Page 70 of No Merciful Corruption

THE WIDOW MAKER

Alejandro

April

“Ican’t believe you’re letting the baby be born over there.” My sister says.

“Leticia, I don’t have much of a choice. I have to respect Karina’s wishes.” I say.

“What happened to your backbone?” she says over the phone. “Being an uncle is already making you soft.”

“Soon you’ll be an aunt. Maybe you might consider joining us in New York soon.”

The other line goes quiet. “I have to go. It’s nearly midnight over here.”

Lettie hangs up before I can get another word in and I wonder how much longer this impasse will last. Diego won’t speak to Dahlia, Lettie won’t speak to Diego, and Dahlia tries to speak to Lettie but it always fizzles out. I refuse for my niece or nephew to be born into a family like this which means everyone has about five and a half months to get their shit together before I start handling things my way.

I send my last email for the day and close my laptop before heading out of the study. Music drifts down the hall and I head up to the third floor where the bedrooms are in search of Dahlia. She’s been working nonstop on her final project due in a few weeks and spends an unprecedented amount of time on campus doing so. I wonder if she’s home yet or if today will be another one of those days where I have to bring her home by force. Obviously, I’ve always known Dahlia was brilliant but if the last two months have shown me anything it’s just how disciplined she can be. When she puts her mind to something she has complete tunnel vision. She’ll forget to eat unless someone reminds her.

How she’s managed to stay on top of her schooling the last few months is beyond me. It’s a talent I do not possess.

I head straight down the hall toward Dahlia’s room but quickly realize the music is closer than I thought it was. The two guest bedrooms and Lyss’s room precede the master suite at the end of the hall. Karina has been staying in the larger of the two and the door is slightly ajar. Instrumental music floats down the hall and echoes across the otherwise quiet house. It’s a classical piece I don’t recognize and likely one meant to be danced to.

I stand in front of her door and lift my hand to knock when I catch sight of her buttoning a silk top in the mirror.

She turns to the side and drags her hands down the length of her abdomen before cradling her growing bump from the bottom. She tucks the shirt into her skirt, stares at her reflection, then changes her mind. No one could tell she was pregnant at first glance or even the second. For the most part, she’s gained a healthy amount of weight in her face and her figure no longer looks frail and gaunt. I hadn’t realized how frightfully small she looked before until now. She’s the healthiest I’ve seen her since the summer we met.

Karina untucks her shirt which no longer hugs her little bump and instead, pulls on a sweater vest. She’s been doing that a lot lately; hiding her figure as best as she can. So far it’s worked but the weather only keeps getting warmer. In another month, she won’t be able to pull off frumpy jackets and layers like she can now.

I knock on the door. “Kay?”

She startles and spins around.

“Sorry,” I point at the door. “It was open.”

She shakes her head so hard, hair falls free from her French braid. Every time I look at her, her hair just keeps getting longer and longer. “No, no it’s fine. Is dinner ready yet?”

“I’m not sure. Let’s go see together.”

She gives a tight-lipped smile and follows me downstairs.

The dining room is one of my favorite rooms in the house and like all things, Dahlia put an extraordinary amount of care into its design and function. The table and chairs are over a hundred years old, salvaged from an estate sale on Long Island. Over two hundred and fifty pounds of hand carved mahogany with a lacquer finish and matching chairs were dragged up two flights of stairs by yours truly. Reupholstered and re-stained, a century’s worth of wear and tear vanished the second she applied the last coat of varnish a month ago. Warmth fills every corner of the room; above the white wainscotting, the walls are painted a deep, forest green and gold sconces on the walls help to break up the darkness. Candles in antique holders fill the room with golden light and the credenza is decorated with vases of tulips.

One thing I’ve learned about Dahlia is that a project is never done for her. Once a room is finished she moves on to the next one and so on and so forth until she circles back around to the beginning. And by then, she’s decided she wants a completely different look which is why nearly a year into living in this house, she decided she wanted an entirely new dining room set.

The townhouse has a very different feel than the Barcelona house. Both of them bear her touch but they represent different sides of her. The townhouse is very New York; all the furnishings are timeless without feeling dated, rich with color and character. Key features have been painstakingly restored and preserved, maintaining the integrity of the home. At its heart, it is the quintessential dwelling of an old money, east coast family.

Our house in Barcelona though…it’s vibrant. Bright. Everything in that house feels intentionally lived-in and warm. Colorful stained-glass windows, intricate tilework, woodwork, stonework, mosaics, and high ceilings. Large windows to let the light in and balconies to enjoy the Mediterranean weather. The beautiful pretentious ballroom and the massive kitchen she designed with me in mind.

I love that house. I miss that house.

New York doesn’t quite feel like home yet.

“Can someone grab a bottle opener from downstairs?” Lyss moves around the dining room table setting down forks and spoons. “And more knives I didn’t bring enough.”

“I’ll go,” Doña Ana insists. “I get the napkins too.”

“You know, I’m very excited.” I tell her. “I don’t just let anyone cook for me.”