Free From Barcelona, with Love by Elizabeth Adler Page A

execution. And speaking of execution, she wondered which one of them was going to get the ax today, because this meeting had the feeling of doom about it.
    â€œSo?” Antonio said this time. “Exactly why are we all here, Lorenza?”
    â€œWell, first, I thought it would be nice for you to see the house reopened. I hoped it would bring back memories of your father.”
    â€œOf course it does.” Antonio was impatient. “ And of my mother,” he added pointedly.
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œI love this house.” Floradelisa poured herself more coffee.
    Of the three, Floradelisa seemed the most at ease. Leaning across the table she took another biscuit from the plate Lorenza had removed from in front of her earlier.
    â€œOne of my strongest childhood memories is of walking to school from here, out those blue iron gates, skipping down the street, stopping to buy churros on the corner…”
    â€œWell, you would buy churros, wouldn’t you,” Jassy said nastily, eyeing her plump body up and down.
    â€œOf course I would. So did most every other Spanish kid. That bit of deep-fried pastry dusted with powdered sugar, sometimes even dipped in chocolate, was the best thing I ever tasted. Until I grew up, that is, and learned to appreciate other things.”
    â€œHow different we are,” Jassy mocked. “You’d never know we had the same mother.”
    â€œOr father,” Antonio added.
    Lorenza had watched these verbal battles for years. Nothing ever changed, except that now, the fourth child, Bibi, was not here.
    Bibi’s mother was Juan Pedro’s second wife. She had died giving birth, leaving Juan Pedro devastated, but then his new baby had unexpectedly taken over his life. He adored her from day one. She was a star from the minute she was born, he’d told everyone proudly, though the truth was she was a spoiled brat, indulged to the hilt because of her poor motherless state.
    Bibi’s baptismal name was Isabella Fortuna, but she had older siblings who were learning to speak English and they called her simply “the baby.” Her first words were not “Mama” and “Papi,” but “the baby”—or as she said it in her charming infant lisp, “the bibi.” And from then on, she always spoke of herself in the third person—as in “The bibi wants churros,” or “The bibi loves Papi,” or “The bibi is crying.” And so Bibi she became.
    Lorenza took a sheaf of official-looking papers from a canvas supermarket bag (she was very eco-conscious), thinking how sad it was that Bibi’s own daughter was left in that same motherless state. Of course Paloma had always been fatherless, since at first Bibi claimed she didn’t remember who the man was. Didn’t remember ! Lorenza hadn’t let her get away with that one, for Paloma’s sake, and later Bibi took it back and said it was too personal to tell. It was her secret and one day maybe she would tell Paloma, but no one else.
    Then, Paloma could make up her own mind about what to do. Meanwhile Bibi would be mother and father to her.
    The Italian husband had certainly never acted like a father to her. Anyway, no one had ever liked Bruno Peretti. And that was what this was all about.
    â€œJassy,” Lorenza said. “Please call Paloma in from the kitchen. She needs to be present at this meeting.”
    Jassy looked surprised, but she got up and went out and yelled, “Paloma. You’re wanted.”
    Paloma slid from the high stool, hitched down her short skirt, retied her boot laces, smoothed her plain white T-shirt over her meager chest, patted her gold charm bracelet to make sure it was still there, then with a worried smile over her shoulder at Buena, walked reluctantly from the kitchen.
    â€œPoor little thing,” Buena murmured, watching her go. “When will she ever face the truth and realize she will never see her