She’d always loved her 1920s’ Spanish-style home. It exuded character, with its arched doorways and colorful tile-work, and exposed beams in the ceiling. She had decorated it with white furniture and plants in huge ceramic and clay pots. Built-in shelving held artifacts that she’d brought back from her trips to Havana and Costa Rica. Huge windows brought sunlight in from the outside.
Downstairs she opened the French glass doors that led out to the patio. She needed to let fresh air flow through, even if just for a moment. Bianca found a candle, something with jasmine and spices. She lit it and let the scent flow through the house. In the family room, she sorted through her albums and found one that she’d taken from her abuelita’s collection. Carefully, she placed the vinyl on the turntable. Celia Cruz’s voice rang out from the speakers with her Spanish version of “I Will Survive.” Her strong, deep voice caused Bianca to dance around the house. She hadn’t allowed herself to dance like that in a while, but now she found her rhythm.
In the kitchen she started pulling dishes from the shelves. Even though the movers would arrive in the morning to pack up the house, she felt a need to do something—to busy herself. She placed plates, bowls, and saucers neatly onto the island. Her phone vibrated on the counter and she glanced at the text:Are you back in New Orleans?
She smiled to herself and then replied to Harry:Just got here.
His text:Enrolled Mila in school. Now we’re picking up her books and going to check out the dorms. She’s been talking about sharing an apartment with Zoe. Did she mention that to you?
Bianca typed:She did, but I think it’s too soon. I didn’t want to be the one to tell her no. Be the bad guy.
Harry’s response was swift:I will tell her no. I’ll be the bad guy. Maybe we’ll consider it next year.
Bianca smiled at Harry’s subtle protection of her. She had gone through enough with Mila—didn’t need for this to be justone more thingto draw a wedge between them. It seemed as though they were constantly rebuilding.
Bianca typed a response:I’d like for her to get a job. Learn what it means to pay her own way. Learn responsibility.
This is where she often bumped heads with Harry. Hewanted to give Mila the world, while Bianca wanted her to learn strength; to endure things that only life could teach her—likeshehad. Abuelita didn’t have much money, so what she got from her were lessons. Things she held dear. Things she didn’t know she needed until now.
When Bianca’s phone rang she was surprised to see Harry’s face on the screen. She picked up and before she could say anything …
“I admit, I do spoil her.” Harry laughed. His voice was deep, and it made her heart flutter.
“Yes, you do.”
“I, too, want her to learn responsibility.”
“Where is she right now?” Bianca asked.
Bianca wasn’t ready for Mila to learn of her many conversations with Harry in the past weeks—sometimes in the earliest of mornings or in the wee hours of the night. Some days he had simply calmed her fears, or they’d laughed about things from the past. But she didn’t want to hear her daughter’s judgment about why they should or shouldn’t be talking.
“She’s in the bookstore, buying her books.” He chuckled lightly, understanding Bianca’s hesitation. “I’m in the car … waiting.”
“Good. I don’t need her in my business.” Bianca laughed.
“You don’t want her to know we’ve been talking?” he asked. “It’s the one thing that she’s wanted for years, for her parents to stop fighting. To get along.”
“Not just yet.”
“Your secret is safe with me, then,” Harry said. “I won’t tell.”
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d kept her secret, but this time was different.
After a pause, he said, “She can learn a lot from you, Bianca. I didn’t want to see it or admit it before, because I wasjust … so mad. But youarea strong woman. I think you’ve made some mistakes, but overall, you’re good-hearted.”
Her voice trembled. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I’m not proud of my past, but I’m really trying to right my wrongs.”
“I see that you are. And I’m proud of you.”
Those words pulled at her heartstrings. She found herself trying to recover as she pulled glasses from the shelf and stacked them on the counter. Selling the house was a bold move, even for Bianca. She’d built a life behind these walls. She’d fought cancer and grieved a man she loved—behind these walls. She only hoped that the couple who had made her a full cash offer just last night would find the same peace that she’d found here.
She wouldn’t take everything to Bodega Bay, just her essentials—clothes, a few dishes, her living room furniture, beds, artifacts. Everything else would go into storage until she could make time for an estate sale of some kind, or purge. If simplicity was what she was really going for, it needed to start now.
“Mila’s coming out of the bookstore,” Harry said quickly.
“Okay.”
“She’s hanging out with friends later. I’d like to take you out to dinner if you’re free or even up to it. Maybe to your favorite little Cuban spot in Mid-City.”