The Middle of Somewhere(45)

Carlos Espinoza explained the significance of the less obvious carvings, then excused himself to take a call. When he finished, he searched out his wife, who was photographing a carver spraying radishes with water, and guided her to a nearby bench. Liz watched the conference with concern. Dante’s mother gesticulated wildly and threw herself against her husband. Her back heaved with sobs. Se?or Espinoza waited a few moments until his wife had recovered somewhat, then returned to the group to pluck Emilia, the eldest, from the company of her sisters for another conference.

Dante appeared beside Liz. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But it looks serious.”

The Espinozas appeared to be berating their daughter, who hung her head. Carlos looked as though he was struggling to control his temper. Felicia clutched his arm and scowled at her daughter, who would not meet their dark glares.

“Emilia!” Se?or Espinoza said sharply, attracting the attention of everyone around them. His daughter lifted her head, and he pointed in the direction of the hotel. Without a word to the rest of her family, Emilia gathered her two children and left.

Hours later, Dante returned from a visit to his parents’ hotel room and told Liz the call had been from Emilia’s husband, Rico, who was to join them in Oaxaca tomorrow. He had taken Dante’s place in the Espinoza’s company three years prior, preserving the legacy, after a fashion. Today he’d stopped at home after a business trip and discovered Emilia had left her phone behind. On it were several text messages providing him with incontrovertible evidence of the affair he’d long suspected his wife of having.

Dante slid onto the bed next to Liz. “She’s gone home.”

“Wow. Just like that?”

“Yes. And we won’t be seeing her—or speaking with her—again.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

“But you don’t know the story. It might be complicated.”

“In our family, loyalty is never complicated.” He hesitated, as if weighing whether to say more. He sighed and leaned back on the pillows. “And the matter of the company came up. Again.”

Liz had been thinking of Emilia, Rico and their children. The business implications hadn’t dawned on her. “If your family excommunicates Emilia, does it change Rico’s position in the company?”

Dante shook his head. “My father didn’t share the details of their arrangement with me, but my mother begged me to move back. Literally. She was on her knees.”

“That’s awful.” He looked crushed. Liz’s mouth went dry at the possibility he had given in and would leave the States—and her. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t have to say anything. My father answered for me. He helped my mother off the floor and said, ‘Rico is my son.’”

Now Liz lay in bed at Muir Ranch with a sleeping Dante and realized he had not mentioned talking to Emilia in the ten months since the radish festival. Not long ago he’d said his youngest sister, Rosalinda, was spending time with Emilia in secret. Their parents had found out and given Rosalinda a stern warning, accompanied by the threat of a substantial hit on her inheritance. Liz could not fathom having three siblings, much less losing one by decree. What had been the price of a sister?

Liz stared into the darkness. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t Dante’s family, but she doubted that would change how he’d view her indiscretion. If Emilia and General Petraeus were damned, so was she.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN





Mike Wilson wasn’t handsome or charming. He wasn’t effusive or affectionate, or a particularly good listener. He wasn’t wealthy or ambitious (not to a fault, anyway), and he hadn’t planned on having an affair any more than she had. He didn’t send Liz love notes or buy her sexy underwear. He didn’t even buy her lunch. He didn’t talk trash about his wife or assume Gabriel was a monster. And when they finally got around to it, he wasn’t even good in bed.

Liz had taken the job at Extensor Labs while finishing her master’s degree. Of the company’s two hundred or so employees, Mike Wilson was the only black man, although that wasn’t why she noticed him. She, Mike and two other men, Trenton Wu and an assistant known as Baxter, shared bench space. When she joined the group, they were developing biosensors that detected muscle activity and sent the information to a mechanical device, such as a prosthetic limb. The group reported to Stacy Stratticon, a ruthlessly driven scientist-turned-manager determined to advance in the company. Liz’s group, with the exception of Baxter, called her Strap-it-on behind her back. She’d hired Liz because her thesis research suggested a promising new direction, and because, as a rookie, she came cheap.