Three years later
Carlton Hotel, Makati
Fermentation: a step in the chocolate-making process where the beans start developing most of their flavor. This will depend on several factors, like temperature, weather conditions, exposure to other plants around them. Depending on how long and where the beans were fermented, they will develop different flavors. Patience and much care is required.
If Santi were to really think about it (and he never really did), December was probably the worst month to get married. Sure, the weather was “cooler” in those months, enough to make that reservation in Tagaytayreallyworth it, and your relatives were all here for the holidays.
But Christmas was a beast to be reckoned with, especially in Manila, where hell-on-earth levels of traffic were guaranteed, and you were shuffled to and fro to Christmas parties, family reunions, friend reunions, Simbang Gabi, Christmas Eve and all the other required trappings thereof. That and the million and one details and events required to actuallyhavethe wedding in the first place?
He felt bad for the couples who still managed to smile and not collapse to exhaustion in the aisle. Congratulations and best wishes all deserved.
But Santi must have been missing something, because the numbers didn’t lie.
After three years of running Villa by himself, he learned that December was still the peak of the wedding months, May and February following close behind. Villa’s Azotea ballroom was booked solid two years in advance, with very little wiggle room from December to February. So there must be something to a December wedding that he wasn’t seeing.
But as far as Santi’s work was concerned, it wasn’t his business to think aboutwhyit didn’t make sense, it was his business to do his job, which was mostly to make sure these weddings happened.
“People don’t care about your opinion,” his grandfather had told him. “They care about you saying the right thing at the right time.”
Santi was good at saying the right thing. He’d said the wrong thing only twice in his life—the first time when he argued with his grandfather about adjusting salaries for all of Carlton’s employees, given the huge earnings the company had seen since Santi took over. His grandfather had said no, and the next day he found his desk just gone.
The second time was when he came back from Osaka and excitedly offered to lead a joint venture with his younger brother and his grandfather to revive the Villa Hotel. Vito had laughed him out of the room, Miro had rejected the offer, and Santi was issued a challenge.
“Go ahead. Make it successful. Prove to me that you’re worthy to come back to the Carlton. By yourself.”
That was three years ago. Three years of working, with very minimal support, and zero visits from his family to the place they exiled him to.
Santi was not going to make the mistake of saying the wrong thing again.
So when he walked into the Carlton Makati for the first time since he was “banished” from the company, he said all the right things. Smiled at staff, nodded politely at those who recognized him, and said nothing.
But seeing the all-too-familiar marble and glass lobby made his heart ache, made his exhale shuddery. It was like walking into a relic from his past, because his past was shiny marble lobbies, a modern sculpture that changed every season, a chandelier that would have made the Phantom of the Opera jealous, and a faint vanilla scent in the air. He remembered this place when it was smaller, remembered when they started to pull in bigger clients, bigger events. He remembered the work he put into this place.
Today, he was seeing it all as a stranger. More specifically, a wedding guest.
“Kuya,” Miro Santillan’s voice said cooly, as he walked down the lobby staircase, casual as ever, like he was fully expecting someone to take a picture. He tossed his head back, permed curls flying away from his eyes.
Santi knew that always staying photo-ready was a hazard of his little brother’s socialite/influencer life (follow him, @makemiromoves), but it did mean that Santi wasn’t sure which mask of Miro’s he was about to contend with.
Santi supposed he and his brother were close, in a way two people lumped together during a disaster would become close. There wasn’t anyone else in the world that understood the special brand of frustration, the emotional exhaustion and irritation the Santillans wrought. But still, there was a distance between him and his little brother that Santi couldn’t quite bridge, no matter what he did.
It started around the same time Santi made the deal with Vito. He got the funds to take over Villa, and paid it all back, with interest in three years. Miro hadn’t visited the place once, had rejected Santi offering to pay him to do all the interiors (which he thought was the point of starting an interior design-based channel?) and started to snark at him, instead of with him. Like Santi had turned from his semi-reluctant ally/brother into persona non-grata.
But it was fine. Miro was entitled to whatever hurt he was feeling. Santi was patient enough to wait for his little brother to tell him his problem when he was ready.
“Miro,” Santi said, noting his little brother was already pulling off the orchid boutonniere attached to the lapel of his jacket, tugging off the pale pink tie that all the groomsmen had donned for the wedding. “Leaving so soon? The reception hasn’t even started.”
“I’ve been up since five a.m. for this damned wedding. If I stay longer, I’ll have to start charging a talent fee,” he said with a bitter chuckle. This was Miro on top of the world, without a care for anyone else but himself, happy enough to say what was really on his mind because there wasn’t anything Santi could do about it. It usually happened when he was about to leave a room, be somewhere he was more likely to be adored. “I don’t know how much longer I could have pretended to smile and be happy for Kit.”
“He’s your cousin,” Santi reminded him.
“Secondcousin,” Miro scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I was chosen to be a groomsman because I’m the handsome one, and they probably wanted to make Lolo feel like we weren’t excluded. Anyway. I’m leaving. Places to be, stories to post, you know.”
Santi didn’t, but said nothing.
“And I just wanted to let you know that Mama was very proud about the fact that she didn’t give the happy couple a gift, despite her and dad being Ninang and Ninong,” Miro said, his brow raised as if daring Santi to comment on how outrageous that was. “Said it was more than enough that we didn’t charge them the peak rate for the wedding venue.”
“So not only is she a bad Ninang, she’s also a liar.” Santi sighed in resignation. Vito Santillan did not believe in giving a family and friends discount, unless there was something in it for him, and a second cousin’s wedding definitely did not count. “And now we have to fix it.”
