The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (63)

“What about the roof? I’m going to call Bailey—”

Mike had taken the phone out of her hand, gently, like she’d been holding scissors or a knife instead. “Honey, there’s no one on Bailey’s roof.”

But she’d sit at the living room window, the one that took up the entire wall so that they never felt cooped up inside. She watched for the stranger, her stalker. If no one believed her, then she’d prove it to them.

Of course, her stalker hadn’t appeared since they drove to Four Rivers, and she felt better with Marimar and Rey. It was good for Rhiannon to be around family, since Mike’s family never came by and seemed to forget to invite them to birthday parties and camping and barbecues.

The Buenasuerte house was lovely. Their guest room had family pictures. Paintings of birds and butterflies and mountains. Mike passed out without showering, but Tati wanted to wash the all-day travel from her skin, and made sure Rhiannon did, too.

Before she fell asleep, Tatinelly watched her two greatest loves. Mike’s eyes fluttered rapidly under closed lids, and she gently kissed his forehead, wishing him sweeter dreams. Rhiannon was curled between them like a little nautilus shell, like she could wind herself into a fetal position and back into the womb. She brushed the silky petals of Rhiannon’s rose, which had begun to change color. Tatinelly lay still. She convinced herself that things would be all right but, as she did, the heavy weight of panic settled into her bones, like she was being pressed to death. Rhiannon curled closer to her mother, and then the dread went away.

“I won’t let anything happen to you. I will give my whole life to make sure you are safe.”

She wasn’t sure where the words had come from, but she was overcome with the same sensation she’d felt all those years ago. The one that had led her to Mike in the first place. Purpose. Awakening. She would put her father to rest and enjoy the time she had with her cousins.

In the afternoon, everyone crept out of their rooms following the deliriously enticing scents coming from the kitchen downstairs. Mike had woken up with a bug and was still sleeping it off.

“?Buenas tardes!” Ana Cruz said, folding her newspaper in half. “How did you all sleep?”

Rhiannon sidled up to a barstool at the counter and accepted a glass of juice from Ana Cruz. “Awesome. I was dreaming of the moon. Sometimes, it talks to me when I sleep.”

“It was her favorite book when she was a baby,” Tatinelly said, running her fingers through Rhiannon’s thick light brown hair.

“Goodnight, Moon is my favorite book and I’m not a baby,” Rey said, emerging from the stairs in black sleep shorts, a loose gray T-shirt, and a peacock-green silk sleeping robe.

Ana Cruz smiled deeply when she saw him. “Oh, qué fashion.”

“I love you already,” Rey said.

“You love anyone who compliments you,” Marimar said in her deep, sleepy voice. She pulled up a chair to the kitchen island. “What smells amazing?”

“Jefita made something special for you,” Ana Cruz said.

At the sound of her name, a woman stepped into the kitchen from the open courtyard. Jefita had deep brown skin and, despite her age, her ropes of straight hair were pitch black. Her dark eyes crinkled at the corners. She was crying.

“Jefita, these are Orquídea’s grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. Ya, no llores.”

“Aww, don’t cry,” Rey said, letting the woman take his hand and turn it over. She cupped his face and said, “Qué bello.”

But of course, Rey was beautiful. The most beautiful of the family, like Tía Parcha.

Jefita moved on to Marimar, Rhiannon, and Tatinelly. Lament, real lament, looked like this. An old woman who held the memory of someone after all this time. “Mi Orquídea. I remember the night she left like it was yesterday. I asked her not to leave me alone, but I knew she had to go. It was not a good place for her. I always wished that I could see her again. My poor unlucky girl.”

Tatinelly thought that was a strange thing to call her grandmother. As far as she was concerned, Orquídea was one of the luckiest people she’d ever known. She had a giant house and a whole valley. She had five husbands who had loved her. Children. Grandchildren. She’d never been sick. She’d had food and plenty of it. What happened later—the fire, her transformation—was that luck or her choice?

“Jefita, save your tears for the funeral,” Ana Cruz said, resting a hand on her hip.

Jefita made the sign of the cross over her body. Her words had a musical quality as she said, “I’ve never seen such a thing. A body in the river.”

“Technically not a body anymore,” Rey said, and Marimar swatted his arm.

“They’re his ashes,” Tatinelly explained.

“It’s just not typical here,” Ana Cruz clarified.

Rey sat next to Rhiannon and took up a glass of juice. “Speaking of inappropriate segues, what’s for brunch?”

That seemed to be the magic words for Jefita to stop crying.

She had prepared a feast of roasted pork with thick, crackling skin; bowls of fat white corn kernels sprinkled with salt; yellow potato patties she called llapingachos. Rhiannon loved them the best and devoured them greedily. She repeated everything that Jefita said, and when she did, the rose on her forehead changed color. It grew into a more saturated pink than the pale powder one it had been.