Page 91 of Every Step She Takes
Mal adjusts her trucker hat over her face. “I will replace that,” she says in an American accent. And truly, what the fuck is going on with her?
“Maëlys,” Luzia says again, moving closer to us. The group quietly parts to let her through, and then she’s standing directly in front of Mal, and she doesn’t look furious at all. “Maëlys Calista Gonçalves Costa?”
In a huff, Mal pulls the trucker hat off her head. “Ola, Luzia,” she grumbles.
And then prim and elegant Luzia collapses into a puddle of tears in the middle of this dining room. “Maëlys! Menina!” Luzia kisses Mal’s cheeks at least a dozen times before pulling her into a full body hug.
Vera hoots. “I knew it!”
“It has been far too long, my sweet girl! Let me look at you.” Luzia holds Mal by her shoulders and studies her at an arm’s length. “Gira filha. You look so much like him. Oh, how I’ve missed you!”
Luzia pulls Mal into another massive hug while my brain scrambles to understand why this woman referred to Mal as hersweet girl.
“I will pay for the decanter,” Mal repeats as she pats Luzia on the back.
“I don’t care about that hideous decanter.” Luzia smiles through her tears. “My girl, I am so very happy to see you.”
Ari speaks for everyone, like she always does, when she asks, “What. The. Fuck?”
But the fuck of it all is starting to come together in my mind. Mal said her grandfather started a successful Portuguese company; the father she hates so much took it over; and Mal, who hasn’t been to Portugal in years, wanted nothing to do with it. All trip, we’ve been sharing bottles of Quinta Costa wine, and Mal has ordered cheap beer instead.
All trip, she’s been vague and elusive about her past, her family, her reasons for being here, and now this strange woman is greeting her like a long-lost daughter.
Because she is. Mal is a Costa. And these marble floors and expensive chandeliers and the shattered pieces of crystal all belong to her.
Mal
We’re staying at one of my father’s vineyards.
One ofmyvineyards.
Fucking Inez.
Luzia’s arms tighten around me, and even though it’s only a hug, I feel like she’s squeezing my ribs into my lungs, pushing my lungs into my heart, rearranging all my internal organs. I can hardly breathe.
I don’t know where to look.
Not at Luzia, who is holding me like I’m the physical manifestation of all her hopes and dreams for the company. Not at Vera, who recognized me all along and finally put it together when she saw me here; and not at Ari, whose expression reflects everyone else’s confusion. I can’t look at the jagged pieces of my father’s favorite Baccarat whiskey decanter, and I definitely can’t look at Sadie.
Sadie, who is staring at me like she doesn’t even recognize who I am.
I want to tell her everything and nothing at the same time. I want to go back to last night, when she writhed under my touch in bed, and I didn’t have to think about wine or inheritances or dead dads.
“You finally came home,” Luzia whispers into my ear, and I close my eyes. I want to blot out her face, and Sadie’s face, and every aspect of this house, every memory contained within these walls.
The memories and the walls both feel like they’re closing in around me.
Those summer trips with my father, coming to this house, walking those rows of grapes while he tested my knowledge of ripeness, acidity, flavor palates. Ten years old, and my father making me taste-test casks until I could accurately identify the correct floral or berry notes, spitting into the spittoon until it was entirely full with red wine; my father leaving me with his staff, with Luzia, while he disappeared for days at a time with whichever European heiress or minor celebrity had his attention at the moment.
But I have good memories of this place too: raiding the kitchen pantry for Bueno bars with him in our matching monogrammed robes; playing chess on the balcony of his private rooms; my father’s laugh, his big arms, and the way he would lift me up to show me the property. “This will all be yours, Maëlys,” he would say, and he would sound so damn proud of me.
And now itisall mine.
“This… this is your vineyard?” Sadie asks, and her voice brings me back, grounds me in the present. I unravel from Luzia’s hug and look at Sadie’s confused face.
“It’s complicated,” I manage.
“Valentim Costa was your dad?” Vera asks, but the words are slurred by the panicked buzzing in my ears.
