Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Strawberry-scented steam blossomed from the oven; the pink cake was lightly golden.
It was the best cake I’d ever made, the center high and full.
I was always good at many things, but baking was not one of them.
With my right foot, I shut the door and set the cake on the wire rack to cool until it was ready for the fresh strawberry-cream frosting, Diego’s favorite. All was going according to plan.
The cake was good.
Dinner would go well.
No need to worry.
I eyed the clock, ticking seven on the dot.
The time for my appointment with Death had come and gone.
According to ritual, Death had left a golden maté gourd the day before, flowers and swirls etched in the top, perfect for drinking the earthy concoction, and a note, providing the location for our meeting today at six p.m.—a restaurant near the opening of the catacombs.
Of course it would fall on my first anniversary with Diego.
It was like Death was spying on me, waiting just beyond the veil. Instinct told me it was on purpose. It had to be.
It wasn’t like I could call Death.
All our meetings were one-way affairs. I got the item and a time. That was how it worked.
I had no way of rescheduling. And I had never considered asking to before, but . . .
I thought about it as I stirred the cream. Diego had said he had something special planned—even life-changing.
I loved Diego: not in the all-consuming way I had loved others in the past, but in a gentle, easy way.
He was a tender place to land, which was ironic because he’d fallen off a roof when we first met.
Diego’s love was simple—uncomplicated. It wasn’t uncontrollable passion that would burn too fast, but it would be enough for as long as it lasted.
Death would be happy, right? I knew he wanted to prove me wrong, but he cared for my welfare.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t have shown up at that club in LA all those years ago.
I was better—less brittle. I had gathered more stories and was ready to meet his challenge.
I could have one day, couldn’t I? After all, I had never missed a meeting before.
At ten minutes after six, when I hadn’t heard anything, it occurred to me that maybe everything would be fine. I’d left a message for the ma?tre d’. Surely that would be enough. Diego and I would have dinner at home that night, and I’d have everything ready for Death the next day.
At half past six, I started to breathe.
And at seven, I finally started to relax.
It was one time. I hadn’t heard anything. I could see it as a good sign.
I had been on time for all our meetings. One wouldn’t be a problem, would it?
Death would understand.
Wouldn’t he?
The thought had barely left my head when a hand reached out, snaking around my waist and yanking me backward.
“Diego!”
He pulled me closer, nuzzling my neck in that sensitive spot below my ear. “That smells delicious, mi vida. Is it almost as sweet as you?”
“You startled me!” My heart was hammering. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
He frowned quizzically. “But who else would it be?”
Who, indeed? I pushed the thought away as I pushed him physically from the kitchen, swatting him with a pot holder as he reached for the saucepan lid. “Well, it shouldn’t be you. Get out of the kitchen. No sweet talk here. You’re going to ruin the surprise.”
“You know you must watch the time on the steak—it’s a delicate thing.”
“You and your meat. I’ve got it,” I said, pushing him through the door. “I won’t burn it again. Give me a little credit.”
His laughter faded as he made himself at home in the living room, watching commentators debate over a fútbol match.
We hadn’t moved in together, but he was here as much as he was at his place. Undoubtedly, the question would come soon. I wondered about it as I stirred the side dish of stewed tomatoes, turning down the heat so it wouldn’t burn. What would a life fully together look like?
Over the past year, I’d learned all the ways we fit and all the ways we didn’t.
If we moved into my place, Diego would want to have a workout room and an area for making music, and I found myself reluctant to give up my writing space, complete with shelves for my books and trunk.
I could afford another place where we could have it all, but that would get harder to explain, since he still didn’t know my secret.
Diego and I had quit the travel agency after another three months of dating. I told him a mysterious uncle had left me some money, with explicit instructions to blow it all on love and travel. Something about him reminded me of the way I used to be. Openhearted.
Diego had been thrilled to come, and it was as if the world were brand new, seeing through his eyes the glaciers in Santa Cruz, dancing in the streets of Cali, Colombia, and hiking Machu Picchu in Peru.
The time was ours to enjoy. It reminded me of taking steamers down to Monrovia on a whim.
It also reminded me of my trips with Gabby and all the postcards.
I didn’t revisit the places we’d been—that felt like it would be crossing a line—so I planned other places that Diego and I would travel to.
I had collected so many stories, recording them as evidence for Death of all the goodness that still existed.
Diego was beside me as we explored the region, learning and collecting.
After learning how to make wood carvings in Antigua, Guatemala, he’d gifted me a wooden sun he’d made and painted gold, which now hung in the kitchen.
It hadn’t all been easy, though.
The longer I spent with him, the more questions he had. How did I know so many languages and dialects? That couldn’t be explained away with a Rosetta Stone CD. More than once, the question arose about my funds and how I could afford all this.
Anyone else would’ve been ecstatic to have a rich girlfriend with unlimited funds. Still, the more I knew Diego, the more I understood that having a sudden font of wealth would be a problem since I hadn’t shared the truth of my situation early on.
Diego was big on truth—his one nonnegotiable—because it turned out that Diego’s dad had lied.
A lot.
To Diego.
To Diego’s brothers and his sister.
To the people he owed money to.
But most of all, to Diego’s mom.
Despite the years of fighting and barely making ends meet, Diego’s mom, Luciana, had stuck by his father’s side, supporting the kids through her sewing business, making sure their family stayed whole.
So when Raul died suddenly of a heart attack, Luciana planned a stellar funeral and ensured he would be remembered for the few good times.
Imagine her surprise when four other children and their mothers showed up at the funeral, the children’s ages ranging from nineteen to two.
She had a nervous breakdown in the middle of the church, never making it to the graveside service.
Diego had shared all this with me in a small rental in Tikal, Guatemala, as the rain poured down, having spoiled our plans to explore the ancient Mayan pyramids. So we were staying in bed watching satellite TV with terrible reception when the topic of lying came up.
“I’m not sure, Diego. Circumstances aren’t cut and dried, and sometimes lies can be necessary.” I was only speaking my truth. Lies made complicated lives easier, especially mine. They made my life work.
He had sat up, thrown his legs over the side of the bed, and faced the open window, watching the rain pour down. I moved to his side and watched the struggle over his face. I could never forget how haunted it was.
“I love you, Carmella. I do, but I’m sorry, I disagree. There’s no reason to lie—not ever.” And so, he told me all of Raul’s numerous lies.
About his gambling.
About losing that small house.
Pretending to work when he had already been fired.
Stealing the money Diego had saved for a school trip.
Drinking the grocery money away.
About hitting Luciana.
“If you can lie to your loved ones,” he said, “what else could you do?”
So I hadn’t told him.
Any of it.
I ignored that little red flag of truth.
I needed Diego and his light, his happiness, and his optimism. Traveling with him made everything special again and reinforced my work with Death. I promised myself I would break it to him gently when the time came.
I quickly chopped the parsley for the chimichurri sauce and thought about how I would do it. He loved me. It would be okay. Diego was forgiving and kind. I had nothing to worry about.
As I turned to grab the sun-dried oregano and salt, I saw something that put my entire future in doubt.
The time for truth had come sooner than I thought.
Death loomed next to me, in the original form, the one I had first seen him in all those years ago on the plantation.
His energy flooded the room, pressing every corner, the enormity of it stealing my breath away.
“Thought you’d be rid of me that easily?”
Anger threaded through his voice, dark and crackling, like the energy of a night storm, with destruction guaranteed to follow.
The glass saltshaker fell, shattering to pieces, a plume of white salt dust rising around my feet.
“Carmella! Everything okay?” The couch squeaked as Diego stood up. I ran to the door, blocking his view to the kitchen.
“I—dropped the saltshaker. Would you run to the store and get another one?”
Diego frowned. “I think there’s a container on the shelf.”
“Nope. Fresh out.” I swallowed thickly. He needed to leave. Immediately.
“Let me help you clean up first.” He moved toward me, and I put a hand out to stop him.
“No!” I moved away from the kitchen. “Also, it’d be great if you could get me two cans of tomatoes. I need them for the sauce.”
“But we have tom—”
“I used them already. Please?” I walked over and pressed my hands against his shirt despite the sick feeling in my gut. “Please.”
He kissed my temple. “I’ll grab my keys.”
“Don’t, there’s glass everywhere!” I backed up, snatched the keys from the spot by the stove, and tossed them to him.
He gave me a weird look, but with one last glance at the score, he headed to the door.
“Salt and two cans of tomatoes? Nothing else?”
“Wine?”
He grinned, his trust shining out of every pore. “Now, that I can do. I’ll be back in a bit.”
I could only exhale once the door had shut, the cheers from the fans still blaring on the screen.
I swallowed and turned around. Death glowered at me, the energy in the room ratcheting higher.
From the look on his face, the world would end that night.