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Authors: Jessica Morrison
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footsteps, I pinch my cheeks and shake my hair free from the bun. Andrea opens the door, child slung on her hip, free hand magically proffering a plate of tiny croissants. Why do I feel so disappointed?
“Cassandra! Fantastic! You come! And you look so beau-ti-ful!” She steps back and tilts her head, sizing me up with approval. I shake my head in protest and attempt to change the subject by saying hello to Jorge, but the second I look his way, he buries his face in his mother’s armpit. It looks like she’s instantly sprouted a giant tuft of red underarm hair. Andrea doesn’t seem to notice as she gestures me inside with the plate of pastries and then through the foyer.
The main house makes my servants’ quarters look like, well, servants’ quarters. The floor is a dark, gleaming hardwood, the walls a soft, buttery yellow. An enormous oil painting of a man in military uniform stands guard at the foot of a staircase that curves majestically up one wall and out of sight, its wrought-iron railing inscribing the bright airy entrance with delicate black flowers and vines. Directly across on the far wall is an abstract painting on an unframed canvas. It’s a flurry of thick strokes, cool blues and electric yellows. I don’t know much about art beyond my one long-forgotten art history elective, but I like the painting. To the right are French doors that lead into a small office with a window to the street (“That was the footmen’s station,” Andrea notes, “when it was the time of horses”); to the left another set of French doors, softened with creamy sheers, opens into a grand salon complete with fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out to the courtyard. An intricately patterned area rug cushions my flip-flopped feet. A crystal chandelier dangles overhead. Despite Andrea’s jeans and bare feet, I feel ridiculously underdressed.
My self-consciousness is quickly chased away by Andrea’s warmth. Within seconds I am ushered into her home, seated ceremoniously at a round table dressed with what must be her finest china and linens, and shown an assortment of pastries, fruit, and other morning delicacies fit for a queen. Andrea waits expectantly. “
¿Medialuna?
” She lifts the plate of tiny croissants. Back home, my typical breakfast was a latte on the way to work, but it has been a long time since I’ve eaten. I put three and a pat of butter onto the small plate in front of me.
“
Gracias,
” I say, the word sounding fake in my mouth. “Thanks.”
Andrea lifts an ornate porcelain carafe. “
¿Café?
”
“Please,” I say. “
Por favor.
”
As she fills a small cup, the aroma wafts up, and I miss Starbucks so bad it hurts. The particular way of ordering: tall, nonfat, no foam, extra hot. The sound of my quarter hitting the tip box. The tear of the Equal packet. Stir stick and lid at the ready. And then, finally, the heat against the back of my throat, the delicious signal to the rest of my body that it’s morning. Except only now it’s not hot, milky espresso I taste but the salt of sadness in my mouth. Beautiful furniture and a kind landlady aside, I know with the whole of my being that I won’t be truly at ease again until I am home, and the fake smile I’m wearing for my host’s sake is starting to get too heavy to hold. Andrea gets up to find Jorge, who has run off after a small gray dog to whom I am eternally grateful.
While she’s gone, I take a tentative sip of the coffee, which is surprisingly good, and a bite of scrumptious tiny croissant. I enjoy the moment of calm, take another full sip of hot coffee, and survey the dozens of photographs clustered on a long side table. Many are of Jorge in various stages of growth. Here awed by a clown. There balancing, with the aid of a gentle hand, on a rock by the ocean. Enjoying the attention of a group of old women at a street fair. Sucking his thumb, asleep in a man’s arms—Andrea’s husband, I assume. He’s definitely not the
“Cassandra! Fantastic! You come! And you look so beau-ti-ful!” She steps back and tilts her head, sizing me up with approval. I shake my head in protest and attempt to change the subject by saying hello to Jorge, but the second I look his way, he buries his face in his mother’s armpit. It looks like she’s instantly sprouted a giant tuft of red underarm hair. Andrea doesn’t seem to notice as she gestures me inside with the plate of pastries and then through the foyer.
The main house makes my servants’ quarters look like, well, servants’ quarters. The floor is a dark, gleaming hardwood, the walls a soft, buttery yellow. An enormous oil painting of a man in military uniform stands guard at the foot of a staircase that curves majestically up one wall and out of sight, its wrought-iron railing inscribing the bright airy entrance with delicate black flowers and vines. Directly across on the far wall is an abstract painting on an unframed canvas. It’s a flurry of thick strokes, cool blues and electric yellows. I don’t know much about art beyond my one long-forgotten art history elective, but I like the painting. To the right are French doors that lead into a small office with a window to the street (“That was the footmen’s station,” Andrea notes, “when it was the time of horses”); to the left another set of French doors, softened with creamy sheers, opens into a grand salon complete with fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out to the courtyard. An intricately patterned area rug cushions my flip-flopped feet. A crystal chandelier dangles overhead. Despite Andrea’s jeans and bare feet, I feel ridiculously underdressed.
My self-consciousness is quickly chased away by Andrea’s warmth. Within seconds I am ushered into her home, seated ceremoniously at a round table dressed with what must be her finest china and linens, and shown an assortment of pastries, fruit, and other morning delicacies fit for a queen. Andrea waits expectantly. “
¿Medialuna?
” She lifts the plate of tiny croissants. Back home, my typical breakfast was a latte on the way to work, but it has been a long time since I’ve eaten. I put three and a pat of butter onto the small plate in front of me.
“
Gracias,
” I say, the word sounding fake in my mouth. “Thanks.”
Andrea lifts an ornate porcelain carafe. “
¿Café?
”
“Please,” I say. “
Por favor.
”
As she fills a small cup, the aroma wafts up, and I miss Starbucks so bad it hurts. The particular way of ordering: tall, nonfat, no foam, extra hot. The sound of my quarter hitting the tip box. The tear of the Equal packet. Stir stick and lid at the ready. And then, finally, the heat against the back of my throat, the delicious signal to the rest of my body that it’s morning. Except only now it’s not hot, milky espresso I taste but the salt of sadness in my mouth. Beautiful furniture and a kind landlady aside, I know with the whole of my being that I won’t be truly at ease again until I am home, and the fake smile I’m wearing for my host’s sake is starting to get too heavy to hold. Andrea gets up to find Jorge, who has run off after a small gray dog to whom I am eternally grateful.
While she’s gone, I take a tentative sip of the coffee, which is surprisingly good, and a bite of scrumptious tiny croissant. I enjoy the moment of calm, take another full sip of hot coffee, and survey the dozens of photographs clustered on a long side table. Many are of Jorge in various stages of growth. Here awed by a clown. There balancing, with the aid of a gentle hand, on a rock by the ocean. Enjoying the attention of a group of old women at a street fair. Sucking his thumb, asleep in a man’s arms—Andrea’s husband, I assume. He’s definitely not the
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