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.
Over the next few days, Iris’s team added terrace lights, simple poinsettias, and candles protected from the ocean breeze.
One long table went beneath the covered terrace.
No head table.
No separate sections.
One table.
Armando and I had once dreamed of owning a house where everyone could gather.
We never did while he was alive.
Standing in the villa as people prepared for Christmas, I felt his absence sharply.
I touched a dining chair.
“You would have loved this,” I whispered.
Two days before Christmas Eve, Hugo called.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Good.”
“You could come for dessert.”
I looked toward the ocean.
“What time?”
“Probably nine.”
“After Carla’s parents leave?”
He hesitated.
“That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“Mom, I’m trying.”
“No. You’re trying to hide me more politely.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“I already have plans.”
“With who?”
“Family.”
“Where?”
“My house.”
“Your apartment?”
“My house.”
Silence.
“Did you move?”
“No.”
“You’re being mysterious.”
“No, Hugo. You simply haven’t been paying attention.”
Carla called later.
“Margarita.”
“Carla.”
“I wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings.”
“There are hard feelings.”
She paused.
“I mean, I hope you understand each family needs its own space sometimes.”
“I completely agree.”
Relief entered her voice.
“Good.”
