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When she was done, Libby dried her tears and handed her the draft of what she planned to release later that day. It not only exposed all of her lies but explained that she’d done it out of a misguided fear of disappointing her grandmother and ruining the family name. Then, completely depleted, she sat back and waited for her grandmother’s verdict.

“I could do with a little less cursing,” was the first thing out of her grandmother’s mouth. She read her confession a few more times before she leaned against the backrest.

They stared at each other in unnerving silence for so long, Libby was sure she was going to pass out under the weight of

her scrutinizing gaze. She held strong.

“When my mother took over for my grandmother, they had a terrible fight,” her grandmother started as she folded her hands over her lap. “Back in those days, there was no dating. It wasn’t even really courting. A young man would approach a girl’s father, or whatever living elder male there was in the family and declare his intentions. In most families, a girl would have a say in the match, but the informed nature of that opinion was suspect,” she said as if to herself. “She would really only spend a few hours with him and that would be under the watchful eye of her entire family. Not too many personal conversations happening that way. People worked hard manual labor back then. It was a huge sacrifice for everyone to put on their Sunday best and surround two kids in a living room for an hour. A couple was very fortunate if they managed two or three of these meetings before deciding to spend their lives together. And remember, divorce wasn’t like it is today. For the most part, this really was ‘til death do them part.”

Libby cocked her head to one side. She’d heard the stories before but didn’t understand how they applied to her confession.

“My mother came up with an idea. Once a month, she’d rent out the church hall in town and provide young couples with a place to get to know each other. No music or dancing, and with more than enough chaperones, of course,” she added with the hint of a smile.

“And what happened?” Libby had never heard this detail before.

“My grandmother had a conniption. To hear my mother tell it, she was afraid the old woman was going to have a stroke.”

Libby furrowed her brow. “Why? That sounds totally reasonable to me.”

“To our modern eyes people just having a place to sit and talk while sitting several feet apart across a table in a church being watched by half a dozen old ladies itching to find sin is as benign as it gets.” She chuckled. “To my grandmother, who had ten kids but never saw my grandfather in his birthday suit, it was like she’d suggested they open a house of ill repute.”

“What did they do?”

“Nothing. She made my mother swear on her eternal soul not to get any more ideas and never change a thing. My mother kept that promise. It wasn’t until I took control that we even started serving anyone other than Catholic Cubans.”

Libby nodded. She remembered her grandmother saying with pride how diverse they were. She’d been thinking race and religion but missed various groups of people.

“What you might not know is that I had to wait until my mother died to do it.” Her grandmother’s eyes watered, and her well-powdered nose turned pink. “I don’t want to have to die before you can spread your wings.”

At the unexpected display of emotion, Libby’s heart raced.

Forgetting herself, she lunged forward and hugged her so tight that the gardenia perfume would linger on her clothes for hours. Or at least she hoped it would.

“I want to make you proud, Mima,” she said between a rush of tears. “I want what generations have built to last for so many more generations to come.”

Her grandmother embraced her with her entire body.

“Then give me a great-granddaughter while I’m still young enough to enjoy her.”

After a little while, Libby made them some chamomile tea and they talked about her plans. Her grandmother had taken it so well, part of her wondered if she already knew. Instead of tearing her a new one, she told Libby that if fleeing a communist dictatorship with nothing but the clothes on her

back hadn’t spelled the end of Cassanova Matchmaking, neither would this.

Calling her parents and asking them to come over for the news wasn’t nearly as hard as she expected since she had the Grande Dame in her corner.

As she left later that evening, she hoped it had gone equally well for Reagan and her family. Or that they at least didn’t hate her.

IT WAS LATE IN THE EVENING WHEN LIBBY ARRIVED AT HER EMPTY

o ce. She strolled through the lobby and sat behind the reception desk where she’d started as a teenager working after school and during vacations. The cubicles where she’d been promoted to were nicer than they’d been a decade before, but she sat at one anyway. Libby continued through the o ce until she ended at the big corner o ce she’d dreamed of inhabiting her entire life.

Sitting at her desk, Libby turned on her computer’s camera and hit record. After some introductory comments, she read her confession aloud and tried not to let her emotions overwhelm her in case she was accused of trying to garner sympathy.

When she was done, she uploaded the video to every outlet within her control. She even forwarded it, along with her written confession, to everyone she knew in the media.

On her personal stationary, she penned a letter to her sta , promising to take care of them no matter what happened.

They were part of the Cassanova family and would never be left out in the cold.