Page 120 of Every Step She Takes
“No, really. He admired your free spirit, your independence, your passion for helping others. Whenever you started working for a new nonprofit, he always made sure to send an anonymous donation, because he wanted to support the causes you cared about.”
I think about the money I gave to Inez to start Beatrix Tours as soon as I came into my trust, and her subsequent partnership with Quinta Costa’s vineyards, a partnershiptheyreachedout about. My father wasn’t trying to use Inez for the company’s image; he was trying to support my investment.
“He would check your Instagram every morning like it wasPublico, and he would always brag about whatever exciting place you were visiting. I think he wished he was more like you.”
And that, somehow, is too much for me to handle. “Forgive me, but that’s a weird thing to hear from your father’s child bride.”
Finally, my words crack her perfect veneer. I can see her take a deep breath to steady her response. “I’m thirty-four,” she says calmly, “and not that I need to justify myself to you, but I was the COO of Quinta Costa—a job Iearnedbefore Val and I ever got together—before I had to step in to run the company because you were busy going for alittle walk.”
“Okay, so this whole loving stepmother act—” I angrily gesture toward her. “Is that just about getting his money? Are you angry that your Val didn’t leave you a dime, and you figure your best bet to get your hands on a yacht or two is buttering up to his daughter with lies about what a good dad he secretly was?”
Her manicured hands fix themselves on her waist. “I’m Gloriana Silva,” she says,oh holy shit. “Of the Silva Corporation. Have you ever heard of it?”
I feign ignorance. “I-I might have.”
“Your father’s wealth isliteraldimes to me,” she says with a dramatic swish of her hair. “I didn’t need his money, or his houses, or his yachts. I work for Quinta Costa because I’m fucking good at it and I enjoy it, but I don’tneedit. The directives of your father’s trust weren’t a secret to me. We agreedtogetherthat he should leave everything to you. You were his only child. And nothing I said about him was alieto butter you up.”
Two things occur to me simultaneously: I had Gloria completely wrong, and I think she might actually be my favorite of the five wives. My own mother included.
“Sorry, I’ve been a dick to you.”
Gloria takes a long, deep breath through her nose. “You have been,” she agrees with a curt nod. “But this is your father’s funeral, so I suppose I can grant you some grace.”
“The thing is… I don’t want the company,” I tell her, and it’s the closest I’ve gotten to a real decision. “I don’t think I ever wanted the company. I-I wanted to have a choice.”
Gloria’s hands loosen their death grip on her trim waist. “I can appreciate that, one heiress to another.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, billionaire.”
Gloria finally allows herself to crack a smile. “Youdohave a choice. You can choose to give up your majority shares, or sell the company, or whatever else you want. But I want to know that you’re making that choice for the right reason. That you’re rejecting your inheritance because it’s not the right path for you, not because you want to spite a man who isn’t even here anymore.”
I nearly stagger backward in response to these words.
Everything I’ve done with my life for the last twenty years has been out of spite. I’ve defined my life bynotbeing who he wanted me to be. I rejected every part of me that’s tied to him, and I’ve drifted aimlessly from place to place, person to person, because it was the opposite of what he wanted for me. I’ve been so focused on refusing to become the daughter he wanted, that I don’t evenknowwhat I really want.
An image surfaces in my mind: painted cabinets and plants beneath a window and tons of natural light. A place that feels like home.
I wantthat. I want a place that I miss when I’m away, somewhere to come home to that’s mine. I want to visit the far-flung reaches of the world so I can appreciate the place I live even more. And I don’t want that place to be Michelle’s basement orthe apartment of whoever I’m in love with at the moment. I’m tired of feeling like a guest in my own life.
I want roots. I want to be tied to something. And I haven’t let myself have it because of him.
I let that smug motherfuckerwin.
Worse than that, I allowed his rejection that day to poison every single relationship I’ve had since. I was vulnerable with the person I loved most in the world, and he rejected me, and I let that moment convince me that if anyone ever knew the real me, they’d reject me too. I convinced myself that being vulnerable was never worth it, and I fell out of love with people before they could ever fall out of love with me.
I pushed Sadie away because I believed that if she saw thismessof a person, she’d leave.
Another image flashes in my mind: Sadie naked and eating pickles, the juice dripping down her curves.
Sadie’s shy smile as we slow danced to Madonna the first time; Sadie dancing in front of all of Redondela the second time.
Sadie’s soft hand in mine on the plane, on the Camino, in a hotel room when it was just the two of us.
Sadie’s sweetness and her strength and her unending sense of awe; her freckles and her stubbornness; her blue-green eyes and her black Spandex and the way she learned to walk her own path at her own pace. The way she took care of me in Pontevedra. The way she made me feel special in A Guarda. The way she kissed me in Vila Praia de Âncora, and the way she loved the sunrise in Viana do Castelo. The way she let me rub her feet in Vila do Conde, and the way she let me cut her hair in Esposende.
Sadie, who made everything feel new. Sadie, who was so goddamn vulnerable with me from the beginning, even when I couldn’t give her that vulnerability in return. The way she made mewantto be vulnerable, if I could learn how.
What would it be like, to let myself stay in love? To plant myself next to another person so we could grow in our separate pots, twining our branches together?
