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She does, her bare feet quiet on the stone stairs. I open the heavy front door to let her enter ahead of me.
Mercedes hesitates on the threshold. I wonder what she’s thinking. What she’s expecting.
She takes a deep breath and steps inside, studying the grand foyer as if it’s the first time she’s seen it. Mercedes isn’t one to be impressed by money. God knows the De La Rosa family has plenty of it. But she appreciates the white marble floors and walls veined in shades of gray. All three floors are visible from here with a central staircase, also marble, to the second floor and two more modest staircases to the third.
She turns back to me. “My room,” she says, her tone haughty. “I’m tired.”
I smile. I almost thought to let her sleep tonight and begin tomorrow, considering what she’s been through. But no.
“Same room as the last time you were my guest.”
“Guest,” she snorts. “Do you tie up all your guests?”
“Only those who need tying.”
The mask of superiority falters. It’s her defense. It’s always been her defense.
Without another word she turns to climb the stairs. I keep one hand at her elbow in case she trips but I don’t quite touch her. When we get to the second floor, however, movement at the end of the corridor has her stopping.
“What…” she starts, trailing off as Miriam, a housekeeper I inherited from my mother, clears her throat. She waits just outside Mercedes’s bedroom door in her traditional matronly shapeless black dress with its white lace collar.
Miriam has been with my family for about six years. And I’m still not sure I like her. For as efficient as she is, she's neither kind nor warm-hearted which makes her perfect for the task at hand.
Mercedes looks at me. I know she was hoping her arrival would be more private, but that’s not part of the plan.
“You remember Miriam?” I ask.
She nods tightly. Is she remembering how condescending she was toward the woman when she was last here? When I held my tongue considering the circumstances. Her brother on the verge of death.
“She’s prepared your room,” I tell her.
She forces her mouth into a smile, lifting her chin as she makes her way to her bedroom.
“Miss,” Miriam says in greeting, nodding to Mercedes. “Sir.”
I greet her. Mercedes doesn’t. Instead, she enters the room, stopping just inside to take it in.
Just like last time, I chose the most comfortable bedroom for her. Second only to mine. It’s spacious and luxurious in shades of dusty rose and creamy white. The room has large windows and French doors that lead onto the balcony with a view of the avenue of oaks she so loves.
She walks to the plush, king-sized bed draped with the finest duvet and more pillows than she’ll need. She takes it all in as if for the first time. Then she looks at me, ignoring Miriam even as the woman enters and closes the door behind her.
“I’m tired,” Mercedes says.
“Hold out your wrists. I’ll untie them.”
She does, and I undo her wrists. She makes a point of rubbing the reddened skin.
“Hungry?” I ask.
She shakes her head. In her eyes, I see the uncertainty she’s trying to hide. She’s wondering why Miriam is here.
“Just one more thing to do before you sleep,” I tell her.
I note how vulnerable she looks again. How small without her high heels, the armor of her designer clothes and made-up face. The signature crimson lipstick.
“What?” she asks coldly.
“Your clothes.”
