Chapter 5
Sunday lunch at her parents’ house was, as it always had been, an exercise in organised chaos.
The house sat behind high walls in a leafy street in a neighbourhood where old S?o Paulo money like her parents lived alongside newer fortunes in a state of uneasy coexistence.
Helena’s grandparents had bought the house in the sixties, a sprawling colonial-style property with more rooms than any family needed and a garden that her mother tended as if it were her fourth child.
It was the house Helena and her sisters had grown up in, the house where every milestone had been marked and every argument had been fought, and every Sunday lunch, without exception, had been served at one o’clock.
As Helena and her sisters had grown older, the tradition had crystallised as monthly…
once a month they would all be there, without fail, and it worked, an opportunity for the family to come together and, for a few hours, rediscover the dynamic that they’d built over the years. As traditions went Helena approved.
Helena parked in the driveway behind Mariana’s car, the white Audi convertible that their father had bought for her twenty-first birthday and that Mariana drove as if she’d never have to worry about the cost of repair.
Although in fairness, that was probably a reasonable assumption on her part…
tasks like that often fell to their father.
The car, the apartment… each daughter, on turning twenty-one, had been gifted both, their parents thinking being that they would lay the foundations for each daughter but then they would have to earn their own money after that.
That didn’t mean working in the family investment fund, now run by their uncle after their father retired, but it did mean earning for themselves despite the fact that Helena suspected her parents could afford to fund all three daughters’ lifestyles indefinitely if they’d wanted to.
Helena was under no illusions that she was anything other than incredibly fortunate, but she was also glad that her parents had done it that way.
We’ll set you up, but then it’s over to you.
It taught them self-responsibility while allowing them to choose the career they wanted, consulting in Helena’s case.
Their youngest sister, Beatriz, wasn’t there yet, which was normal. Beatriz ran on her own schedule and always had, and the whole world had to just deal with it. She’d arrive when she arrived and they’d still be happy to see her.
The smell of her mother’s cooking hit Helena the moment she walked through the front door.
Feijoada today, she thought, from the rich, deep aroma of it, her father’s favourite, and therefore a fixture of the monthly Sunday lunch even though it was a dish that took most of the morning to prepare and left the kitchen looking like a war zone.
“Helena!” Her mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and pulled Helena into a tight hug.
The household was her domain, and woe betide anyone who didn’t know that.
They had domestic staff but on a Sunday they were all given the day off and, Helena suspected, her mother wouldn’t have let anyone else try to make the Sunday lunch even if they were on duty.
She leaned back to look at Helena. “You look thin. Are you eating?”
“I eat plenty, M?e.”
“You work too much. Come, your father’s on the terrace.”
Helena followed her through the house, the familiar route past the living room with its heavy furniture and family photographs covering every surface, through the dining room where the long table was already set for five, and out through the glass doors to the terrace.
Her father was in his usual chair, a glass of red wine in his hand and the Sunday paper open on his lap, though he appeared to have given up reading it in favour of watching the garden birds.
He was the counterpoint to her mother’s energy, tall, measured, the sort of man whose words carried weight when he spoke.
He’d run the family’s investment firm for three decades before retiring, but his life seemed fuller now than ever: philanthropic work, seemingly endless rounds of golf, and advisory roles with a handful of companies grateful for his expertise.
“Pai.” Helena kissed his cheek and sat in the chair next to him.
“Helena.” He smiled warmly. “How’s work?”
“Good. I’m presenting to Pactuali’s board on Thursday.”
“I know their CFO from a while back. Smart woman. Risk-averse, quite old school.”
“I know. We’re leading with a conservative scenario.”
He nodded approvingly. “Good instinct.”
That was high praise indeed coming from him, and it meant a lot to Helena. Even at twenty-five she valued her father’s professional opinion above almost anyone else’s.
“Would you like me to speak to her?” He had a twinkle in his eye as he said it.
“Absolutely not,” Helena grinned.
Her father grinned back. He’d tried to help once earlier in her career and Helena had been mortified when she found out. Now, they had a mutual agreement that he’d always offer and she’d always say no… a dance they did where both of them knew all the moves.
Mariana appeared from inside, barefoot, hair still wet from the shower she’d presumably just taken, wearing a sundress that didn’t look cheap.
She was twenty-three, the middle sister, and her role could best be described as the family hurricane…
blowing through every situation with energy and noise, not to mention a complete inability to be anywhere quietly.
“You’re here!” Mariana threw herself at Helena as if they hadn’t seen each other for months rather than a few days. “I need to talk to you later. Important.”
“About?”
“Later.” Mariana grabbed Helena’s wine glass, took a sip, and handed it back. “It’s about this evening.”
“What about this evening? I was planning to go home after lunch.”
“Change of plan. You’re coming out with me and some people. It’ll be fun.” She looked at Helena with an expression that said this is not remotely optional. “Please? I need my big sister’s support.”
“Support for what?”
“Just come. I’ll explain later.” And with that Mariana disappeared back inside, leaving Helena exchanging a bemused look with her father.
“Your sister,” he said with a shrug.
***
Beatriz arrived twenty minutes late, full of apologies about traffic that nobody believed, and they sat down to eat.
Her mother’s feijoada was, as always, exceptional: the black beans rich and deeply flavoured, the various cuts of pork and sausage cooked until they fell apart, served with rice, farofa, orange slices and the dark, wilted greens that Helena’s father insisted on even though none of his daughters liked them.
The conversation was easy, as it always was.
Her father asked Helena and Mariana about their work, Beatriz about her studies, then Beatriz talked about her new apartment, the turning twenty-one gift that was being redecorated on a budget that her parents were quietly supplementing.
Her mother got on to the topic of a cousin’s wedding that she seemed to have inserted herself into the planning of.
“And Helena,” her mother said, using the same tone that had for many years presaged a personal question. “How is your social life?”
“Fine, M?e.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“Not seriously.”
“You’re twenty-five. When I was twenty-five, I had two children.”
“Times have changed, M?e.”
“Not that much.” Her mother looked at her father for support, but he very wisely discovered something on his plate that needed his undivided attention.
Her parents knew about her sexuality, it would have been hard for them not to given how when she was sixteen her mother had come back early from a stay at their beach house and walked in on her and a woman she’d met at a party naked in her bed.
But… her mother did hold out hope. She knew nothing about Juliana, certainly nothing about Caitlin, in fact the last relationship they were aware of was with a man over a year ago and Alessandra at university before that.
For them, Helena was a mystery, beautiful but curiously chaste. Of course, the reality was far removed from that.
“Leave her alone, M?e,” Mariana interjected. “Helena’s got plenty of time. And anyway, she’s got better taste than most people I know.”
Helena shot Mariana a warning look. Mariana smiled innocently and helped herself to more food while Beatriz did her best to hide her grin… she didn’t know as much about Juliana and Helena as Mariana did, but she knew enough. Their mother simply looked between them all and shrugged in exasperation.
The lunch continued, the wine flowed, and by the time they’d cleared the plates and settled on the terrace with coffee the afternoon felt wonderfully warm and relaxed.
Beatriz left first, claiming an essay that needed writing, kissing everyone goodbye with the breezy affection that was her default setting.
When Helena stood to leave, Mariana intercepted her in the hallway.
“So. Later.”
“Mariana, I’m tired. It’s Sunday.”
“It’s four o’clock and you’re twenty-five, not forty-five. Come on.” Mariana pulled her phone out. “A few of us are meeting for a drink, around six thirty. A bar near my apartment. It’ll be fun, low key. You’ll be home long before your bedtime.”
“Low key is never low key with your friends.”
“My friends are delightful. And…” Mariana hesitated, just for a second. “Juliana might be there.”
Helena looked at her sister. Mariana’s expression was carefully neutral, which meant she was hiding something.
“Mariana. What’s going on? You said you needed your big sister’s support?”
“Nothing’s going on.” Helena simply looked at Mariana, the look that said I know you too well to fall for that. “Ok,” Mariana continued, “if you must know, Juliana wanted me to make sure you come. Ok? But please, please, please don’t tell her I told you that.”
“She wants me there?”
“She wants you there. Look, I’m not trying to get involved in your whatever-it-is.”
“It’s a casual thing. You know that.”
“I know. Which is why it doesn’t matter to me.” Mariana smiled. “Just come. One drink. If you’re bored, you can leave.”
Helena thought about her options. She could go home, do some housework that didn’t need doing, then lie in bed thinking about a woman in Houston and waiting for her week to start. Or she could go out with her sister, have a drink, maybe see what Juliana was playing at.
“Fine. One drink.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“And it’s always a lie. I know.” Helena smiled. “Let me change first. Text me the details.”