I stack a few menus to put in front of the register. All the baked goods are ready to be sold to a good home. José has already given me his silent nod of approval. La Mariposa is ready for business.
“Okay, so I was talking to our Tía Maritza, and she heard from our cousin Felipe, who heard from Alessandro that Sofia’s fiancé mentioned to Sofia that he wants to invest in a Latin restaurant. Apparently, his family owns a few different restaurants throughout New Jersey and New York, and he wanted to branch out independently. This could be your chance to save La Mariposa. I already spoke to Sofia about it, and she’s thrilled to have you come and to help you with the opportunity.”
I pause, narrowing my eyes. “Wait. Why would Sofia even care about helping me? We haven’t really talked in years.”
Maria rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Come on, Isa. Just because you two lost touch doesn’t mean she’s completely forgotten about you. You guys were close growing up, remember? Every family party, every movie night. You were practically inseparable until—well, you know. Don’t overthink it. You two used to be like sisters. Trust me, she wants to help.”
“So, what? I show him a business plan, cook some meals, and he invests in the restaurant. That’s it?”
“Basically.” Maria shrugs. “You just need to wow him with the dishes and speak highly of the restaurant. It’ll be so easy, and you come back a hero. De nada, prima.”
I feel a flutter of hope inside my gut. Is this my saving grace? The exact opportunity I need to save the restaurant secretly, and no one is the wiser? My mother would continue believing I never fuck anything up. That we still live the life she thinks we do—the one in which the restaurant is still thriving and my father didn’t leave us too soon. Maybe I could even buy her out and keep the restaurant under my own name. The excitement builds up inside my chest.
“That doesn’t sound so bad. Just pop in the day of, borrow the kitchen for a minute, show him the plan, and then leave a hero.”
“Well, so?” Maria chuckles nervously.
“Oh, God… I’m scared to ask,” I groan.
“You know Sofia—she’s so extra! And she’s marrying rich, so what more can you expect from her, right?”
“Spit it out.”
“Okay.” She sighs. “It’s kind of a week-long thing at the summer camp she used to go to every year as a kid. Her only requirement is that you have to go for the six days. It’s a few hours away, in the Berkshires.”
She blurts everything out so quickly that I have to sit for a second to process everything. I grew up with Sofia, and if there’s one thing I won’t ever forget, it is how unbelievably jealous I was that she got to go to summer camp every single year. After watching the movieThe Parent Trapan obscene number of times, I wanted nothing more than to go to camp and find my long-lost twin sister who lived in a fancy home in London, and we would get to switch places. She would get to live in a cramped apartment in New Jersey, in $10 shoes, and I would get to live a life of luxury, owning real designer things. I always thought about how impressed everyone would be that Isabella made it.
One summer, I desperately begged my mother to let me go with my cousin, but she couldn’t afford it. I told her I could talk to Tía and see if she could pay for me since she had offered before, but she shut down that notion immediately. It’s been a long time since I thought about summer camp, and the opportunity to finally go isn’t lost on me.
“So I’d be gone for a whole week?”
Maria nods slowly, anticipating my next move.
“My mother probably won’t be invited to the wedding, right?”
“Um, estas loca? Did you forget the drama between Rosita and Mariposa? It’s practically an urban legend at this point,” Maria recalls.
I didn’t forget. If our life were a telenovela, this would be the mystery we’d be trying to solve. When we were fifteen, something happened between Tía Rosita and my mother at our joint quinceañera. No one ever knew what it was, but whatever happened caused chaos when my mother forced both sides of the family to choose between her and Rosita. I guess Maria found a way to stay in touch with Sofia since her mother wasn’t directly involved. On the other hand, I wasn’t allowed to even think about them. This fact alone will mean that convincing my mother to watch the restaurant while I’m gone will be damn near impossible.
“Yeah, no. I’m not doing that,” I decide.
“What? Isa, why not? This is a great opportunity.”
“I can’t just leave the restaurant for an entire week for something that isn’t definite. Who is going to run the restaurant while I’m gone? What am I supposed to tell my mom? ‘I’m going to the wedding of the family you hate’? ‘The one you envied my entire childhood because they made more money than we could ever’? ‘The one you had too much pride to contact when my father died’? Not to mention that this place will fall apart without me. I can’t. Thank you for thinking of me, but I just can’t.”
The thought of leaving the restaurant in someone else’s hands makes my palms sweaty. How would they know how to open it properly? And I’m supposed to be gone for six days, hours away, at some random summer-camp-themed wedding for a cousin I haven’t seen in ten years? It’s just not possible. Still, I feel like this could be precisely what I need, and I can’t shake the feeling that it would solve all my problems. But, no, I can’t.
“Oof, well then, you’re gonna love this next piece of chisme I have for you,” she chuckles.
“What more could you possibly have to say?” I moan.
“Well, I already told Sofia you’d do it, and it starts tomorrow.”
Chapter Three
The lunch rush came and went with only a few stragglers left behind, which means my mother will be showing up any minute now. She loves to make her entrance as if the rush was a success thanks to her. Almost like a celebrity appearance. The restaurant always looks like it’s been raided after lunch. It’s our only real rush these days—mornings are dead, and evenings are barely better. Once the lunch crowd clears, it feels as if we’re just waiting for the lights to go off for good. No wonder we’re struggling to stay afloat. The display case under the counter that holds all of our pastries is practically empty. Faye restocks the cooler with Maltas, Jupina pineapple soda, and the usual Coke products. José is baking to refill the pastry case. Maria is tidying the dining room, picking up dirty dishes and readjusting the chairs to their proper tables. This is always the best part of the day for me. There is something so satisfying about taking something in complete disarray and organizing it, with everything in its place. It’s sweet, angelic music to my perfectionist ears.
“Thanks for the meal, Isa! Always delicious,” a customer shouts as they leave the building.
