Chapter Twenty-Eight
Solange
“Melissa, this is my mother, Izabel, and her two sisters, Viviane and Mariana. Mãe. Tias. This is Melissa, Dean’s mother. She’s visiting from Delaware.”
My mother and aunts widen their eyes, then nod in understanding.
“Nice to meet everyone,” Melissa says cheerfully. She surveys Rio de Wheaton’s aisles and adds, “This place is wonderful. Cozy and charming. And it smells so good in here.”
“Would you like to try something?” Tia Mariana asks, taking on the hostess role as usual. “A cafezinho to start, maybe?”
“That would be wonderful,” Melissa says.
I’m glad I brought her here. Staying cooped up in Dean’s apartment all day couldn’t have been good for her mood. She needs to be around people. Having fun. Forgetting what’s-his-name.
After Melissa and Tia Mariana drift off together toward the counter, Tia Viviane nudges me in the direction of the small café section on the left side of the store.
A lone man sits at a table watching futebol, his eyes drooping and occasionally widening as he struggles to stay awake.
Tia Viviane kicks at his chair. “Vá para sua casa. Isso não é um hotel.”
The man rises to his feet and stumbles out the door, sufficiently scolded by my aunt for using the store as his motel room.
“Okay,” Tia Viviane says, her lips barely moving so Melissa can’t overhear. “What’s going on? Why is she here?”
“Be nice, all right?” I say. “She just broke up with her boyfriend. I’m trying to cheer her up.”
My mother sidles over and slips into the conversation. “What are we supposed to do about that?”
I shrug. “Not sure, exactly. I just thought she’d appreciate seeing all three of you. Single women. Controlling your own destinies. Prospering. Living well.”
“Not having sex,” Tia Viviane says, her lips curled in disgust.
My mother covers her face with her hands. “Viviane, precisa ser tão vulgar?”
“Sim,” Tia Viviane says without further explanation.
“It’s fine, Mãe. I do know what sex is.”
She gasps, but she’s also holding back a grin.
Tia Viviane raises a brow. “You and Dean are back together, then?”
“There’s no Dean and me,” I say, shaking my head.
My mother tilts her head. “So why are you babysitting his mother?”
Damn, these women are relentless. I sidestep the question. “Look, all I’m asking is that you be yourselves and get to know her. Is that doable?”
Tia Viviane lifts her nose in the air before answering. “I suppose I can do that.”
“Me too,” my mother adds.
I let out a sigh that sounds like an equal mix of relief and exasperation. “Thank you.”
They shuffle back to the counter and join Dean’s mother and Tia Mariana. Melissa pulls out her phone and displays her screen, prompting all four women to gather closer together. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s sharing photographs of her trip out west. Will that be Lina, Natalia, Rey, and me someday? A generation of filhos de brasileiros keeping this place going after the tias are gone? No, I’d rather not think about that. Not just yet. Thankfully, the bell above the door rings, and I turn my attention to our newest arrivals. Not so thankfully, I recognize them immediately.
“Molly and Peter, this is a surprise!” I say, trying to act unfazed and struggling to get past the frog in my throat. Shit, shit, shit. Why, why, why?
Molly smiles. “It’s a rare day off for us both, and we decided to treat it as a mini-date.” She points a thumb at Peter, her expression flirty and playful. “This one couldn’t stop talking about the salgadinhos we had the last time we were here. Figured we’d buy a few to take home.”
“Oh, that’s great. Well, let me take care of that for you!” My body’s gone haywire and won’t stop moving from side to side. To an outside observer, I probably look like the least talented member of a fifties doo-wop band. “Want to grab a table while I put together a to-go box?”
Peter tilts his head and waggles his eyebrows. “Nah, looking through the display case is part of the experience, right?” He rubs his hands together in good-natured anticipation. “Besides, I don’t know the names, but I can recognize my favorites.”
Behind us, the tias and Dean’s mother are tittering as if they’re old friends sitting on a stoop and gossiping about their neighbors. I suspect they haven’t even noticed Molly and Peter’s arrival since they’re hunched over Melissa’s phone, presumably looking at photographs on the screen.
“Well, why don’t you grab yourselves a drink while I wash my hands and get set up behind the counter,” I say.
If Molly and Peter are distracted, I might have just enough time to fire off a discreet warning shot to Melissa and the tias. Fortunately, Molly and Peter turn in the direction of the fridge. But then Melissa and the tias wander off together down an aisle, and I’m forced to scurry to the back to wash my hands. Heart pounding, I return within seconds and pluck the tongs from the holder. “Ready when you are,” I call out to Peter and Molly.
They hurry over, and Peter bends down to get a better look at the selection. “What’s that one over there?” he asks, pointing at the case.
“Bolinho de bacalhau. Salted cod croquettes. Want those? How about a dozen. Coming right up!”
Still bent over, Peter taps the top of the case. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not so fast, Solange. Let me get my bearings. Hmm. And that one?”
I crouch down to see which type of salgadinho he’s pointed to. “That’s—”
“Oooh, those are delicious,” Melissa says behind Molly. “My son just loved them to death. Highly recommend! In fact, I’d love to take some home for Dean if you can spare a few.”
Peter pops up, a big smile on his face. “Oh, hey! You wouldn’t happen to be talking about Dean Chapman, eh? I’m his colleague.”
“Oh, how nice,” Dean’s mother says. “It’s great to meet you.”
No. It is not great to meet him, Melissa. He’s a terrible, no-good man. “Um, Peter, how about I get you two of everything in the case?” I grab a box and slide two coxinhas de frango inside.
He tilts his head back and forth. “Uh, that’s probably too much, but let me try one of those.” He turns back to Melissa. “So, about the wedding. Wild, huh? I’m guessing you’re happy about the outcome, though?”
Melissa gestures around her head as if the memory of that day is too much for her to handle. “Can you imagine? A stranger crashes your wedding? And turns out to be a sweetheart?” She moves in closer, as if she’s only talking to Peter, but her next words are plainly meant for my ears too. “Just between us, I’m still hoping that Dean and Solange will get together. Wouldn’t that be the best?”
Peter’s gaze snaps to mine, and he narrows his beady eyes. “Indeed, it would be.”
I’m sinking into quicksand. With no one around who can possibly pull me out of the mess this moment will make of Dean’s life. Peter may be bowled over by my family’s food, but he’s a vindictive asshole to his core, and now he has just enough information to sabotage Dean’s career. I’m about to curl into a ball right on the fucking floor of this shop. But I owe it to Dean to try to clean this up. Maybe I can still signal to Melissa that Peter’s a threat.
“Melissa, this is Peter. He and Dean aren’t close or anything. And this is his wife, Molly.”
Peter ignores the introductions. He’s a viper going in for the kill. “So Solange and Dean aren’t dating, huh?” Peter asks this on a chuckle, as if he and Melissa are old chums shooting the breeze.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” Melissa says, grinning. “But they didn’t start out that way, and I’m just loving the idea that their relationship may turn into something more.”
“Right, right,” Peter says, nodding.
With her skin mottled and her expression pinched, Molly swings her gaze between Peter and me.
Her husband raps his knuckles on the display counter. “On second thought, Solange, go ahead and give us two of everything. I think a celebration’s in order.
“Molly,” he calls over his shoulder. “We need to head out soon. I have a few texts to send after this.”
“I’m sorry,” Molly says softly, a hand pressed to her throat as she looks at me in sympathy.
My stomach is caving in on itself, and my heart is beating as if it’s being powered by the drums of a thousand bateristas. “It’s okay,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Before I can flee, Melissa lays a hand on my forearm. “Is everything okay?”
“No, not really. I need to speak with your son.”
Dean
As Priya, a junior associate, updates the team on the status of her document review, I try to picture what’s happening at Rio de Wheaton. The image that materializes, one in which Solange is offering my mother fresh coffee and warm bread, brings a smile to my face.
Henderson, the only partner present, clears his throat, and my gaze snaps to his. Right. Happiness is frowned upon here. What a fucking joke.
“All right, thanks for your hard work, Priya,” Henderson says. “What about you, Dean? Where are we with witness interviews?”
I begin to outline the schedule, focusing on the people with potentially critical testimony. A minute into my report, however, Henderson hunches over and commences to type with urgency, his fingers flying across the screen of his iPhone. At one point, he raises his head, stares at me with a glazed look in his eyes, then drops his chin so he can resume texting, or emailing, or whatever. I flub my words, momentarily thrown off by Henderson’s uncharacteristically engaged behavior; he’s the most disinterested lawyer I know, yet his attention’s plainly been captured by who the hell knows what.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He shoots out of his chair. “Actually, let’s end early and reconvene another time. Something’s come up.”
“Sure, no problem,” I say.
Priya and I watch him go, then shrug at each other.
“You did great earlier,” I tell her.
“Thanks,” she says, her shoulders relaxing now that Henderson’s gone. “I’m glad you’re on the team.” She hurries to pack up her papers. “It’s been helpful having someone who doesn’t bite my head off when I ask questions.”
I remember the feeling. Navigating law firm life can be like running a Hunger Games gauntlet with no protective gear, no special skills, and no weapons. If I can make the experience better for those who come after me, maybe together we can slowly change the culture. “That’s why I’m here,” I say, strolling to the conference room door. “Use me as a buffer anytime.”
When I return to my office, I notice a string of texts from Solange that came in during the team meeting. The last one asks me to call her as soon as possible, so that’s precisely what I do.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she says hoarsely.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my heart ratcheting up at the possibility that she’s in trouble.
“Yes, yes.”
“Is my mother okay?”
“Yes, she’s okay too. It’s . . .”
“Solange, breathe. Whatever it is, it’ll be fine.”
“It’s Peter and Molly. Well, Peter really. He was here. At Rio de Wheaton.”
“Okaaay.”
“They met your mother, and somehow it got out that we’re not really a couple. I don’t know. He asked her about the wedding. Said it was wild. And then it spiraled from there. It’s a mess.”
“So Peter knows it was all a lie?”
“Yes,” she chokes out. “I’m so, so sorry.”
My vision swims, and I can’t stop blinking. Fuck. This is a nightmare. I’d bet my life that Henderson was texting Peter during the meeting just now. “It’s not your fault, Solange.”
“Still.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m going to take your mother home and head to my place. I’ll be around if you need me.”
I wish I could reassure her, but I’m too dazed and confused to be persuasive at the moment. Besides, Henderson just appeared at the threshold of my office, so I can’t say anything of consequence anyway.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I tell Solange. “I’ll take it from here.”
Henderson regards this as his cue to close the door. Wearing a smug expression, he drops into one of my guest chairs. “As you may already know, I received a disturbing text from Peter this afternoon. Although there’s no explanation that wouldn’t make me question your judgment, I thought I’d give you a chance to say your piece before I go to my partners.”
His condescending attitude saps me of the energy to go toe-to-toe with him. I’m just . . . tired. I mean, utterly and truly depleted. This man has never wanted me to succeed here. I don’t bring in enough business. I spend too much time volunteering. I’m not cutthroat enough. Worst of all, some of our clients prefer me to him. And just when he was going to have to swallow his resentment and vote for my promotion, Peter gave him the gift he’s always wished for: a valid excuse to fire me. So I’m fucking done. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Henderson. Will anything I say make a difference?”
“I need to know that my colleagues are trustworthy. Honesty is the lifeblood of our trade, as you know. So in my mind, the answer’s a definite no.”
His canned response isn’t surprising, but it still hits me like a punch to my chest. Eight fucking years. Over. In a matter of minutes. If I thought I had enough strength to lift my damn desk, I’d chuck it across the room. “Well then, do what you need to do.”
He springs to his feet. “With pleasure, Dean. With so much pleasure.” Before he leaves, he fires the kill shot: “You want to know the real kicker here? All your machinations didn’t even amount to anything. Kimberly Bailey passed on our offer this afternoon. I’ll make one last push, just to be sure she didn’t decline because of something you did, but in any case, it’s not looking good for you, kid.”
Henderson closes the door behind him, the click of the lock reminding me that he’s the firm’s gatekeeper, a power he relishes wielding whenever he can.
I stagger backward and collapse into my chair. My heart’s racing like a thoroughbred, and the tips of my ears are burning. I suppose I should have begged for his mercy. Instead, I let my frustration get the best of me. Leaning over, I place my hands on my knees and take small sips of air in a desperate attempt to calm down. It’s no use, though. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I think I just shit-talked myself out of a job.
What the hell do I do now?