Page 25 of The Phoenix Bride
“You needn’t have.”
“It was just an excuse to visit. May I come in?”
“Yes, of course.”
I stare at her back as she makes her way inside. She looks as beautiful as she always has, her dress slipping down hershoulders like dark wine as she walks along the hallway. With her hair up, I can see the baby hairs on the back of her neck, the soft, dark, peach-skin blur of them shadowing her hairline. Manuel had the same. The Cardozo siblings had always looked so very alike, more so than Cecilia and her twin, despite not being twins themselves.
It has been a long time since Sara was last here, but she remembers where the kitchen is. She strides through the door and places the basket on the counter. Her entry delights my father, who cries, “Sara, welcome!” He cannot stand from his chair, but he makes a sweeping gesture of greeting. Sara approaches to kiss his cheek.
“Gaspar, hello,” she says.
“Lovely Sara, I am glad you are here,” he replies. “It has been so long. I am sorry I could not visit you.”
“Oh, please, don’t be sorry,” Sara says in Portuguese. We usually speak Spanish with each other; I suppose she wishes to impress him. “I’ve had many visitors,” she continues, “and enough food to drown in.”
“David brought tarts!”
“Yes, he did. They were very good.”
As they talk, I finish washing the pot. Sara sits opposite my father to speak with him. She unwraps her shawl and drapes it across the back of the chair with an easy familiarity, one I can’t help but find grating. She hasn’t been here since Manuel died.
“…Elizabeth Askwith’s recipe,” Father is saying. “She bakes very well.”
“Is she your new maid?”
“Yes, she is,” he tells her. “And she has David in utter terror. He will not look her in the eye, he is so afraid of her.”
“Not so,” I say.
“Ach, it is.”
Sara clears her throat. “Perhaps, David, we ought to go to the parlor now. I have something to discuss with you.”
“Will you have tea? Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Biscuits?”
“Go!” Father barks.
Sara laughs at this as I lead her to the parlor. I open the door for her. As she passes me, I can smell the sweet oils she uses on her hair. Feeling disquieted, I go to open the glass-fronted cabinet, where I keep our collection of porcelain. I fiddle with a jar as if I have some intention of rearranging things, but I do not.
“Sit with me,” she says.
Reluctantly, I close the cabinet doors and turn to find Sara already on the couch. I sit beside her. She is staring at the window, biting her lip.
“Are you well?” I ask her.
She turns to look at me. “Well enough,” she says. “And you?”
“Yes, fine,” I reply.
“Are you certain?” she asks. “You seem…”
I shake my head. “I am tired, that is all. Is something the matter?”
“Well—I…”
