Free Delia’s Crossing by V.C. Andrews

her plate.
    Mi tía Isabela was at the head of the table. There was a tall, light-brown-haired man sitting across from her at the other end of the table. He wore a beige jacket and a dark brown tie. He fixed his bright blue eyes on me and smiled. I quickly looked away. I was bringing out a tray with four bowls of French onion soup. It had a deliciously strong aroma. My stomach churned with hunger. I had yet to eat anything since my arrival. The main dish, or entrée, as Señora Rosario called it, was a delicious-looking poached salmon. My aunt had a chef, Señor Herrera, who, I learned, had been the head chef on a luxury cruise ship. My aunt had been on the ship and had stolen him away.
    I picked all of this up by listening to the tidbits of gossip while I worked in the kitchen alongside Señora Rosario and another maid, a Mexican girl who had been born in America, Inez Morales. She didn’t look much older than I and was barely my height, thinner, with eyes that revealed a catlike timidity. She hovered over her work as if she thought someone would steal it and therefore her reason to be there. I could see she was looking at me suspiciously, perhaps thinking I was there to be trained to take her place.
    I found out she was in her midtwenties and had been married but deserted by her husband after she had twin boys. Her mother cared for her children while she worked. She worked for my aunt six days a week, alternating her day off between Saturday and Sunday every other week, depending on my aunt’s schedule and needs. She was there from six in the morning until ten at night, which didn’t leave her much time to spend with her children.
    When I entered the dining room, I wondered if my aunt would say anything more to me about what had happened in Sophia’s bathroom. She glared at me and then smiled at the young man across from her. I wondered who he was. He seemed much younger than she was. Could he be another relative I had not met or even knew existed?
    I placed the first bowl in front of her. I had been given instant instructions about how to serve at the dinner table, but Señora Rosario was there overseeing it all. I glanced at her, and she nodded as I moved toward Sophia.
    “I like your new help,” the young man said, still smiling at me. “Welcome…what’s her name?”
    “She doesn’t understand that much English yet, Travis,” my aunt told him before I could even think of responding. “I’m having her tutored to get her up to speed quickly.”
    “Oh. Let’s see…ah, recepción a America…what’s her name? How do you say that in Spanish, Isabela?”
    “I forget.”
    “Forget? How could you forget that?”
    “Easy,” she muttered.
    “Well, what’s her name? You must know the name of someone you just hired.”
    “Delia,” my aunt said, almost under her breath.
    “Delia,” he repeated. “Hi, Delia.”
    I looked at the young man and returned a smile. I started around Sophia, but I didn’t see she had turned just enough to bring out her foot. I stumbled over it, and the tray slid from my hand, the two remaining bowls of soup flying off and onto the table, splashing over everything.
    My aunt screamed and pushed herself back. My cousin Edward leaped out of his seat. Some of the soup hit Travis and spotted his jacket. I caught myself from falling altogether and immediately started to clean up the mess.
    “Get her out of here!” my aunt screamed.
    Señora Rosario seized my arm and pulled me back from the table. Sophia was smiling up at me.
    “ Dios mío, ” my aunt screamed, looking at the table. She realized instantly that she had spoken in Spanish and slammed her chair against the table. Her face was pepper red. I held my breath. “Get this table cleaned up and reset immediately, Mrs. Rosario. Get her out!” she said, pointing to me and then to the kitchen door. Although I didn’t understand all of the words, her rage was terrifying, and it was all clearly aimed at me.
    “Isabela,” Travis