Darius knocks gently. “They’re here.”
I smooth my blouse and stand. Professional smile. Steady hands.
The door opens and they enter with that same synchrony, but something’s different today. Vicente seems lighter, almost excited. Arturo appears contemplative, his pale eyes taking inventory.
“Gentlemen.” I gesture to their usual spots. “How are things?”
“Exciting,” Vicente says, settling into the sofa. His energy is brighter, almost boyish. “We’re planning Thanksgiving.”
Arturo sits beside him, closer than last week. “Our first one together in thirty years.”
Vicente’s grin widens. “Elena is furious with us for trying to help in the kitchen. We offered to make the turkey ourselves and she looked at us like we’d suggested burning the house down.”
“Elena?” I prompt.
“She manages the household,” Arturo explains. “Has for decades. But she is not adjusting well to us wanting to be involved rather than just... present.”
“We’ve been relegated to setting the table,” Vicente adds with mock solemnity. “And even that requires supervision.”
“She did give us the guest list, though,” Arturo says. “Complete control over who gets invited.”
Vicente’s grin turns mischievous. “Which she may come to regret. We’ve been adding names all week.”
“How many people are we talking about?” I ask.
“Twenty,” Arturo says. “Maybe twenty-five. Elena’s family, Celeste and her partners, Mason and Callie with Zoey, Elle and Toni if they’ll drive up from San Diego?—”
“And you,” Vicente interjects smoothly. “If you’re free.”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“Thanksgiving,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You should come. Bring whomever you’d like.”
Arturo nods. “Elena always makes enough to feed an army. One more won’t make a difference.”
I keep my expression professionally neutral despite the boundary violation alarm bells going off in my head. “That’s very kind, but I’m not sure?—”
“Think about it,” Vicente says easily. “The offer stands.”
They move on before I can formulate a proper response, and I file it away as a joke, a throwaway comment not meant to be taken seriously.
“So Elena manages the household,” I say. “Tell me about her role.”
Arturo’s expression softens. “Elena has her own house on the property. She has been with us since we built the compound in the late eighties—started as the housekeeper, but became family. After Lola was killed, Elena stepped in to mother Celeste.”
Vicente shifts slightly in his seat.
“She has been the constant,” Arturo continues. “She kept the household running, kept Celeste grounded when everything fell apart.”
“And your daughters,” I prompt, watching Vicente’s discomfort grow more visible. I already know about Celeste, Toni, and Elle from the wedding, but the tension in Vicente’s reaction makes me want to understand the dynamic better.
“Three daughters,” Arturo says, and there’s unmistakable pride in his voice. “Toni is mine and Elena’s. She and Celeste grew up together—inseparable since they were babies.”
“And Vicente’s arrival has changed the household dynamic,” I prompt gently.
Arturo’s expression shifts—guilt edged with resignation. “Elena has... struggled with the adjustment.”
“She hates me,” Vicente says flatly. “Let’s not pretend otherwise.”
