26. Daniela

Samantha and I are having a cold drink in the shade of an ancient sycamore, waiting for Antonio’s mother to arrive. The girls are sunbathing near the pool, with the music turned up loud enough to be enjoyed by the neighbors—if there were any actual neighbors.

“Like Will, Antonio is—” Samantha pauses for a moment, as if searching for the right words to describe her relationship with my husband. “Not someone I’d want to cross. But he has a soft spot for people he cares about, and he’s always been there for me. I would never hesitate to go to him for anything.”

She glances over my shoulder. “Look who’s here.”

I turn around to see Lydia, followed by a man and a woman, who appear to be waitstaff, and two guards carrying tiered trays.

“She wanted to take us all to tea, but Will and Antonio shot that idea right down. So it looks like she brought tea to us. From Claridge’s, no less. I adore her. But she’s nuts,” Samantha whispers.

Lydia gushes over Samantha and me, before giving us each a big hug. While I’m wrapped in her embrace, I can’t help but think of my mother. She would have loved an afternoon with the girls. Three generations of us.

Although, if she were here, I wouldn’t have Valentina, and I certainly wouldn’t be married to Antonio. It’s a bittersweet moment for me, but I won’t allow the melancholy to spoil the afternoon.

“I suspect if I follow the music, I’ll find my girls.” Lydia chuckles, reaching for a tote bag at her feet. “I brought wide-brimmed hats and some other trinkets for them. What’s a tea party without a little flair?”

Samantha winks at me. The girls are twelve, yearning to be older and more sophisticated. I doubt they’ll want to play dress up. Hopefully they won’t hurt her feelings.

* * *

We were so wrong.The girls strutted around in bikinis with the floppy hats and long strands of faux pearls that Lydia brought, sticking out their budding breasts, until Samantha decided that we’d had enough of a “titty show,” and made them put on cover-ups before they sat down to tea.

For two hours, maybe longer, we have a tea party. We chat and laugh a lot. Lydia tells stories about my mother, and Vera, and Antonio, which Valentina, and even Alexis, eat up. She also listens intently to every word that comes out of the girls’ mouths, as though they’re dropping little gems, instead of tidbits of pop culture.

I don’t remember either of my grandmothers. They passed when I was very young. I’m so happy that Valentina has Lydia—a grandmother who loves her for simply existing.

When the girls eventually have enough, they excuse themselves and disappear in the direction of the house.

“I’m going to take the rest of the pastries inside,” Samantha says, “and peek on the budding chorus girls to make sure they’re not sneaking cigarettes and gin.”

Cigarettes and gin?

“I’m kidding,” she assures me, when my jaw hits the ground.

Sneaking contraband and experimenting with friends. I missed out on that phase of life.

“Is my son good to you?” Lydia asks, after Samantha gathers the leftovers and takes them inside.

I nod and take a sip of water. “He’s good to me, and to Valentina.”

The muscles in her face unfurl with my assurances.

“He’s always been complicated. Even as a child, he had a maturity well beyond his years. He saw too much. Took on too much responsibility too soon. He still had some fun in him, though. But the years, and the ever-growing responsibilities, have made him so serious. So stern. Sometimes I struggle to find the boy who beamed when he handed me a flower he picked from the garden. He rarely laughs anymore. I hope you can help him find the joy in life again.”

My heart clenches. “I’m trying. He’s a work in progress, but we’ll get there.” At least, most days I think so.

“He adores you,” she says softly. “It’s the one thing that gives me solace. I love my son with all my heart, but I’m still having a hard time forgiving him for forcing you to honor the betrothal contract.”

Her face is lined with sorrow. For most of her life, she worked to make things easier for Portuguese women who were caught between a ruthless dictator and a society that was slow to evolve. Antonio’s behavior must feel like the worst kind of betrayal.

“I’m so sorry, meu amor,”she says. “I tried my best with him. I pleaded with him to do better, but it seems it fell on deaf ears.”

We’ve been through this before, and I’m sure she’s let Antonio know how she feels. Lydia is no shrinking violet. It must have been hell for her, married to Hugo. She’s going to apologize to me for as long as she lives.

I place my hand on hers. “I hate that I wasn’t given a choice about the marriage. And I won’t stand for it with Valentina. But I have a choice now. I could leave. It wouldn’t be easy, but Antonio wouldn’t hold me against my wishes. Not at this point.” Not now that he knows what his father did.

Skepticism has replaced the sorrow on her face. She doesn’t believe it. But I believe it. Every word. It would be ugly, but he wouldn’t hold me as a prisoner.

“I choose to stay,” I tell my mother-in-law, my mother’s best friend. “And I choose him.”

Lydia squeezes her eyes shut, but a few tears trickle out. “He’s lucky to have you. Strong men need strong women.”

She sips some water.

“Hugo wasn’t strong. He was just loud, and mean to the bone. Evil personified.”

“Antonio’s nothing like him,” I say, emphatically.

“No.” She shakes her head. “But he needs someone to pull him back when he starts in that direction. I was never able to do that for my husband. Hugo, and Abel, too, were not men you could reason with.” She sighs. “I won’t be around forever. I’m counting on you, my dear, to help Antonio grow into the good man I know is inside. He has the ability to put an end to some of the old ways that are harmful.” Lydia squeezes my hand. “A lot rides on your success. I have great faith in you.”

There’s something about her words, her tone—the entire conversation, really. It’s been wistful, almost resigned, and ominous.

For a moment, it feels as though she’s passed me the mantle. Welcomed me to the resistance that she, and Vera, and my mother, and even my grandmother, revered.

I’m honored, and I hope I’m worthy.