Page 29 of Descent into Madness

“And this is your home. Manuel was adamant it can be changed in any way you wish. And there’s enough land for him to build new if you don’t like this one.”

Build a new house? I can’t imagine it. The house is two stories of worn old brick in a patchwork of light and dark stones. The home is imposing with the main part of it large enough to be a large family home on its own. Yet it has two wings in an L shape coming from it. Excitement runs through me to discover every room of my new home. “It’s beautiful.”

“Manuel picked it from the styles of houses the architect created for them. Ah, there’s your mother.”

We’re barely at a stop before my mom comes flying off the wide steps. Oh no, she’s so frail. I hug her tight, blinking back tears. It’s been almost four months since I visited. Guilt hits me hard. Thank god for Manuel.

“Mija, stop crying so I can stop crying.” After more than twenty-five years speaking only English. My mom’s Spanish is tinged with an American accent.

My father hadn’t wanted me to speak any languages but English and Italian. I learned Spanish in school and perfected it with my mother in the last year. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m so happy you’re here.”

Pulling away, she cups my cheek and kisses my forehead. My mom is a stunning six-foot two bombshell. I wish I was half as pretty as she is. She’s a ghost of who she was before she left Chicago.

“Me too, baby. Your husband…oh my goodness. I knew he was wealthy, but I had no idea. The home I was in, I didn’t know he owned it. It’s mine. They gave me papers saying it’s mine and no one will ever take it away. I have all these credit cards and a new bank account with only my name on it with ten million in it like it’s nothing. Can you believe it? Manuel told me whatever I want that will make me happy, let him know, and he’ll get it for me. He’s so in love with you.”

Her teasing has me blushing. How I wish. I guess she didn’t know about the not being able to love thing…although the things he’s done, I understand why she would think it.

A wail of a baby comes from behind my mother. I find a young woman holding a baby, and two small children are clinging to her legs.

I crouch down and speak to the smallest little girl. She is so pretty. Smooth soft cheeks, big brown eyes, and she’s wearing the cutest pink dress. “Hi, honey. How are you doing?” I ask in Spanish.

She throws back her head and starts wailing. The older girl, scowls at me, hugs her sister—who isn’t much smaller than she is, and goes back into the house. I’m still standing stunned when the nanny hands me the baby and walks away without a word. The baby begins crying.

Great, fucking great. They hate me. The whole reason Manuel married me, to be a mother to his kids, is starting just great.

* * *

Day one isa hit the ground running day, literally. I have to run to keep up with Catherine.

There is a line of employees in the foyer waiting to meet me. Two maids, Yessica and Ana. A maid who assisted the chef but also moved around the house as needed named Theresa. A gardener, Abraham, an assistant to the gardener, Juan. And a housekeeper, Lupe, who supervises all of them—except the chef—Chef warns me. It’s how he introduces himself, Chef. I don’t dare question him further.

Abraham asks if I like the peonies. I nod as I finally give into the desire of studying the vase filled with a riot of peonies in varying colors in the center of the foyer. “They’re my favorite flower. What a coincidence.”

“No coincidence, misses. Mister said they made you smile. Are there others you like? I buy all the flowers for you. He wants all your favorite flowers grown for you so your home is always filled with them. The greenhouse will finally be full again.” He’s happy at the prospect.

“I like the fuller tea roses and tulips, but peonies are my favorites.” My cheeks are hurting from smiling. Manuel noticed me smiling at the bushels of peonies on a corner while we waited for a light the day he took me to the brothel. I can’t believe it; it was only for maybe ten seconds.

Pretty much the only thing I like about the house is the foyer. After a tour of my new home, I discover I hate it. It’s all hard lines and open white spaces.

When Catherine sees my face, she pulls out a pad and pen and starts writing. What do I hate? What would I like to see? She’ll be informing the interior designer so they don’t waste my time.

By the time I finish a late lunch with my mother where we discuss the children my mother adores and calls her grandchildren, the designer is waiting in the library. After an intense three-hour meeting, where I’m shown mockups based on what I told Catherine earlier. The designer says she’ll be back the next day with men to begin the work. They are starting in the rooms we use the most then moving onto the rest of the house.

Less than an hour after the designer leaves, a wedding planner arrives. I’m informed the wedding will be in six weeks in the Iglesia Nuestra Senora del Rosario. My mom gasps. So do I. It’s a gorgeous church so stunning it’s considered a museum of religious art. I can’t imagine planning a wedding there and am grateful for her help. Two hours later, I’m in awe of what my wedding is supposed to look like.

But I’m far from done for the day. There is a woman waiting with samples of styles of wedding dresses for me to try on. I’m introduced to the uber-sophisticated Claudia, who is the designer assistant to a fashion house I’ve never even owned a pair of shoes from. My mom wore them, but with my plus size, it wasn’t an option.

Claudia is the kind of French that has always made me nervous. However, unlike the French women who always treated me like a bug in their soup or something, she is so freaking nice.

“You’re going to make my dress in only five weeks?” I can’t believe it.

“Four weeks because we need to get you in it in case there are any adjustments needed. I’m the one who isn’t going to get any sleep. I see endless hours of hand finishing in my future. Your husband is a very forceful man. When he added in he wanted a season of clothes for you as well, my boss loved the idea of the challenge.” Her voice is dryer than the Sahara.

“A season of clothes, in my size?” Any minute I’m going to be able to pick my own words instead of repeating hers... I hope.

A perfectly plucked eyebrow goes up. “Yes, the way it’s done with our house, and fashion houses for more than a hundred years, is you select from a model what you would like, and we measure and cut to your body for the best fit possible.”

As we go through the styles of dresses I would like and how I want my dress to look, I’m grateful she brought samples. The princess dress with ballgown skirt I wanted swamps me. I was sure my height of five nine would allow me to feel and look like a princess. Nope. I feel like the abominable snowman.

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