of here soon I may lose my mind the way my mother lost hers, surrounded by so much shining beauty hiding the vilest and vainest people.
A man I don’t recognize comes over and whispers something in my stepfather’s ear and he quickly excuses himself. My grandmother’s sharp eyes follow my stepfather as he exits the room, and I take that opportunity to excuse myself and head down the hallway. I know who I need to see. There are only two people in this house that I ever really considered family and they won’t be found out in the main hall.
I cut through the library and down another hallway and push open a door into a bustling, busy kitchen. This kitchen was one of the few places of true sanctuary for me in my youth, thanks to the love I received from Carmen Zelaya, the best cook on the East Coast, and the woman who raised me like her own daughter.
But the moment I step into the kitchen, I know something is wrong. Carmen had the kitchen decorated in bright colors, bachata music blasting from a little portable radio near the sink, and vases of flowers on the counters, the flowers cut from our garden where her husband Jorge grows award winning roses. But this kitchen is as sterile and silent as a hospital room. I am surprised that I don’t see Carmen anywhere, or Maude or even Greta, the cooking staff that worked for my mother nearly the entire time she was here. Instead, a man with a chef’s hat and a fierce frown stops slicing an onion to hold up a knife and scowl at me. Behind me, two caterers scurry out like frightened little mice.
“You’re in my kitchen,” he says, his annoyance blatantly obvious. “Get out.”
“Where’s Carmen?” I ask.
“Fired,” he says, resuming his meticulous onion slicing. “All of them.”
“Fired? Even Greta?” My mind flashes to the unfamiliar driver that picked me up from the airport. “Reginald, the chauffeur?”
“Fired and fired.” He holds up the knife.
“That makes no sense. When?” I ask, shocked. I want to think it is the onion pricking my eyes, but it is more than that. The tears that didn’t come for my mother are now rushing up, threatening to overpower me.
The chef shrugs. “Don’t know. But today’s my first day and it’s a goddamn fucking funeral.” He stops slicing and points the knife at me. “Now get out of my kitchen before I call security.”
I feel tears run down my cheeks as I hurry out through the French doors in the kitchen and into the back garden.
Everyone was fired?! Why didn’t Carmen or Jorge tell me? I’ve tried calling them a few times since I heard about my mom, but I assumed the time difference and the plane ride had been why I hadn’t heard back. But they aren’t even here. How could my mother let that happen? Was it the last act of a suicidal woman or the vindictive move of my grandmother, purging the house of everyone my mother and I loved?
Everything feels wrong.
I hold my arms against my body as I walk into the garden, suddenly chilled despite the warm June temperature and wishing I had a sweater. Or someone to hold me who truly loves me. I feel an ache deep inside that is all too familiar… loneliness.
I step further into the elaborate gardens, and if I needed any more proof that Jorge wasn’t working here anymore I’d find it in the uncovered rose bushes and leaf detritus that has been left to accumulate in the fountain.
The fountain serves as the centerpiece to the entrance of the backyard’s elaborate maze-like English garden. Jorge was my mom’s secret weapon. Even if the upper crust of New Canaan shunned my mother in every possible way, they still always wanted this garden on the garden tour. I walk further into the labyrinth of hedges, trying to get away from the reception and clear my head. As soon as I can, I’ve got to figure out how to get in touch with Jorge and Carmen. Maybe they can tell me what the hell is going on around here.
I walk deeper into the tall hedged pathway of the garden and duck under a small apple tree. There, in a little hidden spot, is a wooden bench. Nobody can see me here, not even from the house. Jorge made this spot just for me when I was just a little girl looking for a way to