1 #2
“The Acácias integration is ahead of schedule,” he said, pulling up a chair. “They run a good operation. It’s the private-event contracts that are the problem.”
I kept reading the report on my screen.
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s piecemeal. One event company, three outside kitchens, a different setup crew for every date. We need to consolidate.”
“The events start in less than a month.”
“That’s why I’m bringing this up now.”
I closed the report.
The acquisition had taken seven months. A historic hotel, a good location, occupancy lower than it should have been, maintenance that couldn’t wait any longer.
The courtyard garden and the ballroom drew events; the hotel side needed work.
I’d approved the purchase because the two sides could support each other, as long as we didn’t run them like competing businesses.
“What does the local team recommend?”
Augusto leaned back.
“Keep them all, of course.”
“Don’t say ‘of course.’ Tell me why.”
He raised an eyebrow. More amused than annoyed.
“You really want to spend your morning discussing cake vendors?”
I took the list.
I read the name he’d crossed out.
Cecília Avelar.
My brother watched me in silence.
I read the line again. Beside her name was a business name I didn’t recognize, followed by a description. Cakes and sweets. June through September. Contracted by Trama Celebra??es.
“Is it her?” I asked.
“Yes.”
The air conditioner in my office kept acting up: a brief rattle whenever the compressor started. I’d asked twice for someone to fix it. That morning I listened to it while I stared at the page.
Five years.
I hadn’t said her name out loud in five years.
That wasn’t quite accurate. Perhaps I’d said it to Augusto, in a sentence I hadn’t finished.
But I couldn’t remember a particular time.
I remembered all the other ways her name came to me without my having to say it.
A dessert I turned down. News of a wedding at the hotel.
That useless instant between waking up and realizing I was alone.
“Why did you cross her off?”
“So we can replace her before operations gets the list.”
I set the page on my desk.
“Is there a problem with her work?”
“Dante.”
I looked at him.
My brother was forty-four. He wore the same patient expression he’d worn teaching me to drive when our father decided he didn’t have time. Sometimes I still responded to that look before he said a word. It made me feel I was about to make trouble over something he could take care of for me.
“I asked about her work.”
“I didn’t check how good her cakes are. I thought you’d rather not have that person around one of our properties.”
That person.
I’d called her that myself. Or let it pass. There hadn’t been much difference these past few years.
“Does the contract predate the acquisition?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s not our concern, provided she meets our operational requirements.”
Augusto folded his hands on his knee.
“You don’t have to prove anything by being civil.”
“This is about a contract, not being civil.”
He held my gaze a few seconds longer. Then he drew the page back toward him and put a small question mark beside the crossed-out name.
“Your call.”
We moved on. Occupancy, room renovations, purchases that needed auditing during the transition. My brother knew the figures. He spotted an item counted twice in an estimate, corrected a deadline, and left with a printout of a spreadsheet I needed to review by the end of the day.
He left the vendor list behind.
After the door shut, I stared at it.
Had I known Cecília was still in S?o Paulo?
No.
Known where she worked?
Not that, either.
For the first few months after the wedding, I’d told myself that knowing nothing about her was how I would move on.
Then it became a habit. There was always something real that needed my attention.
A hotel opening. A negotiation. A problem at a hotel where I could walk through the door and know what to do.
The years would go by whether I asked about her or not.
And they had.
I got up and went to the window. Without noticing, I’d taken the page with me. The city was gray, with a band of sunlight along the neighboring building. Several floors below, a man walked slowly among the rooftop ventilation units.
I thought about a job where you fixed one thing at a time.
I thought about Cecília sitting on my kitchen floor with a list of ingredients. Thinking on her feet wore her ideas out, she used to say.
I could see it all so clearly that I looked down at her name again.
She’d taken the money.
That was where I always stopped.
Whenever I remembered something good, I thought of the bank transfer, too. The message asking for secrecy. The article. It was as much a habit as checking that the door was locked before bed.
I never let myself dwell on the rest.
Her voice, telling me she was pregnant.
Her hand on her dress.
My arm pulling away.
I went back to my desk and pressed the button on the phone.
“álvaro, are you going to the Acácias meeting on Thursday?”
“Yes. Nine o’clock. Elisa’s called in the main vendors.”
“I’ll be there.”
There was a brief pause.
“It’s mostly operational details. I can brief you afterward.”
“I want to meet the team.”
“All right. I’ll tell the manager.”
I hung up.
At eleven, I ran a meeting about another property. I had lunch with two directors. I read the legal opinion on a purchase that needed city approval. Sometime that afternoon the maintenance company sent a technician, and the air conditioner stopped rattling.
I noticed only when I was alone again.
The vendor list was under my keyboard.
I could have had someone look into her. Her address, her phone number, the status of her business. It would be easy. One brief instruction, and before I left for home, someone would have Cecília’s life neatly laid out on a few pages.
I opened my browser.
I typed A?úcar de Dentro.
The bakery’s page came up. Photos of cakes, the narrow shop window, business hours. One showed Cecília at work, her back to the camera, hair tied up, a dark apron on. She held a spatula. Part of her face showed in the glass door’s reflection.
I enlarged the photo.
She looked serious, absorbed in something out of frame. There was the small burn scar on her left arm. I remembered kissing it once, and her telling me that wouldn’t help. It had already healed.
I closed the photo.
The posts were about ingredients, orders, available dates. Nothing about her personal life. I looked for the contact details, went back to the first picture, and finally took my hand off the mouse.
I could keep looking.
I’d avoided doing that for five years.
On Thursday, she would be right in front of me. I could ask a question and get the answer from her instead of a website or my brother.
The thought unsettled me more than it should have.
The kitchen was dark when I got home. I switched on the light and opened the refrigerator. The housekeeper had left a meal: two portions in separate containers, with reheating instructions. I ate out most nights, but she still made enough for the next day.
I set one of the containers on the counter.
That was when her words came back to me, every one of them.
“I’m pregnant, Dante. You’re going to be a father.”
I stood with the refrigerator door open until it began to beep.
I closed it.
I’d chosen to believe it was a lie.
I’d never tried to find out.
3
CECíLIA
The guard asked for my ID and checked for my name on his clipboard.
I held the folder against my chest while I waited. Beyond the side passage was the Hotel das Acácias garden, separated from the service entrance by a wall covered in greenery. I’d been there twice that month. I knew the way to the kitchen, the uneven step that jolted the delivery cart.
But a new logo on the counter made the whole place feel different that morning.
“You’re all set, ma’am.”
I took my ID back.
“Is the meeting in the mezzanine room?”
“That’s right. The manager’s waiting for you.”
I went up alone, going over what I needed to discuss. Refrigeration. Hours. Setup. Payment. I’d chosen clothes I wouldn’t have to think about: black pants, a blue shirt, flats. I wanted to come in, do my job, and leave. I didn’t want to find myself dressing to catch Dante’s eye.
I’d still wasted ten minutes in front of the mirror.
Teresa stood in the hall with her phone to her ear. When she saw me, she held up a finger, finished the call, and came over.
“Just so you know before we go in—he’s here.”
My stomach tightened.
“Okay.”
“I didn’t know he was coming. Neither did Elisa.”
I nodded, staring at the closed door.
“How many people?”
“Seven, including us.”
That was good. Seven people and an agenda. With an agenda, I could function.
Teresa touched my elbow.
“Let me know if you need a minute.”
“I need people to stop treating me like a problem.”
She let her hand fall, unoffended.
“Then let’s talk about work.”
She opened the door.
I noticed Dante before I noticed the empty chairs.
He got up along with the man beside him. He wore a gray suit, no tie, and held a pen between his fingers. There was gray in his hair I didn’t remember. For a moment I stared at it, needing proof that the years had passed for him, too.
Then he said my name.
“Cecília.”
His voice reached across those five years so easily it made me furious.
“Good morning.”
I greeted the manager and the other vendors, then sat beside Teresa, across from the man representing the setup crew. I laid my folder on the table and opened it to the first page.
I didn’t look at Dante again until Elisa began the introductions.
He sat two chairs to my right.
Close enough that I remembered how his soap smelled before I could tell if the scent had changed.
“We’re keeping the calendar as it is and making some adjustments to procedures,” the manager explained. “Mr. Vasconcelos wanted to be here personally as we get started.”
I kept my expression neutral. Or tried to.