I watch my Valentina, who at this moment has red eyes from rubbing them so much.
That’s the cue that she’s tired. I’ve learned to decipher all the signs.
She inherited her red hair from her mother, and also the blue eyes, but as for temperament, there’s no denying she’s a Caldwell-Oviedo. Nina doesn’t like to be contradicted and is demanding in her desires.
I pick her up and walk to her room, but instead of putting her in the crib, I take her to the bed—which should be the nanny’s—and start playing with the silky strands of her hair.
I’ve noticed that she falls asleep faster this way than if I put her in the crib immediately, especially on these days when she’s been irritable due to teething.
“We had quite a Saturday, didn’t we? Did you enjoy seeing your crazy uncles again? I don’t think I’ve mentioned it yet, but your aunt Martina is coming back home soon.”
My sister, who was engaged to a prince from a princedom near Italy, has just called off the engagement and is returning to the United States after years away.
I foresee stormy weather ahead, but there’s nothing we can do but support her.
“I think you two will get along, but don’t be surprised by her lively nature. You’ll get used to it over time.”
Martina has only been with Nina three times. First at her birth, then during the period after Layla’s death, and about two months ago, after Dad’s last stroke.
Nina gives me a sleepy smile, holding on to my finger.
I’m lost regarding how to guide our lives, and that’s not a pleasant feeling for me.
With my father’s health deteriorating, Mom needs to rest. At the same time, I’m worried about leaving Nina in daycare full-time. No matter how well-recommended it is, it won’t do the same job as a family member.
I’ve tried several nannies, but since I need them to live in, I’ve had many problems. They miss work, only giving last-minute notice, and the last two even hinted that they would be willing to offerextraservices, creating an uncomfortable and unsustainable situation.
I don’t know why, but some women think that because I’m a widower, I’m a perfect target, dreaming of becoming thenext Mrs. Caldwell-Oviedo. With the last two hires, I had no choice but to fire them because of these forced attempts at intimacy.
As for women who think I’m looking for a commitment, they couldn’t be more wrong. The last thing I want right now is a long-term relationship. One bad experience was more than enough. If it happens in the future, I won’t base it on physical attraction—as I did with Layla—but on reason.
After putting my daughter in the crib and making sure the baby monitor is on, I head to the bathroom for a quick shower. Moments later, I lie down in bed thinking about how I’ve been handling my sex life so far.
There haven’t been many changes from what it was before I met Layla.
I occasionally go out for dinner and sex but without forming attachments. I don’t want to bring someone into my daughter’s life whom I don’t intend to keep on a permanent basis. The rejection she suffered from her mother, who didn’t even want to help choose her name, is enough. I won’t subject my little girl to temporary partners.
Without intending it, my mind drifts back to Olívia.
In fact, this has been a recurring thing since I left the café yesterday morning. Everything I read in the report that arrived in my email tonight only confirmed what I saw with my own eyes yesterday.
She’s a kind-hearted girl full of warmth, but somewhat naïve. Olívia doesn’t have anyone to look out for her and is burdened with debts. She was evasive when I asked about her studies, but now I know why she couldn’t attend college: she owes a lot to the bank because of her mother’s prolonged illness.
She said that if she could study, it would be to become a pastry chef, what the French call achef pâtissière.They arethe chefs responsible for desserts in the most sophisticated restaurants. Each hotel in our chain employs one.
I try to imagine that force of nature leading a kitchen and smile. I would pay good money to watch her performance. In fact, I was captivated by everything she did from the moment I walked into the café. I couldn’t look away.
When I sought her out, despite having seen a photo of her face, I wasn’t prepared for the impact meeting her would have on me. I think I was expecting a version of Layla, just with dark hair, but I was completely mistaken.
My late wife was taller and also slender. She was obsessed with the opinion of magazines that monitor socialites to see if they’ve gained weight, if they have cellulite, things like that. Layla guided her existence based on her own image. Olívia, on the other hand, has sensational curves in all the right places. She’s perfect and natural.
She’s also a sweet and restless little thing.
She’s small compared to the average American women—I don’t believe she reaches five-foot-three in height. Although she’s petite, she’s absolutely proportionate, except for her breasts.
I try to push to the back of my mind how the uniform stretched over her breasts as if a button—or all of them—would pop open at any moment, but I can’t.
I have a thing for large breasts, and hers are full for such a petite woman. Her body doesn’t meet the standards that society establishes as ideal, but to me, it’s delicious. The slim waist, wide hips, and flat abdomen make an irresistible contrast with the large breasts.
