The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (24)

Wilhelm sucked his teeth and smacked the air. “We were children. You were too sensitive. You’ve always been too soft.”

The Montoyas present let loose a collective scoff.

“Believe what you want, brother. I am disappointed your father or Ana Cruz is not among you. I wanted to see you all one more time. I wanted you to know that I did not die or vanish like my mother believed.”

“Our mother was sick over you,” the woman with the tightly set lips said bitterly. “She died thinking you hated her.”

“I suppose I did, at the time. I don’t anymore.”

“She told me what you did,” the woman with the hazel eyes said, then gestured to the high ceiling. “How you got all of this.”

Orquídea’s laughter was a deep rumble. “I couldn’t water a houseplant with the things you know, Greta.”

Greta balled her fists at her hips. Rey and Caleb Jr. slowly made their way to either side of Orquídea’s chair like sentries.

“Peace, Greta,” said a third Buenasuerte, lanky, with hair so black it looked like an ink smudge. He placed a gentle hand on his sister’s arm, the way Tío Félix had done to Enrique, and it was good to know that all families were the same in certain ways. There were those who felt too much, those who felt too little, and others who knew how to deal with those feelings. “If our sister is ready to put the past behind her and apologize for what she put our mother through, we are here to listen.”

“You misunderstand, Sebastián,” Orquídea said. “I did not invite you here to apologize. Isabela Buenasuerte was who she was, and I know, in my bones, that I was nothing more to her than a burden. I will carry that knowledge with me to my last moments. You mistook her sickness over me for guilt.”

“Then why call us here?” Wilhelm asked.

The ochre pallor of the Buenasuertes became shades of gray, a true black-and-white photograph. Even the air around them warped and faded at their edges, like they were on another plane of existence.

“To tell you the truth, I was hoping your father would be here.”

“His health is poor,” Greta said. “Ana Cruz remained behind to care for him.”

“Pity. I would have liked to see Ana Cruz again,” Orquídea said. “Reymundo, be a dear and bring me the cigarette box on the mantel.

Rey did as he was asked. The cigarette box was made of silver, emblazoned with a starburst and the initials BL. Marimar had tried to open it once, but the little lever at the side wouldn’t budge.

Of course, when Orquídea tried, the lid popped up to reveal an ancient, waxy green bill.

“Cinco sucres,” her voice regained its clarity. “That’s how I met your father and that’s how my mother’s life changed, and that’s how all of you came to be. That’s how my life changed, too, I suppose, but I always knew that I was on a different path than my mother’s. Even before I was born, we diverged. I’ve kept this note for decades, sealed, not even spending it when I had nothing else to my name because it carried a promise.”

“What promise?” Wilhelm asked.

“That I would never be indebted to anyone ever again, especially men like your father. This was a loan, and I want to pay it back.”

Orquídea held out the bill. The five Buenasuerte siblings remained still, offended, bewildered. Wilhelm looked like he was about to start foaming at the mouth, but he stomped across the living room, his feet barely making a sound as he snatched the sucre from Orquídea Divina’s hand.

“You might not be indebted to anyone,” he said, “but by the looks of all this, your descendants will pay the price. Whatever you did, I hope it was worth it.”

The Buenasuertes left soundlessly, and they did not look back.

The Montoyas stared at Orquídea who grinned deeply with her eyes closed.

“Was that necessary?” Reina asked.

Orquídea met her daughter-in-law’s eyes and said, “What is it like to live without rage in your heart?”

Reina knew better than to answer.

“I, for one, am loving this family reunion,” Rey exclaimed, going to the bar cart to select a bottle of amber liquid. He poured himself a large helping, then remembered the others in the room. Raising the glass, he said, “Salud, motherfuckers.”

“All right, everyone,” Félix said loudly, twisting his hands in that nervous way of his. “At this rate we’ll never get dinner finished in time. Reina, Silvia, Caleb, you’re with me in the kitchen. Penny, Marimar, Rey, you’re on cleaning duty. Juan Luis and Gastoncito, help Ricky bring the dining table in here.”

Enrique snatched Rey’s drink from his hands mid-sip and took a seat in the chair opposite his mother. “I’m busy.”

“I’ll do it,” Frederico, Silvia’s husband, offered.

“See? So helpful.” Enrique grimaced at the burn of his stolen drink.

“What about me?” Tatinelly said, rubbing her belly. “We can help.”

“Tati, you rest for now,” Félix said.

Enrique laughed. Gestured to the shoots of branches sprouting between his mother’s knuckles. “Of course, you’re all fine with this. None of you question anything she does.”

“On the contrary,” Silvia said. Her hair was pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful. “I question it all the time. I’m just okay with not having answers. I accept our mother the way she is. You’re just a needy fuck.”