62. Daniela

The phone vibrates on what was once my father’s desk, and I turn it over, foolishly hoping it’s Antonio calling to apologize. There must be something wrong with me.

I’m still clinging to the fairy tale of the dark prince and the dirty princesa who overcome all the obstacles trying to tear them apart and live happily ever after. There’s definitely something wrong with me.

Lara flashes on the screen. Not exactly the evil queen. That’s Sonia. Lara’s more of a mean stepsister. And I must be a glutton for punishment, because I take the call.

“Hello.”

“Daniela. It’s so good to hear your voice.”

“It’s nice to hear yours, too.” And, in a strange way, it is nice to hear from her. That’s how it is with familiar things. We gravitate toward them, even when we know we shouldn’t.

“I know you don’t have much use for an assistant right now.”

That’s a loaded remark.And exactly why I’m so wary of her.

“But I’m still working at Senhor Antonio’s house,” she continues, “and I’d love to drop over some mail that’s addressed to you.”

I let the Senhor Antonio’s house remark roll off my back.

“Mail?” Of course I’m still getting mail there. I hadn’t really thought about it.

“I didn’t open anything that looked personal. But I suspect there are condolences for Senhor Antonio’s mother’s death, and congratulations are still coming in from the harvest events.”

I’m not sure I want to deal with the mail, or Lara for that matter.

“I can respond to the condolences on behalf of Senhor Antonio, so you don’t have to be bothered.”

I don’t think so, dear. Senhor Antonio is still my husband.

“Are you free on Friday morning to bring the mail?”

“If I’m not, I’ll make myself free. Will Valentina be home? I’d love to see her.”

I don’t want her here while Valentina’s home. I have no idea what kind of little bomb she’ll drop.

“I’m sorry. She’ll be at school.”

“Another time, then. Would you like me to bring the rest of your things?”

She wants to know if I’m coming back.I’m not telling her a damn thing. She can ask Senhor Antonio, if she wants to know. He’d love that.

“I have everything I need,” I say brightly, before we hang up.

This probably isn’t fair, but I’ve always felt like Lara enjoys others’ pain. Some people are like that. Maybe it’s because of what happened to her husband and young son. Misery loves company, and all that. Or maybe she’s just a shit-stirrer.

“Excuse me,” Alma calls, sticking her head in the door. Her arms are full, and I rush to help her.

“What do you have?” I ask, looking at the shallow plastic tub.

“After you went to visit your aunt in Canada”—oh, God, that story certainly has had a long life—“Antonio had me come here and pack away anything of importance.” She takes the cover off the tub. “This was from a drawer in your father’s bedroom.”

The container holds my mother’s cashmere shawls, all neatly folded, in a rainbow of colors. Paper-thin but warm, she had one near her all the time. After she died, I took the red one to remind me of her. I still have it.

“Did you know your father kept a drawer with a few of her things?”

I shrug. “I didn’t know.” I left so soon after he died that we never went through all his things.

“Maybe he kept the drawer for you,” she says, holding up a small Bible.

It’s the one my great-great-grandmother carried on her wedding day, and since then, every bride in the family has carried it, too. Except me. When Antonio and I got married,I chose not to sully it. Turns out it was a good decision.

I take the small white book and open the cover gingerly, so as not to break the fragile binding. Inside is the signature of every bride who carried it, with her wedding date. I lightly trace my mother’s neat handwriting, getting lost in the swirly font.

“There’s this, too,” Alma says, pulling out the larger, family Bible, from the bottom. It wasn’t so much used for prayer, but to memorialize important dates, for future generations—births, baptisms, marriages, deaths, and the like.

There was so much to do after he died, so that we could leave quickly, that I never recorded my father’s death, and certainly not my marriage. And of course, there’s no mention of Valentina—it’s as though she doesn’t exist.

You need to tell her so she can take her place in the family history, a small voice inside me says. It’s her legacy, too.

I tamp down the voice, until I can’t hear it anymore.

Alma holds out the family Bible to me. “There’s comfort in prayer.” She shrugs. “At least I’ve always thought so.”

I nod, not because I agree, but because although she hasn’t asked me outright, by now she must have seen photos of Antonio out on the town, partying like a man with a new lease on life.

This morning, a photo of him was splashed everywhere. He’s apparently spending a week with friends in Morocco. He wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. That bothered me more than the redhead.

Although neither the photo nor the caption crushed me as much as I might have thought. But it made me sad for him—for us. Every day, there’s some new insult. He’s drifting further away, and instead of being an anchor, I’m the distant shore.

I gaze at Alma. “You’ve seen the pictures?”

“Garbage,” she replies. “I threw the newspaper right into the trash this morning, where it belongs. But from the look on your face, you saw the article.”

I know Antonio’s acting out, but there’s something about the very public way he’s doing it that’s especially nasty. Although as long as Valentina doesn’t see it, I don’t care all that much what people think. Anyone worth caring about will recognize him as the problem.

“I didn’t see the paper, but I read the piece online.”

She pushes the Bible in my direction, but I shake my head. “It’s a little late to be praying for my marriage.”

“Not for your marriage, querida. For you. You need clarity and the strength to do what’s best for you and for that beautiful girl who has your good heart.”

For a moment, I almost expect her to say And Vera Huntsman’s eyes—but she doesn’t. Although I’m sure Alma has wondered about it.

“Shall I take the box to your room?” she asks, before going about her business.

“No. Just leave it here.”

When she’s gone, I carefully take out a cheery pink shawl and bring it to my nose to see if I can pick up any hint of my mother. I’m not sure it smells like anything, but I convince myself that there’s lingering perfume—her perfume. I close my eyes and inhale the scent, and for a moment, I feel her love.

For the rest of the day, I wrap myself in the delicate shawl, hoping it will give me the willpower to stay away from any more Google searches of Antonio.