Page 41 of The Night We Became Strangers

Mrs. Recalde didn’t talk to me, but she examined me whenever she turned to chat with my aunt.

I kept my gaze out the window, recognizing long-forgotten buildings and signs.

Ever since I went to my old house, I’d been thinking a lot about my parents.

Old memories had resurfaced, like the nights when my mom would lock herself in her room and my dad would take me out for long walks.

I still remember the feel of his big hand holding mine inside the pocket of his jacket because it was so cold outside.

Sometimes we would stop by a vendor, and he would buy me a bag of tostado .

He didn’t like candy or anything sweet, because he said it would ruin my taste buds forever.

I didn’t even know what taste buds were, but I knew I didn’t want to lose mine.

For years, I was cautious around sweets until I noticed that the girls at my school gorged on espumilla and dulce de guayaba without restraint, and their taste buds worked just as well as mine.

The day I figured my dad had been lying, I had dulce de leche for breakfast, naranjilla ice cream for lunch, and strawberries with cream for dinner as a sign of rebellion—and didn’t regret it one bit.

The seamstress we were visiting today was as old as time.

There were wrinkles inside her wrinkles and a slight curvature in her spine, but she wore a tailored lime suit with matching emeralds in her earrings and necklace.

Her shop was tiny and barely fit all four of us, but I could tell by the gowns on display that she had exquisite taste.

Nobody ever consulted me on the model of dress I wanted.

Mrs. Recalde gave her directions, and the woman took my measurements.

That was it! I had to end this immediately.

I couldn’t live for the rest of my life under the Recalde regime.

I had a brain and my own tastes. She couldn’t ignore me just because I was younger and poorer than her!

When my aunt excused herself to go to the lavatory and the seamstress went to the back of the shop to bring sample fabrics, I spoke. “Mrs. Recalde? There’s something—”

“I met your mom, you know? She had a lovely voice.”

Her comment was so unexpected, I forgot how exactly I was going to break off my engagement. Instead, I let her words sink in. This woman had known my mom. And her tone had been cordial and conspiratorial. Maybe the breakup would have to wait a little longer.

Before I could ask what she knew about my mom, the seamstress returned with cuts of satin and organza to show us.

“Yes, I like this,” Félix’s mom said, feeling the fabric between her fingers.

I touched the soft material, too, out of obligation.

The truth was I couldn’t care less about my wedding dress, but this woman had suddenly become a person of interest to me.

Her demeanor earlier made me think there was something she wasn’t saying and wanted to tell me, but didn’t have the time.

And now that Tía Marga was back, I would have to wait for the right moment to mention my mom again.

“I know this may seem like a humble shop,” Mrs. Recalde said, as we stepped out of the minuscule parlor, “but she’s the best seamstress in town.”

“What about the invitations?” I said, as if I cared about the wedding details.

“Well, we would have to set a date for the wedding first. The dress won’t take more than a few weeks. Dona Berenice is really fast, but I’m afraid we would have to speak to the men about the date so that everyone is in agreement.”

I rushed behind her. “And what about flower arrangements? Couldn’t we look at some today?” At this point I would’ve said anything to prolong my time with Mrs. Recalde. “If you have things to do at home, Tía, we could probably drop you there, right, Dona Caridad?”

Félix’s mother lifted a thin eyebrow before speaking. “I’m sorry, Valeria. We will have to leave that for another day. I have a hair appointment in thirty minutes.”

As soon as we got home, I waited for Tía Marga to go into the kitchen before I snuck into Tío Bolívar’s study to borrow his telephone. I shut the door behind me and hurried to the desk, shaking. Pressing the black receiver against my ear, I talked to the operator.

“Could you transfer me to Crónicas newspaper, please? I need to speak to Mr. Matías Montero.”

As I waited for the connection to go through, I impatiently tapped my fingers on the cherry wood surface of my uncle’s desk.

Honestly, my news about Mrs. Recalde wasn’t too impressive, but any excuse to talk to Matías worked for me, and this might lead to an interesting discovery.

Perhaps he had some input as to how to approach the subject of my mother with this lady.

“I’m sorry,” the operator said. “He’s not in the office at the moment.”

I hung up the phone, disappointed. But that was nothing compared to the heartbreak of seeing the ultimate betrayal sitting right in front of my eyes.

Right there, on top of my uncle’s desk, was the entertainment section of Crónicas.

On the front cover was the photo I had taken of Alejandro Toledo and Lupita Pena in the hotel balcony.

Graciela’s voice reached me as if through a haze, faint and distorted.

I couldn’t make sense of what she was saying.

All I could do was stare at Alejandro Toledo staring directly at my camera in a surprised expression that betrayed his shock to see me.

Yes, me . The one who’d hidden for hours in that closet space to take said photograph, not the person receiving all the credit—this Tato Paredes, whom I’d never heard of in my entire life.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Graciela said. “We have to get ready for Juliana Isabel’s show tonight at the radio station! Don’t tell me you forgot about that, too?”

How could Matías betray me like this? He knew how important it was for me to get the photographer job. He’d taken the one and only opportunity I had, and he’d given it to this … to this Paredes person, who had gladly taken credit for a photograph that wasn’t his!

“What’s wrong?” my cousin said.

The newspaper trembled in my hands, tears of rage burning my eyes.

She took the paper. “Oh, no, someone beat you to the exclusive.” Her eyes flew up and down the article. “How weird. That same night.” She lowered the paper. “Don’t worry, Vale, there will be another opportunity. You can take photos of Juliana Isabel tonight.”

“You don’t understand. This is my picture.”

She brought the paper close to her face. “But it says here …”

“I know what it says! That doesn’t mean it’s true! I took this photo and was so dumb as to give Matías the roll of film to develop so he could steal it from me and give it to this … this con artist .”

She looked at the photo again. “Are you sure it’s this one?”

“Yes! I was there! I caught them on the balcony after I was stuck in that stupid closet for hours!”

She sighed. “There has to be an explanation, prima . Matías is not a dishonest guy. Why would he do this to you?”

“Because his family hates ours!”

He must hate me, too. The thought was too painful to say out loud.

Damn, I couldn’t believe I’d been hoping he would kiss me.

He must have been laughing at how gullible I was.

Maybe he’d been nice just so I would give him the film.

How could I have handed him my most valuable asset—my only ticket to the career I’d always wanted?

“Calm down, prima , take a breath. You’re so pale you look like you’re going to faint any second.

Let’s keep this in perspective. Perhaps he lost the film, and this man found it, or something like that.

Let him explain. Come on, let’s go to the kitchen to get you some water before my dad finds us here. He doesn’t like anyone in his study.”

She grabbed my arm and took me to the kitchen, where I did as was told.

Little did I care if I was drinking water or poison at this point.

I couldn’t believe Matías had done this to me.

After he’d been so sweet to me yesterday.

No wonder he’d kissed my hand and been so perky after I gave him the film—he already had a plan of his own!

His mother had probably turned him against me. That witch !

“Valeria!”

My aunt looked at me with a puzzled expression. I hadn’t even noticed her in the kitchen.

“You’d better go change. Your uncle is coming to pick you and your cousins up in twenty minutes. Don’t you want to go to the radio station?”

Sure, I’d go, but what I really wanted was to go to Crónicas , throw my camera at Matías Montero’s face, and tell him all the bad words in my lexicon!

It was no surprise to anyone that Félix Recalde was standing in line to enter Radio La Voz. I glared at my uncle, who didn’t seem to notice (or care) how much he’d annoyed me for having invited him without telling me. But my oblivious uncle rushed to greet my future husband.

“What are you doing standing in line, hombre ? You’re my guest of honor!” Tío Bolívar patted Félix’s back as he eagerly searched for me among my cousins’ heads. Once our eyes met, he waved and smiled.

My nose started to itch.

Like a long chorizo, the line to enter the former Crónicas building took the entire block and turned around the corner. Tío Bolívar led us all to the front of the line—much to the protests of those who’d been waiting for hours under the drizzle. The guard immediately opened the door for us.