I shiver in the crisp evening air as I approach the main hall in my slinky silver dress. How could it already be so chilly here? I pull my dark-grey shawl tighter around my shoulders.
As I walk closer to the building, I’m already picturing myself in my own corner of the kitchen, thanks to the chef and catering staff being so gracious to let me work there. In my own little world. No one to bother me. No one to distract me. I can focus on figuring out the secrets of my father’s book and make some sample meals for Luciano to try. Maybe this week won’t be so bad after all.
As I open the doors of the kitchen, my stomach sinks. There, in what is supposed to be my sacred haven, is Valentina. She’s moving swiftly around the kitchen, reaching for a pan hanging from the ceiling, snatching a spoon to stir whatever concoction she has in a pot on the stove, and gliding over to her cutting board to chop some vegetables. Of course, she’s the caterer. That would be my luck. I want to curse at the universe.
I walk silently toward the back counter to put my things down, trying to avoid the swift-moving staff. I’m almost dizzy watching them rush around to prepare everything for dinner. I grab an apron and start slowly tying it around my waist.
“I didn’t know you were the chef,” I say.
“Yep,” Valentina replies quickly as she looks through some papers, probably making sure everything is going to plan for the dinner service, considering she also has to attend as a guest. “Is that all right with you?”
I stand there, slightly stunned, but I won’t let her see that. A chef. It makes sense, though. I should have known. Back when we were teens, she’d always whip up those late-night snacks for me and Sofia—perfectly seasoned quesadillas, impromptu pasta dishes. Valentina always seemed so effortless in the kitchen, as if she belonged there. I used to think it was just another one of her talents, something I could roll my eyes at.
And now, seeing her like this—commanding a kitchen full of people, moving with purpose and grace—I have to admit, I’m a little impressed. But God, it’s annoying.
“Yes. Of course. Well, I don’t want to impose,” I stumble. “I can go somewhere else.”
“Where would you go? This is the only kitchen. And you need to make something for Luciano, right?” Valentina glances over at me, her tone casual but with just enough edge to make me feel flustered.
“Yeah, for the business plan,” I reply, my face suddenly feeling hot.
“Well, as long as you don’t get in the way, do whatever you need to do.”
Valentina continues to move around the kitchen, this time reaching for a tray of duck from the steaming-hot oven.
I pull out my father’s journal and place it on the counter. This is it. I can finally open his book and not get yelled at. Even now, I feel like I will get in trouble just for looking at it. I unclasp the necklace from my neck, feeling the familiar weight of the teardrop pendant in my hand. It’s strange how something so ordinary hid the answer all this time. I insert the pendant into the intricate grooves of the lock, and again, it fits perfectly. With a soft click, the latch swings open, just as it did before. My heart races as I prepare to finally see what’s inside.
I hesitate for a moment, with my thumb and finger on the corner of the leather-bound book, ready to turn to the first page. I feel as if I’m doing something wrong, something forbidden. I’m not, though. He wants me to open it. He wants to show me the truth. Whatever that could be. Still, after spending my entire childhood knowing this book was off-limits but never really knowing why, it’s an eerie feeling that I could find out a lot of secrets just by opening it. I take a deep breath and hold it for a few seconds. Finally, I close my eyes and turn the book to the very first page. Knowing my father, he would want me to inspect each page of the journal, from beginning to the end. I can’t miss any detail.
After what feels like a century, I finally open my eyes and look down at the book. There, on the inside front cover, is a black-and-white photo of myself as a baby in a hospital crib with my father sitting by my side. The picture is ripped just by his right shoulder, but it’s us—the two of us when I was born. I feel a pang in my chest—the one I get right before I start to ugly cry.
“Whoa, who is that baby?” Valentina says over my shoulder, and I jump.
“God! You scared me,” I say, my hand over my heart. “It’s my father and me.”
“Well, weren’t you a cute little one, huh?” Valentina winks.
“Duh, what else would you expect?” I roll my eyes.
“What happened?” she jokes.
“Excuse you. Have youseenme?” I spin around and use my arms to trace my curves.
Valentina walks closer to me, scanning my body from my toes, all the way to the top of my head. I swear I can feel her eyes on me.
She grins slyly. “Yes, I have definitely seen you.”
“Well.” I clear my throat. “Then you’d know. I’m still cute.”
“I guess I can’t deny that. You definitely had a glow-up. Remember the braces?”
I shrug. “I mean, you don’t look too bad yourself.”
My eyes shift back and forth from Valentina’s honey eyes. I could melt in them. I instinctively glance down at her lips. A slight crease appears to form.
“Don’t get any ideas, Valdes,” she states as she starts plating some appetizers. One looks like crackers with mashed olives on top. I can almost taste the vinegar.
“What ideas?”
