Tío Nestor is the proprietor of The Crone’s Nest Inn, the only bed and breakfast on the island. He’s a fashion icon, even by Isla Bruja standards. He has an incredible collection of wigs, capes, and bedazzled suits, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear the same combo twice. He was one of my earliest patrons when I started my business, for which I’ll always be grateful.
But he’s also a talker. Once you get him going, good luck escaping the conversation or getting a word in edgewise.
Diego snaps his fingers, and a large rolling suitcase appears at his side.
“Where’s your luggage?” he asks.
“In my room at my parents’ house.”
“We’ll get it after the rehearsal dinner.”
Diego grabs the suitcase handle with his left hand, then takes my hand with his right, leading me toward The Crone’s Nest. It’s a cozy building painted a cheery yellow and nestled behind a row of palm trees. But like all the other structures on Isla Bruja, it’s much bigger and more eclectic on the inside.
I shake our joined hands and hiss, “What are you doing, Diego?”
“Selling the story.”
“What story?”
“The one you told your sister. Best man hooking up with the maid of honor?”
“It was the only thing I could think of in the moment,” I grumble.
“It’s brilliant in its simplicity. And it’s just what we need to make everyone leave us alone until we fix things.”
“Should we tell Nestor what’s going on?”
“No. Don’t tell anyone. Tío Nestor can’t keep a secret to save his life, and we don’t know who to trust yet.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Cat. Come on,” he says quietly. “You know you can trust me.”
And despite the terror of the situation, he’s right. Aside from my parents and sisters, I get Diego better than I get anyone else on Isla Bruja. You know that adage, “Know your friends well and your enemies better”? I took that to heart in high school. It had been my mission to completely understand Diego, the better to take him down.
We pass through the inn’s wards and Nestor greets us with hugs and kisses. He’s wearing what look like turquoise silk pajamas, beautifully embroidered with peacocks and bougainvillea, and a platinum blond Mae West wig.
“To what do I owe the visit?” Nestor asks, putting an arm around each of us and leading us inside.
Diego replies easily. “We wanted to see if you have any rooms available.”
“Pues, deja me ver.” Nestor leads us to the front desk, which looks like it belongs in the lobby of a haunted 1940s hotel, aside from the 12-foot-tall glittering glass mosaic of Celia Cruz towering behind it.
Nestor perches a pair of gold half-moon reading glasses on the end of his nose and flips open a large leatherbound book. He eyes us over the tops of the glasses. “You’re not staying con sus familias?”
Before I can answer, Diego leans an elbow on the counter and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “We would, but it can be hard to find privacy around them. ¿Tú sabes?”
Nestor gives him a knowing nod. “Ay sí. Yo sé eso. I hear you loud and clear, mi sobrinito.”
Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I tune them out and fiddle with the belongings in my purse while they make arrangements. Then I hear Nestor say, “Bueno, here’s your key.”
Key. He said key, singular. Not keys.
I look up in alarm. “Only one room?”
Nestor spreads his hands and looks almost apologetic, but not quite. The corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. “There are so many people coming to witness the wedding of the century, all the other rooms are booked.”
Diego turns to me. “Is that a problem, mi corazón?”
