A/N: This was originally meant to be just the first half of a chapter, but figured it'd be better to publish something now while I finish up that second half.

Thanks for being so patient with these updates, and for the comments that inspire me to keep writing. And big thank you to BabyCharmander for beta-reading!

Chapter 15: An Attempt Was Made

It was a stunningly beautiful morning when Héctor awoke, stepping outside the little shack and squinting at the sun. It was later than he would have liked, although he had no plans other than going to see Imelda and the family again. That alone was a nice change of pace from wallowing in his grief and waiting to die.

Idly running a hand through his hair, he tried to recall his dream of last night—Imelda had been there. He recalled playing on stage before a crowd, or maybe just Imelda, or maybe it had been dark and empty. There had been applause, or the sense of it. Then, as he stood under the bright, blinding lights, a chill had swept through him.

Someone had been watching. He felt it, a familiar presence at the shadowed wings of the stage. But when he turned to look…

He couldn't remember, lost in his waking haze. As he was dwelt on it, a yawn escaped him, and he rearranged his priorities. First off: breakfast. He let out another yawn as he set up the little coal fire pit on the dock out back, slicing lime while the fire heated up. After years of living shabbily he was making an effort to live normally again, and that included eating. Besides, he was actually hungry. That was always a good sign.

As he mixed the maize and water in the little blackened pot, he wished he hadn't abandoned this little routine over the past years. There was a familiar comfort to it, a steady rhythm not unlike music. Sure, it wasn't traditionally a man's job, but Aida had taught him well and they had made a point to share the work. Of course, it was only him now…except, no, he had his family again. Even if he wasn't living with them, that counted for something. Even if things were a bit... complicated at the moment.

Héctor rolled the molinillo between his hands, whisking the atole into a fine froth, watching it spin sharply left, then right, then disappear in the soft whiteness, and he thought about many things he didn't wish to think about.

Primarily, he kept returning to his talk with Imelda last night. Aida was never supposed to be a secret, but there had never been a good time to bring it up. And, all right, if he was honest, he was a little worried how Imelda might react. But it wasn't like he had anything to hide about Aida, right? Maybe?

Momentarily pausing those thoughts, he poured the warm drink into a wide ceramic mug, added a dash of lime and sugar, and took a deep sip. It was good, and he let out a contented sigh as he leaned back in his rickety chair, facing the sun. Yet there was a bitterness he hadn't expected.

Somehow, over the years, the drink had come to taste like home.

Home used to taste like something else, but he couldn't remember what. It might have been spiced hot chocolate like Imelda used to drink, or chilaquiles on a late morning. The drink in his hand was a bit sweet, a bit sour, and so familiar. Perhaps home was now the taste of warm corn tortillas freshly made and Aida's egg-filled papadzules . Mixed in with all that was the faint smell of coffee and wood smoke.

He needed to speak with Imelda, he told himself, before his thoughts could unravel down a path he didn't want to go down. He just had to go and tell her the truth. Or some of the truth, in any case. But after almost a hundred years apart, there was a lot to tell, and that gave him an idea.

Frowning thoughtfully, he stood and went back inside the shack, rifling through a tin chest until he straightened, holding a soft leather book and flipping through the pages with a fond smile. Aida's old journal. His Christmas gift to her, he was fairly sure. Yes, there on the inner cover was his note, Christmas of '84. His last one to her.

It was water-stained and dogged, some of the words too shaky to read on the later pages when she was growing weaker. A faint breath escaped him, and he flipped further back to where he had written his own entries when he had grown desperate and too lonely to do otherwise. He didn't read them—he didn't need reminders of those days—and set it down before looking at the other books.

"I wonder if it's still here." He picked up another dark leather book, half the cover torn. "When had we… when was that?" It was before Imelda had arrived in '71, so the '76 journal was still too late. He picked up the one that he had given her in '65, and scanned the pages. Then he found it, a long list.

At the top, in Aida's swooped letters:

Things Héctor Should Tell His Wife

He grinned and carried it out, holding it carefully as he sat down and took a sip of the warm atole. The list had been more of a joke when they'd written it that chilly winter evening, all their crazy stories so he wouldn't forget any. Well, it wasn't all funny, he thought with a grin. ' Night with Maris' was one of them, as was Aida's thrice-underlined words, ' Burned my house !' Neither of those were funny, yet they had still laughed when she wrote them. Most weren't even secrets, but stories that he had wanted to share with Imelda, back when he had still held onto some hope that she might listen. A very small hope that had been extinguished soon enough when she arrived.

Frowning, he scratched his chin and thought that some things were missing. The list had been written in '62, and Imelda had arrived in '71, so ten years later. So it had been forty, wait… mentally he did some rather bad math and realized that it had been over fifty years since Aida had written those words down.

The original notes had had his first night in prison, the war in Shantytown, and that thing with the sea monster. He hadn't thought to add 'sleeping with Aida' to it, but there it was, freshly penciled in. Then he scratched it out because it was so stupid.

"Maybe I can tell her that she knew Aida," Héctor mumbled, tapping the pencil against his hollow cheek. "That's pretty safe."

Except then he'd need to say that he had sent Aida out to spy on Imelda when she first arrived and, no, that wasn't going to go over well. Besides, once she knew that, she'd then know about the money. He had a feeling that she wouldn't appreciate that as much as he'd hope. At least not yet with things currently so precarious between them.

He groaned and let himself fall back onto the deck, propping the little book over his eyes. That really hadn't seemed that big a deal at the time. What else… he pulled out the page of the article that Lando had given and unfolded it, the corners shivering in the faint breeze as he squinted against the light.

His eyes flickered over the title with a huff."Pfft! Me and Aida. As if," he muttered. "Dumb magazine…"

He added a few more lines in any case, about bridge-crossings and trouble with the law, and then mentally re-organized all of it from least problematic to… well, he'll deal with it later. Somehow.

Imelda had offered him a second chance. He could do this.

Stepping out the front door, he spent a good, long moment just standing there, feeling the sun beating down on his bones, relishing the cool breeze off the water, the promise of a winter chill later on.

"Right," he said to himself, stretching his back and setting off along the familiar pathway. "Today is going to be a good day. I can feel it."

Yet even so, a weariness weighed him down. He wondered if he was still recovering from his near-miss with Final Death just a little over a month before, still often exhausted and sleeping long, odd hours. Then again, he had felt much the same for the past few years as he grew weaker and weaker as eventually only one person carried his memory.

Despite everything, that hadn't changed all that much. Now, as far as he knew, his existence rested on the memories of two people. Although perhaps Miguel had told his story, and he very well might have. How was the kid doing? Would he talk about that night? About him? Was he still playing guitar?

Hector winced, very slightly, and dropped his gaze. Despite all their efforts, he would never be able to cross the Bridge, might never see Miguel again in life or in death. And the only way he'd know how Miguel was doing was when Imelda and the rest of the family visited on Dia de los Muertos. He would have to rely on them to tell him everything.

Coco could tell him, when she passed over, he thought with a conflict of emotion. Assuming, of course, that he was still allowed to talk with her. Assuming... that he was still a part of Imelda's family and hadn't said or done something irredeemably stupid before then. Or if too much of his past was revealed at the wrong time…

Despite the morning sun, he was suddenly cold.

He loved Imelda and this family he had never known, but he couldn't quell the constant underlying fear that at any point, things could change. The day before, speaking with Imelda, had served as a very strong reminder of that. And he hadn't even thought that his friendship with Aida would ever be an issue, yet there he was, trying to defend against absurd allegations.

Besides, a dark part of himself whispered that Imelda had no right to be jealous. How many times had she turned him away? But he shoved those thoughts deep and focused on the positive.

"Perdóname… Señor Héctor?"

"Huh?" He turned towards the woman's voice calling as he approached the bottom of the great stairway leading to the upper lands. It was then that he caught sight of how young she was, how out of place, and the way she gazed at him, and immediately got a bad feeling about this. "Uh… can I help you?"

Another reporter? Or…

"Señor, I just wanted to meet you and, uh, get a chance to maybe… talk with you," she said with a shy smile, to which Héctor held back from physically sighing.

Ah. A fan.

"Sorry, now really isn't a good time." Frankly there wasn't ever a good time, but she was not to be deterred.

"I've always loved your music," she said, following him as he began to trudge upwards, step by stone step. "It really spoke to me, in a way I can't really truly describe."

"Well, uh… I don't really play much music nowadays."

"Oh, I meant the songs you wrote! I thought they were written by Ernesto de la Cruz, but to meet the actual artist is incredible."

She shifted a little closer and Héctor stepped further away. "That's, uh… I appreciate the compliment?"

"Your song 'Remember Me' really touched me. The lyrics, the passion of it, it was just so…"

"Eh… actually I never meant for that song to go public," he said, frowning and trying to keep his annoyance in check. "It was written for my daughter."

"Oh, I heard that! I read about it in the newspaper, that you tried so hard to be there for your family. It was so sweet."

"Ahhh… that so?" Héctor really didn't like the way she was looking at him.

"And you're so much more humble than him, living here instead of that fancy tower!"

She gestured back toward the dark land of Shantytown, and for a moment her smile twitched.

"Yeah, well…" Héctor fumbled around for some kind of response. Would it be weird to just take off running? It worked before.

"You know, uh, if you'd ever like to, well, perhaps spend some more time together—"

"Nope! Sorry but gotta run. Really busy with family stuff and, you know… things. Nice talking with you, bye!"

He sighed as he limped along after getting lost in the morning crowds, suddenly exhausted despite it being so early in the day. Did he look like someone who'd just run off with a girl? As if he would really cheat that easily? Everyone knew he was married. Very married! Grumbling under his breath, he made his way into the bustling city, surrounded by the sounds of street vendors and trolley bells and alebrijes flying overhead.

Next stop was the Rivera workshop. Although, perhaps a stop at the the post office would be appropriate. It was only a slight detour and he hadn't checked his mail in months, and it was still early enough to beat the afternoon rush. Stepping in and glancing around, he caught sight of a familiar face behind the counter but decided not to bother him. Best to slip in before anyone noticed.

He checked his mailbox and found a disturbing amount of envelopes and six, no… eight notices for packages that he decidedly wasn't going to pick up that day. It could wait. There was also a note from Roberto to see him. None of the letters looked interesting so he shoved them back in the little box, cramming the last few into the small space- smaller than he could ever recall-, and closed it with a click of a lock. He'd pick the packages up later, he told himself. Why did he even stop by there in the first place?

All right, maybe he just wasn't ready to face Imelda yet. And still hadn't figured out how he was going to tell her everything without sounding deranged. Or like he had cheated…

"Ah, Héctor! Where've you been?"

"Hey Roberto," Héctor called lazily, waving a hand and watching the skeleton move around the desk. "Says here you got something for me."

"Yeah, uno momento, be right back."

Héctor leaned against a wall, idly glancing about as he waited for Roberto, a man who comfortably sat in that vague space between friend and acquaintance, and who, true to his word, returned moments later.

"So first off, please try to pick up those packages. The boss is getting seriously annoyed."

"Why?"

"Because a lot of it is food."

Héctor stared at him from the side of his eye. "Why are people sending me food ?"

"I don't know, man," Roberto said with a full bodied shrug. "Some of its offerings, though. There's at least one basket of pan de muertos with your name on it, and a pretty wrapped bottle of something. Ok, so it's actually pulque but I think it's supposed to be a surprise. I guess people feel bad you didn't get offerings of your own for so long."

"That's… huh, actually that's really nice."

"Well it's all yours whenever you decide to take it. But my note was about this!" He held up a handful of letters and Héctor cringed a little. The whole 'being famous' thing really didn't suit him.

"Am I really getting that many letters that they don't fit anymore?"

"Huh? Oh, no, that's not why… although, frankly, yeah, that's true. We've got a huge bag of letters and packages in the back for you."

"What?"

"That's what one of those paper slips is about. Do you not read any of those?"

"Uh…"

"Read your damn mail, Héctor!"

"Ay, all right, all right, just… shush!" Héctor held out his hands and looked around carefully, straightening up again when he was sure he wouldn't be ambushed.

Héctor held out his hand for the letters, and watched with increasing confusion as Roberto took one letter at a time and carefully placed them in his palm, like each was gold-encrusted 500-peso note.

"What's all this?"

"New program of mine," Roberto said proudly. "You've been getting so much mail now, and some seemed important, so I said that if they paid a little extra fee, I'd be sure to put their letter in your hand directly. That way it wouldn't get mixed up with all the others. A little extra special attention, you get me?"

Héctor raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

"Good idea, right?"

Héctor glanced down at the stack of letters in his hand, and sighed. "Well, I guess I will read them a little sooner than the others."

As he spoke he began flipping through the letters, and got a pretty good sense of what each was. Something formal from a newspaper company, so probably a request for an interview. Either hate mail or a ransom note based on the magazine cuttings. A hand-written envelope but when Héctor saw it was from his step-father, immediately rolled his eyes and flicked it over his shoulder. Then there was a letter from a not-so-secret admirer, complete with a heart doodled in the corner, and a second tied with a blue ribbon. An official looking letter from a music agency, probably asking him to write music again. Another admirer…

"This many, huh?" he asked as Roberto peered at his side, arms crossed and nodding along with each new letter.

"Think this might be just the start if you keep getting more popular."

"Ugh, don't say that." Héctor shoved them all into the pouch hanging at his waist. They could be dealt with later in private. Much more important, he had to go see Imelda. Somehow seeing those letters had struck something deep within him. Why hadn't he gone sooner?

"You know, if any of those girls are looking for a boyfriend…"

"Nope," Héctor said, before turning and walking out with a small wave behind him.

"Hey!" Roberto called out, and Héctor turned back to see him fall somber. "I saw what they wrote about you. Forget all those stupid articles! Things will turn out."

"Yeah… yeah things are doing better," he said softly, smiling to himself. He didn't realize how much he needed to hear that. "Thanks."

Things were getting better. He just had to remember that as he walked on through the bustling city, his goal clear in his mind, not to be deterred again.

Next stop: his family.

A/N: Big thank you to the reader who reminded me I hadn't posted this chapter to ffnet yet! (and the next one is coming in a few days... also hopefully the one after that since it's already written and just needs final editing.

That said, it was nice writing this chapter and seeing more of this other side of Hector not around his family, which I imagine can be stressful at times even if he loves it.

Thanks for reading, and comments always appreciated 3