imagined! The artist Raxenne Manequiz captured so well the spirit of the Caribbean: the cayenne flowers, the bougainvilleas, the bold colors, the caracoles, and the magical realism laced throughout the book. It was the perfect cover for portraying the romance in this story, the longing for the Caribbean and how we never really leave our first homes behind. I hope readers love this cover as much as I do!”
Synopsis
Violeta Sanoguera had always done what she was told. She left the man she loved in Colombia in pursuit of a better life for herself and because her mother and grandmother didn’t approve of him. Chasing dreams of education and art in New York City, and with a new love, twenty-eight-year-old Violeta establishes a new life for herself, on her terms. But when her grandmother suddenly dies, everything changes.
After years of being on her own in NYC, Violeta finds herself on a plane back to Colombia, accompanied at all times by the ghost of her grandmother who is sending her messages and signs, to find she is the heir of the failing family restaurant, the very one Abuela told her to run from in the first place. The journey leads her to rediscover her home, her grandmother, and even the flame of an old love.
Excerpt
Chapter One: Caracol
Caminito was the start and the ending of this story. Since I was young, Abuela told me that my place was not in the kitchen, everywhere but in the kitchen. She feared for me the all-consuming flame that she said was life as a restaurant owner. Abuela imagined my hands with rough calluses, my mind busy with interminable thoughts of dishes and of having to cook day in and day out. She feared the idea of me merging with the strong, solid walls that encompassed her prison, a life subdued to family obligation.
But like all things forbidden, that only drew me more.
The night that changed it all, Caminito’s floor was vibrating from all the foot traffic—waiters were busy with trays carrying Abuela’s Colombian Spanish specialties: paella, tortilla Española, and sizzling steaks. Barranquilleros were dressed elegantly with long, flowy dresses and crisp, freshly ironed shirts. An echo of delight and laughter reverberated throughout the room. I wasn’t supposed to be there; Abuela had already kicked me out once when she caught me in the kitchen with Anton, trying to help him cut some vegetables for a broth.
“Te vas a quemar! Anton, no te dije that she shouldn’t be in the kitchen?”
Anton had shrugged. “Doña, yo . . .”
“Nada, no exceptions.”
Anton had looked at me with those puppy eyes that meant he felt guilty. Anton was Abuela’s protégé, and keeper of her culinary knowledge and the family recipes that we served at the restaurant.
But not being able to have a place in the restaurant only made me want it more. I was in love with the broths, sauces, and spices in the kitchen. The frantic rhythm of the dance that was working together on a busy night. I was in love with the sense of possibility, of everything that you could make with simple, good ingredients.
Whenever she would kick me out, I would always say, “Sí, Abuela.” And then return in a moment when she was busy greeting customers. I had inherited more than her love for cooking and food—I had also inherited her stubbornness. Mamá had too.
After having been kicked out once that night already, I wasn’t returning to the kitchen to cook but to tell Mamá I was going out with Rafa. Mamá didn’t like him, either, but she was easier than Abuela because she was often distracted by whatever guy she was seeing.
I entered the restaurant and tried to go straight to the kitchen. Abuela was there, wearing her jet-black hair pinned up and a black skirt suit with buttons that looked like shells. She was smiling at two customers, an old couple who came to the restaurant every Friday to always have the same thing: paella to share and a bottle of rioja.
“I swear, Doña Emilia, this paella is better every time I try it,” Don Víctor said, looking at his wife, Ruth, who had her face buried in her plate.
“Mm-hmm.” Ruth nodded. “The best one in the city.”
Abuela smiled with recognition. “Claro! We just won best paella in the city for the third time in a row—” Abuela’s eyes darted to me as I crossed the sea of waiters and people who were dining at the restaurant. My heart was beating fast, and I was walking as briskly as I could, but I knew I couldn’t escape her hawklike gaze. “Excuse me, one second please,” she said, and I glanced briefly at Don Víctor and his wife, who were looking at each other with the knowing smiles that only those in an old but pleasant marriage can share.
“Violeta! A a’onde vas?”
Abuela asked where I was going, following me as I closed the kitchen door. Mamá was there, talking on the phone and smoking a cigarette. Abuela was about to eat her alive; she had just arrived. Mamá wasn’t one to linger in the restaurant; she always had plans. It had been that way since I was a kid—Abuela took care of the restaurant and of me. If Mami was a feather, Abuela was a block of cement: heavy and rooted to the ground with nowhere to go.
“What’s going on here?” Abuela said, looking at Mamá hiding in a corner. Mamá didn’t know whether to drop the cell phone or the cigarette first.
Abuela released a breath that could have unleashed a cyclone. “Paula, throw that away! You’re going to burn down this place!”
Mamá did as told and stubbed out the cigarette with her shoe. Abuela closed her eyes and muttered something under her breath, turning her back to her daughter. “What’s going on, Vi?”
At my eighteen years of age, I knew better than to say anything.
“What is it, Vi?” Mamá asked, taking a deep breath. It was impossible to relax in Abuela’s kitchen.
“I am going out,” I said. “I just came here to tell Mamá so you both wouldn’t worry.”
Abuela shook her head and walked to the sauce station, where Anton was mixing some sauces in different pans. Abuela tried the bubbling béchamel with a small spoon and told him it was good but to add more pepper and salt.
An exhalation of relief; she didn’t know it, but she had loved my sauce. In secret, I had prepared that sauce with Anton to use in one of the night’s specials: luscious chipotle chicken crepes with a béchamel sauce topped off with avocado. Anton said they were too heavy, but I thought they were perfect: creamy and spicy and comforting.
“Una pizquita,” she said and pinched her fingers to indicate how little he needed to put in. Anton nodded, and we looked at each other. We shared that love and reverence for Abuela. When she said something, our first instinct was to obey.
“Are you going to see that plumber’s son?” Abuela said, lifting the lid of the red tomato sauce that she’d spiced with paprika and red pepper flakes. The smell traveled into the kitchen. “Didn’t I forbid it?”
“A-Abuela,” I stammered. “You can’t forbid it. I’m eighteen. You can’t forbid me from doing anything anymore.”
It felt right when I said it. But why was my leg shaking?
Mamá shook her head. She was softer than Abuela, but she agreed with her. “She’s right, Vi. Nothing good is going to come out of that. You have the opportunity to make a life for you that’s just yours. In less than a month you’ll go to college in the States—the opportunity! We didn’t have that. We never left this country. Who knows who I’d have been if I had done that?” Mamá tapped her feet, probably anxious for another cigarette.
Abuela set the lid on the pot as if putting a lid on my heart. “No significa no. You’re not going. My ears are buzzing from all the talk in the barrio. All I hear about is you and the son of that plumber. You’re going to college abroad; focus on that.”
I had done all the essays and applications knowing that Abuela wouldn’t let me miss this chance. For her, it was our chance. My visa had been approved a few months ago, and everything was ready. She had decided that this was what I needed to do. I knew it was a way of keeping me from Rafa and sending me away. Rafa said he was going to wait for me, but I didn’t want to go. I loved the restaurant, and I wanted to be here, at home, with him. I could study art at the local university and then focus on my two passions: art and Caminito. I didn’t need to go away, but she would never understand that. Abuela always thought she knew better.
Abuela sighed loudly, and opened her mouth, ready to yell at me. I knew all the cooks at their stations wanted to look, but they couldn’t; they didn’t dare. Doña Emilia was as loved as she was feared, even by her own family.
“I am going,” I said, pushing my shoulders back and standing tall. I tried to straighten my leg. I lifted my chin up, holding on to the fire I felt in my chest. This was the time to stand up to her; it was now or never. Rafa and I were running out of time. We needed to see each other. To figure out how we were going to stay together. “I’m going. You can tell your friends whatever you want. Lo que quieras.” I snatched the keys to the car and went to the back door quickly so Abuela wouldn’t have time to grab me by my dress.
“Ay, Vi. We’re your mirror, mija,” she said with a sadness in her voice that contained all her disappointments in love.
Mamá and I locked eyes for a moment. She was letting me go, but her gaze was telling me to stay. Was this a test?
“Vete pues, no te vas?” Abuela lifted her thin eyebrow. Weren’t you leaving?
I gripped the keys of the car, my hand shaking. She was challenging me to disobey her. To see if I would even dare.
“You’re eighteen, you’re right. If you want to be with that bueno-para-nada, I can’t stop you. Go! Make your mistakes, like we have.”
I remembered Rafa’s words from the night before, when I had sneaked out of my house to see him. We had been worrying about so many things: If I had to go to the States, could we do long distance? Could I stay? I was eighteen. If I made that decision, would Mamá and Abuela ever forgive me?
Rafa had taken my hands between his and said, “Just because Abuela and Mamá said no to us, we can’t say no to ourselves. We have to fight.”
I turned back and walked out of the kitchen, feeling the fire in my step. My family’s journey had been cemented by decisions of leaving, staying, and setting paths on fire that might have taken them on kinder, better roads. Abuela said my name one last time, and after that, she raised her voice not caring if the whole restaurant could hear her.
“Violeta,” she yelled from the kitchen. “I just want what’s best for you. One day you’ll see.”
I kept walking, one foot in front of the other, leaving Abuela and Mamá behind.
