Reaching over to the side, I moved a bowl holding a mixture of raisins, cinnamon, and brown sugar closer. The bowls had belonged to old Emory Snow. The woman he had fallen in love with, another ballet dancer from France, had purchased them, thinking that her future rested in this house. With him.
Old Emory Snow had felt that she was too good for this town, for him, and had sent her back to France to be wed to the man she had left behind. Àstrid had been her name, and she had died in France after giving birth to their son. She had some kind of heart issue that took her life after he was born.
Due to a twist of fate, old Emory Snow had set me on the journey that had led me to Olivier Nemours, the man who wanted me dead.
Blowing a wayward piece of hair from my face, I turned to check on Marciano. He still slept in Eva’s arms. Her attention still strayed from the chatter moving around the table—like she was listening but not.
The women were still playing poker, but a thick stack of pamphlets had found their way into the mix. Travel brochures. Apparently, the women were all in favor of a group vacation. Some place exotic and warm for the upcoming winter.
The dough was just about ready to spread out. With the mixture poured along the middle, each slice would have a bit of the filling. I set it into my greased pan and placed it in the oven.
“That smells good already, Kew!” Eunice said, smiling in my direction.
I smiled, despite the sudden swing of my mood. Eunice had on a neon-green sun visor, her poker chips stacked tall, and a can of beer next to her. Aunt Lola had on a matching purple visor and a glass of wine next to her. They both looked like they were were ready for Vegas.
My mother rolled her eyes. She never liked when Eunice called me “Kewpie” or sometimes “Kew.” Some things never change. Just as she considered me going around my own house barefoot subpar behavior. At least she approved of the long, soft dress I’d worn. She had even complimented the color.
All in all, though, my mother had grown a little warmer over the years, especially after Mia was born. When my father did things she didn’t like, she’d become hot at him, something she never did before—or if she had, it had been kept between the two of them.
A glance toward the hall made me purse my lips. Cerise hadn’t joined the table. Not that it bothered me that she wasn’t taking part, but she had been earlier. Then her mood seemed to change. The air had shifted around her, though I couldn’t pinpoint the cause of the change.
Eva’s warning—itwasa warning, I realized—weighed on my heart.
Would something happen to her? Or her husband? The thought made it hard to breathe, thinking of Livia, who had been through enough. Cerise and Dimitri loved her, doted on her even, but there was something missing: Livio. Cerise couldn’t deny that his loss left her feeling bereft, even on her good days. Livia knew.
This train of thought was derailed by my son’s crying. He lifted his head, blinking at Eva, who attempted to soothe him, but he shook his head, having none of it.
“Mamma!” he croaked.
My mother, Eunice, Aunt Lola, and I arrived at the same time to take him. But since he was upset about waking up in Eva’s arms, he shook off their comfort and came straight to me.
“Uh,” I made a breathless noise, his weight pushing my air out as he clung to me. “I’m here, my baby. Do you need to go potty?” I whispered in his ear.
He sucked in a breath, let it out, and nodded. “Me do.”
“Ido,” my sister corrected, looking over her cards. Then she repeated the words in Spanish.
I wanted to announce the cards in her hand to the table to piss her off but thought better of it—karma and all that. Marciano could speak three languages, albeit he still had some work to do…but what did I care what she thought? He was two! And he wasn’t going around sticking his tongue out at sick kids for the fun of it.
A quick glance into the ballet room on the way to the bathroom showed no signs of Cerise. She must have gone outside to find Dimitri. The girls were digging through boxes, gasping at this, pointing at that. Mia saw me and smiled, waving.
“Mamma! I can’t believe you did this!” She held up a picture of me from what felt like long ago, in all my glory.
A black leotard, my hair slicked back, in what one could consider a sensual position, though it was a legit one, in my defense. I’d have to talk to Brando about putting some of the pictures he’d saved away for when she was older.
“I was a lot younger then, baby girl,” I said, smiling at her excitement. “I had no idea who I wanted to be then, but I always knew I wanted to be your mamma.”
She leaned up and kissed my nose, then kissed Marciano, before she ran back to Livia, going back to digging.
Cerise’s absence refused to leave my mind. Where had she gone? More importantly, why did it worry me?
Putting Marciano down, I had to keep him stable. Still sleepy, his eyes opened and closed, and his aim waswayoff.
Brando walked into our bathroom, eyeing both of us with his eyebrows raised.
“Problem?”
“He just woke up from a nap and he’s still a little groggy.”
