Page 103 of Every Step She Takes
A cone of pistachio gelato shared with a new friend.
The sounds of your tour group as you walk both together and at your own pace.
The Minho River from a rickety speed boat while a dozen nurses sing in harmony.
My bruised feet after a 19-mile day.
The place where the grass turns to rock, and the place where the rock turns to ocean, and the place where the ocean meets the sky.
A yellow scallop shell over a blue background on a mile-marker that notes your progress.
A yellow arrow that encourages you to keep going.
A basket of free bread and a full water bottle.
A tiny, twin bed with starched sheets when you’re exhausted.
A hostel with an elevator.
And a bathtub.
The sound of waves crashing on Roman ruins outside of A Guarda.
My clean socks and underwear on laundry day.
Waking up while the rest of the world is still asleep.
A quiet day in the rain.
TWENTY-FIVEREDONDELA, SPAINFriday, May 23, 2025
Mal
It makes the front page.
There’s a side-by-side photo and everything. The first: a staged press image of handsome Valentim Costa, in a Valentino suit, cutting the ribbon at the newest vineyard in Rioja a few years ago. The second: a grainy, nighttime cell phone shot of his daughter in profile on the veranda at the Vigo vineyard, holding a wineglass while her body is draped all over a nameless redhead.
Only Sadie and I know that I was crying when this photo was taken, and that she was trying to comfort me; only we know that I was only holding that glass of wine because I absentmindedly took it with me when I fled the dinner table. But to the rest of the world, this photo makes me look like the drunk, hedonistic nepo baby of my father’s nightmares. The splashy headline says it all:THE FUTURE OF THE COSTA FAMILY EMPIRE?With a fucking question mark.
The photos answer the question for anyone who might be unclear onexactlywhat that future is. The Costa family empire is now in the hands of a debauched lesbian who can’t be trusted with your investments.
There was already a 6 a.m. phone call from the vice president of the board about whether I’m “fit for duty.” (I’m not.) There was an email from stepmom-slash-interim CEO aboutstrategic damage control that cc’d the entire publicity team; a dozen concerned text messages from Luzia; and a million WhatsApp missives from every person I’ve ever met from the Iberian Peninsula.
But I can’t respond to any of them. I’m in the lobby of our Redondela hostel, clutching the first copy ofEl PaísI could find, immobilized as the world crumbles all around me. My eyes flicker over the Spanish article, my brain latching onto the most horrible highlights.
“… Spain is still mourning the loss of a great man…”
“… left his legacy to his absentee daughter…”
“… wasted her twenties and thirties partying around the world…”
“… the prodigal daughter returned, only to be seen cavorting with a buxom redhead…”
“… sources say unpredictable Maëlys hasn’t even visited the corporate offices in Lisbon since her father’s passing…”
“… Quinta Costa employs more than ten thousand people in Spain alone, and their livelihoods now depend on an aging party girl…”
They get uglier, and I punish myself by reading them over and over again. Because this is all my fault. I refused to face my inheritance directly, so now I’m facing the front page of a national newspaper.
