Olivia’s voice changed.
“Say that again.”
“I’ll explain when you get here.”
“You don’t have to ask twice.”
Next I called my cousin Mauricio, who owned an auto repair shop.
Years earlier, Carla had commented on the grease beneath his fingernails when he came directly from work to Gabriel’s birthday. Hugo laughed awkwardly.
Later, I found Mauricio washing his hands alone at the backyard sink because Carla had asked him to clean up before touching the new furniture.
He never returned.
“Hugo said there wasn’t going to be a family Christmas this year,” Mauricio told me.
“There is now.”
“Where?”
“My house.”
“Since when do you have a house?”
“Since last week.”
I gave him the address.
“Margarita.”
“Yes?”
“People with private gates live there.”
“I know.”
“Whose house are you borrowing?”
“Mine.”
He laughed nervously.
“No, really.”
“Bring your wife. Bring the kids.”
He went quiet.
“All right.”
“And Mauricio?”
“Yeah?”
“Wear whatever you want. Nobody is checking your hands.”
After a long silence, he said, “I’ll bring dessert.”
I invited Teresa, a nurse Carla had once asked whether she planned to change after arriving directly from a hospital shift.
Then Norma, my closest friend.
Armando’s old friend Henry.
And relatives Hugo and Carla had gradually stopped inviting because someone worked a trade, talked too loudly, was divorced, dressed casually, or seemed too old-fashioned.
By evening, I had thirty-five names.
Unlike Carla, I asked every one.
Then I called designer Iris Bennett and chef Felipe Morales.
“I need Christmas Eve dinner for thirty-five.”
Felipe whistled.
“In six days?”
“I’ll pay rush fees.”
“That was not the problem.”
“Can you do it?”
He laughed.
“For you? Yes.”
The villa was already furnished.
