From Barcelona, with Love (6 page)

This time Lorenza got up to greet her guest. She had always liked Floradelisa, Juan Pedro's eldest daughter, and she believed the daughter liked her. At least she thought Floradelisa cared, and of all Juan Pedro's children she was the simplest and most “real.”

She was plump, and as dark as Antonio, but with blue eyes and a face as pale as a ghost, which was the reason her father had named her Floradelisa. With her pale skin, he said she reminded him of a lily flower. A
fleur-de-lys
or a
Flora de lisa.
Now, though, hugging her, Lorenza worried that her pale stepdaughter never saw the light of day.

“Floradelisa,” Lorenza said.

“Lorenzita,” she said. And they both laughed at how silly it sounded.

“You're working too hard, I can tell,” Lorenza said, knowing it was true. Floradelisa was a chef and owner of one of Barcelona's most avant-garde restaurants, where she was known for her outrageous menus with desserts of vaporized berries, re-formed into miniature works of art, served with a chocolate skin so fine and thin it crackled in the mouth; and fusion sauces that were mere froths of nitrogenated cream; and tiny exquisite lamb chops that were three mouthfuls of melting delight, as well as other unrecognizable delicacies that diners flocked to try—or at least to say they had been there and eaten the latest thing. Floradelisa did not serve her family's popular and inexpensive red wine at her restaurant, only the finest of Riojas, or Bordeaux, or Burgundies would do. Though of course the de Ravel sherries—the chilled Manzanilla and the rich Oloroso—were served as aperitifs, or to complement special dishes.

Her restaurant, Floradelisa's, was outrageously expensive, super-chic, and almost impossible to get into, and it ran its owner's life. Short, untidy, and frustrated, with no man in her life, Floradelisa's home a mess and her kitchen immaculate.

She trotted—at full speed, as usual—over to the sofa to kiss her brother, who made a halfhearted attempt to get up to greet her. She gave him a push back down. “Don't bother, I can see you're comfortable.”

She plumped next to him and he eyed her, frowning.

“Couldn't you at least dress up just a little?” he asked.

Floradelisa looked down at her outfit. She was wearing her usual chef's white jacket, liberally stained with some kind of purple sauce, her hideous black-and-white-checked polyester chef's pants, and the usual work clogs.

“I came straight from the kitchen,” she explained. “I have to get back there as soon as possible.”

“Of course you do, Flora.” Lorenza always called her Flora, finding she tripped over the longer name, though no one else ever did. “I was just telling Antonio I expect people who work to look like what they do, what they
are.
You know, a vintner, a chef…”

Flora smiled, amused, and Lorenza thought she really had the prettiest blue eyes, startling in her pale face, but now two spots of color burned her cheeks.

“You look hot, your cheeks are pink,” she said as Buena came in bearing a tray with a silver coffeepot and the platinum-rimmed cups Lorenza hated. They had been a wedding present from someone, she couldn't remember who, and were too fancy for her taste. She guessed Buena had thought this was a “fancy” occasion; three of Juan Pedro's children under the same roof. With
her.

“It's from slaving over a hot stove,” Flora explained, stealing a long thin biscuit from the plate before Buena had time to hand them around. “And I'm starving.”

“You don't look it,” Antonio said, unkindly, taking in his plump sister once again. “You should lose some weight.”

“Oh, shut up, Antonio. You have my job and try to lose weight. I'm always having to taste something … a bit here, a bit there.…”

“And a bit everywhere else.” He refused coffee and slumped sulkily back against the sofa cushions.

“You look tired, Flora,” Lorenza said. “I know you're at the market before dawn, and then you work all hours, God knows what time you get to bed. But I do think you should take time out to go for a walk, get your hair cut, and maybe a manicure every now and then. A girl should keep up with those things.”

Flora burst out laughing “Oh, Lorenza, there are girls like me, and there are girls like you. I simply don't have the time.…”

“Nor do I,” Lorenza said sharply. “We must
make
time, Flora.”

“So what time is Jassy coming, anyway?” Antonio glanced impatiently at his watch, his father's old Patek Philippe, gold on a thin alligator strap.

Lorenza thought the watch probably qualified as an antique by now and was probably worth a small fortune. She almost wished she hadn't given it to Antonio, but it had belonged to his father, who had worn it every day, and it was only right it should belong to his son. Pompous prick though he was.

“Let's hope Jassy'll be here soon,” she said. “I'd like to get this over with.”

“
What
‘over with'?” Flora took another biscuit. Lorenza moved the plate away from her, though why she bothered she did not know, after all Flora was a chef and consumed food all day long.

“You'll see,” she said, just as the door opened and Jassy breezed in.

 

Chapter 7

Jazmin de Ravel,
known as Jassy, brimmed with energy and a sheer pleasure in life that drew everyone who ever met her, into her orbit. She was a force field, Lorenza thought, a magnet; always on the move, always seeking someplace new, some
one
new. Tall, with the wide shoulders of an athlete—she had been a champion swimmer at school—narrow hipped with racehorse legs, a rounded behind set like twin small melons on her slinky frame, with breasts that almost matched, and, in the towering heels she always wore, Jassy was a cross between
Playboy
and an haute couture model.

Today, her blond hair swung smoothly over her shoulders and down her back, a river of gold. Other days she wore it softly curled, framing her face in twists and strands, sweet as an angel. And sometimes she piled it up on top and put on her pointed horn-rimmed glasses—she was terribly shortsighted—looking like a fifties vixen secretary, the kind always out to get the boss.

Jassy had been baptized Concepçion Eldorado Mercedes Jazmin, which, when added to de Ravel, was quite a mouthful. The “Eldorado” was because she had been conceived after an epic “battle” between her parents, which one of them had obviously scaled the heights and won, hence the baby daughter. Mercedes was a traditional Spanish family name, though most of the world thought it was a German car. In fact Mr. Benz had named his car for his Spanish wife whose name was Mercedes—therefore Mercedes Benz forevermore. So, from Concepçion, Eldorado, Mercedes, and Jazmin, Jassy had chosen to be “Jassy,” though she had long ago decided she could be anybody she darn well pleased; she could do anything she wanted; go anywhere in the world she liked. She had the money, the looks, and the capacity for making friends and having a good time.

“Hi,” she beamed now, taking in her brother and sister and Lorenza in one quick shortsighted glance.

“You should wear your glasses,” Lorenza said. “And you're late, Jassy.”

“Sorry.” Her myopic blue eyes met Lorenza's. “Allergies, I couldn't get the contacts in today and I couldn't find my glasses, it was too late to look for them. They're probably under a sofa cushion somewhere.”

Sure they are, Lorenza thought, accepting Jassy's kiss, breathing in her scent. Jassy was a Dior Poison kind of woman. Exactly
whose
sofa? she wondered.

“You look lovely,” Jassy said, taking in her stepmother, head to toe. “I always loved those pearls. Isn't it time to get out of the black though? After all, it's been … well, how long has it been exactly?” she asked, walking round the coffee table to kiss Antonio and Floradelisa, and managing to knock over a cup of coffee with her voluminous white voile skirt. “Ooops, look what I've done now,” she said with a grin. “Never could take me anywhere.”

“It's being without those glasses,” Antonio said. “You'll kill yourself one day, walk under a bus, or fall off the pier or something.”

“Oh, there'll always be somebody there to save me.” Jassy was nothing if not confident. “Hi, Floradelisa, how's business?”

“Hot,” her sister replied.

Jassy winked at her, and laughed. “Oh, you mean in the
kitchen
! Come on, Floradelisa, it's time you hooked up with a guy, some young chef as hot as you and your kitchen.”

Floradelisa blushed, uncomfortable. “I don't have the time.”

Lorenza said, “Jassy, I thought you were bringing Paloma with you.”

“She's in the kitchen, Buena's feeding her cookies, I suppose. She'll spoil her to death.”

“Well,
somebody
should take care of her,” Lorenza said briskly.

She was still not quite sure how it had worked out that Bibi's daughter lived with Jassy, though in fact it was Lorenza's own fault because it was she who had asked Jassy to fly to Los Angeles and bring Paloma “home” to Spain, while Bibi was under suspicion of the murders.

When they'd got back Jassy told her how Paloma had cried when she kissed her mother goodbye, such loud tearing sobs it had almost broken Jassy's own heart.

Jassy still remembered that journey vividly. She'd torn Paloma away from her mother, driven her to the airport in a rented bright blue Porsche followed by a squadron of motorcycle paparazzi that she'd dodged like an expert, simply dumping the car outside Arrivals and calling the rental company to come and pick it up.

She'd dragged the reluctant seven-year-old into Starbucks, bought her a chocolate frappucino and a giant chocolate-chip cookie, taken her into the store and stocked her up with teen magazines and candy, bought her a gray sweatshirt that said
FLY L.A.
in pink fluorescent script on the front, tied the laces on her red Converse high-tops for her, held the frappucino and the rest of the stuff while Paloma went to the bathroom, then fled into the Admirals Club where she ordered a large vodka martini and tried to take her mind off her niece's sobbing, as Paloma gulped down the frothy iced drink.

“Listen,
chiquita,
” Jassy had said finally, when she could bear it no longer. “I'm your aunt. I'm going to be taking care of you until your mother gets back.”

Paloma's soulful, red-rimmed eyes, shiny as autumn chestnuts, sought hers. “Come back from
where
?” she'd asked. “
This
is home.”

For once Jassy had been lost for words. What could you say to a child whose mother might well be going to jail for murder?

“Well, anyway, you're going to live with me until Bibi gets back,” she'd said finally. “And that's that. So, let me mop up your tears, and I'll tell you all the fun things we're going to do together. You're going to love living with me, Paloma, we'll travel the world, you'll go to all the parties, you'll know
everybody.
”

“What about school?”

“I'll get you a tutor … a governess, she'll teach you to speak Spanish properly.”

“I already speak it a little,” Paloma said. “Mom never does, but our Mexican housekeeper always speaks to me in Spanish.”

“Then all we have to do is polish it up a bit.” Jassy beamed her wonderful smile, drawing little devastated Paloma into her magic circle. “Don't worry, I'll look after you,” she'd said, hugging her.

And Paloma, breathing in Dior's Poison, thought she might quite like that.

Later, Jassy regretted promising to take Paloma under her carefree wing, but despite Lorenza insisting Paloma go to live with her at the de Ravel bodega, nothing could change Paloma's mind.

“I want to live with Aunt Jassy,” she'd said firmly.

So that's where Paloma had lived for the past two years, ever since she'd left her mom, frightened. Even though then-seven-year-old Paloma had not understood why she was frightened—at the big Hollywood Hills house, with the photographers parked outside the gates so Paloma couldn't go to school, where anyhow the kids all talked behind her back and the teachers frowned at her.

But that final image of her mother had never left Paloma, or Jassy. Bibi had looked so small and alone and Paloma felt as though somehow their roles had been reversed; somehow she had become the mother and Bibi the child. It haunted her days and her dreams, even while she cruised the Mediterranean on millionaires' grand yachts with Jassy, and attended parties with rock stars in Bodrum, Turkey, and summered on South of France beaches, or traveled to L.A., or New York. She went with Jassy to buy clothes in Paris and London, and flew wherever and whenever Jassy wanted. Paloma always tagged along. Nobody even asked anymore what's that kid doing here? They just accepted her as part of Jassy's life, and some even suspected she was Jassy's own child by a married lover.

But Jassy never minded what anybody said. And that's why Lorenza could never put Jassy down as a totally superficial spoiled beauty, sensual, wicked, and at thirty-seven still playing around in the resorts of the world. Paloma lived an extraordinary life in the grown-up whirl of social activity that fueled her aunt's life. Lorenza knew it was not suitable and it certainly was not right, but without removing the child and breaking her heart a second time, there was nothing she could do about it.

 

Chapter 8

Paloma had followed
Jassy into the big stone house in Las Ramblas and suddenly realized her boots squelched. It sounded extra loud in that big empty hall, kind of echoing to the rafters and those funny theater boxes that were plastered with small cupids. Or were they cherubs? Or possibly little fat gold angels, because she saw now they had wings. Small and not too fluffy, but definitely wings. Plus they had pink mouths pursed in what looked suspiciously like kisses.
Angels blowing kisses?
What kind of naughty place was this anyway? And this was her
grandparents'
house.