Chapter 2 - The Woman in White
Paulina Serrano arrived at the mansion the following morning with three cars, eight garment bags, two assistants, and a photographer she claimed was only there to document the flower arrangements.
The staff lined the entrance hall.
Marisol stood near the back, hoping to remain invisible.
Paulina entered wearing cream trousers, dark glasses, and a silk scarf tied over her hair. She moved with the confidence of someone who had never entered a room without expecting it to change for her.
She kissed the air beside Señora Inés’s cheek.
“The roses are wrong.”
Inés glanced toward the vases.
“They were delivered according to your written instructions.”
“I asked for ivory.”
“They are ivory.”
“They look yellow.”
“They are under warm lighting.”
“Then change the lighting.”
Paulina removed her glasses.
Her eyes moved along the row of staff.
When they reached Marisol, they stopped.
“Who is she?”
“Marisol Vega,” Inés said. “The new upstairs maid.”
Paulina looked Marisol over slowly.
“Upstairs?”
“She will assist with guest rooms.”
“Not mine.”
Marisol lowered her gaze.
“As you wish, señorita.”
Paulina’s eyes narrowed slightly at the sound of her voice.
“Have we met?”
“No, señorita.”
“You look familiar.”
“I worked at the Serrano residence briefly when I was younger.”
That was true, though not in the way Paulina might remember.
Nine years earlier, after leaving San Aurelio, Marisol had spent two months in the Serrano household under another name. She had believed Paulina’s father could help her contact Diego.
Instead, she had learned exactly why she could not.
Paulina stepped closer.
“What name did you use?”
“Marisol Vega.”
Another lie.
Paulina studied her face.
Before she could ask more, a car stopped outside.
The atmosphere changed.
Several staff members straightened.
Diego entered while speaking to a man beside him. He was older than Marisol remembered, his face sharper, his shoulders carrying a weight that had not been there at twenty-seven.
But it was him.
The same dark hair.
The same deliberate stride.
The same habit of pressing his thumb against the side of his index finger when thinking.
Marisol forgot how to breathe.
Diego handed a folder to his companion.
“Tell the board I will not approve the sale until we have the environmental report.”
“They want an answer today.”
“They can want it tomorrow.”
His eyes moved across the hall.
For one terrible second, they passed over Marisol.
Then they returned.
She lowered her face.
Diego paused.
“Who is new?”
Paulina looped her arm through his.
“A maid who worked for my family, apparently.”
Marisol’s heartbeat thundered.
Inés answered calmly.
“Marisol Vega, señor. She began yesterday.”
Diego looked at her again.
“Have we met?”
The exact question Paulina had asked.
Marisol kept her voice even.
“No, señor.”
Something uncertain moved through his expression.
Then Paulina kissed his cheek.
“You’re late.”
“I said I would arrive before lunch.”
“You said morning.”
“It is eleven fifty.”
“That is almost afternoon.”
Diego’s companion hid a smile.
Paulina turned toward the staircase.
“Come. We need to discuss the seating plan.”
“I have a call.”
“You always have a call.”
“And you always have a seating plan.”
They began climbing the stairs.
Halfway up, Diego looked back.
Marisol was still standing beneath the portrait of Don Rafael.
Their eyes met.
This time she saw recognition trying to form.
She turned away before it could.
In the service corridor, Rosa the cook caught her by the elbow.
“You look like you have seen a ghost.”
“I’m tired.”
“You arrived yesterday.”
“The mattress is unfamiliar.”
Rosa was a broad, warm woman who treated secrets as puzzles placed before her for personal entertainment.
“That man looked at you as if your face was a locked door.”
“You imagine too much.”
“I have worked here thirty years. Imagination is all that keeps me alive.”
Marisol pulled free gently.
“Where is Valentina?”
“In the schoolroom with her arithmetic book and three biscuits she thinks I did not see her take.”
Marisol hurried there.
Valentina sat at a large wooden desk beneath shelves filled with old books. Colored sunlight from a stained-glass window fell across her hair.
She had arranged Tomás the rabbit beside her notebook as though he were another student.
“Mamá, what is forty-seven times six?”
“Two hundred eighty-two.”
Valentina frowned.
“You answered too fast.”
“I went to school.”
“So did I. It doesn’t make multiplication friendly.”
Marisol crouched beside her.
“Listen carefully. Señor Diego has arrived.”
Valentina looked interested.
“The newspaper man?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“Did he see you?”
Marisol hesitated.
“He saw the staff.”
Valentina noticed the evasion.
“Are we leaving?”
“No.”
“Your scared line is very deep.”
Marisol closed her eyes briefly.
“We need this job.”
“Then why are you scared of the person who owns it?”
“I am not scared of him.”
“Are you scared he’ll remember you?”
Marisol stared at her daughter.
“Why would you say that?”
Valentina reached into her notebook and removed the old photograph from the suitcase.
Marisol snatched it from her.
“Where did you get this?”
“It fell out when you moved your clothes.”
“You went through my suitcase.”
“I was looking for Tomás’s ribbon.”
“This was hidden.”
“It wasn’t hidden very well.”
Marisol stood, anger mixing with panic.
“You must never touch my private things.”
Valentina’s face fell.
“I’m sorry.”
Marisol immediately regretted her tone.
She knelt again and took the child’s hands.
“No, I’m sorry. I should not have shouted.”
“Is that Diego?”
Marisol could not lie with the photograph between them.
“Yes.”
“You said you didn’t know him.”
“I said we had not met.”
“That is not the same as saying you don’t know him.”
“No.”
“Were you friends?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it was long ago.”
Valentina looked at the image.
“He has buttons like the one you keep in your box.”
Marisol’s blood went cold.
“You opened the white cloth?”
“I only saw the button once.”
“Valentina.”
“I’m sorry.”
Marisol looked toward the schoolroom door.
“You cannot tell anyone about that photograph.”
“Why?”
“Because people may misunderstand.”
“What would they misunderstand?”
Marisol swallowed.
“Everything.”
A floorboard creaked in the corridor.
Marisol opened the door.
No one was there.
But on the carpet lay a fresh white rose.
Its stem had been cut cleanly.
Around it was tied a narrow gray ribbon.
Marisol knew the message.
The same warning had been left outside her apartment after Valentina was born.
A white rose meant silence.
A gray ribbon meant they were watching.
She closed the door and locked it.
“Mamá?”
Marisol turned.
Valentina was holding the photograph again.
Her finger rested on Diego’s blue coat.
“One button is missing.”
Marisol looked.
Valentina was right.
The upper button on the left side of Diego’s coat had been torn away.
May you like
The golden button in Marisol’s hidden bundle was not merely similar.
It was his.
