“No, no. Bea’s papa is on Bea’s side, always. He just sees that Rafael is, too.” Umma’s expression turned wistful. “He’s been cleaning the storage room every afternoon. Says it needs to be in order before we travel.”
Bea’s heart squeezed. That room. The one with the dented filing cabinet and the old boxes filled with report cards and school photos. Where her childhood still lived, archived by a man who never threw anything important away.
They scrolled in silence for a moment. Bea noticed her own screen hadn’t moved past the third page. Her finger hovered over the trackpad, then she closed the presentation. She wasn’t ready to know what page four decided for her. She picked up a linen swatch and rubbed the fabric between her fingers. Curtains, meanwhile, were entirely her decision.
“Everyone’s flying business class,” Umma narrated. “We have the choice of three hotels in Northgate, and each site will have drivers.”
“Beya Slaya…who exactly did you agree to marry?” Claire asked.
Agree.The word landed wrong.
“Wait, girls, someone’s at the door,” Umma said, already pushing back from the table before her screen went empty.
“You’re quiet in a way I don’t like.” The humor dropped out of Claire’s voice as soon as they were alone.
“I’m fine,” Bea said for what felt like the millionth time. She really was. So fine she’d carefully followed Tita Tess’ instructions and sorted the swatches into neat piles.
LOVE
HATE
There was also a third pile, which felt necessary for emotional honesty.
Can’t justify the price
And a fourth, which was growing the fastest.
Bro, these are literally the same color
Claire’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You’re not. You were radiant when you called to tell us last week.” She ran a brush through her hair, then pointed it at the screen like a weapon. “Did Rafael do something to upset you? Do I need to fly over and teach him some manners?”
Bea’s lips twitched. “Not yet. I’ll let you know.”
Claire studied her. “Okay. Well. Make sure you keep the Saturday night before your wedding free.”
“What for?”
Claire drew back slightly, affronted. “Your hens, obviously. Do you think I’ve been maintaining a spreadsheet for nearly twenty years for nothing?”
“I thought your spreadsheet was for red and green flags about men I might marry.”
“That’s only one of the tabs,” Claire said, like it was obvious.
“Of course,” Bea said wryly. “Do you need help thinking of places?”
Not that she was currently an expert on making decisions.
“Nah. Lils and Laurent have been helping me.”
Lillian, Bea could understand. “Laurent?”
Claire nodded, then went thoughtful. “Do you think he’s good at thinking of ideas that women would actually enjoy because he’s French?”
“I have no idea,” Bea said honestly. Though she was fairly sure Rafael would veto whatever ‘French idea’ Laurent came up with.
Umma suddenly reappeared. “Sorry, that took a while. The driver gave us the wrong delivery. Claire, you send the pack to Marco. I’ll circulate it to our relatives.”
Claire’s smile dimmed. “It’s not one hundred percent definite he’ll come.”
