Sin With Me

37

In the doorway that leads to the kitchen stands Magda, all four foot nine of her, hands on her stout hips, glowering at me from beneath thick brows that have never seen a strip of wax or made even a passing acquaintance with a pair of tweezers. As always, she’s dressed entirely in black, with the exception of the spotless white apron tied at her waist. Her silver-threaded dark hair is scraped severely away from her scalp into two thick plaits and pinned to the top of her head in an elaborate coiled style that makes Princess Leia’s hairdo look amateur. If you put your hand into it, you’d never be able to get it out.

She has skin like leather, hands like a bricklayer’s, eyes like knives, and a heart the size of a Raisinette.

And I love her as if she were my own mother.

Who I also love, by the way. That wasn’t sarcasm, just an accurate comparison.

I say brightly, “Good morning, sunshine!”

Magda answers back in aggrieved Spanish, punctuating every other word with a stabby gesture of her finger pointed toward my chest.

I smile broadly at her. “I love you, too. And may I say you look especially beautiful today. Done something new with your hair?”

More irritated Spanish. I have no idea what she’s saying because I don’t speak the language, but I think the gist of it is that I’m lazy, stupid, and an embarrassment to all people with testicles everywhere.

Grumbling, she walks past me, waving me out of the way. She makes a beeline toward one of the three or four dozen unmarked boxes I still haven’t unpacked since moving in last month. She drags it away from its companions, turns to me, points to it, and says with withering disdain, “Aquí.”

“Oh, great! Thanks!”

Then she notices Grace and freezes.

“Oh, sorry. Magda, this is my friend Grace. Grace, Magda. My housekeeper. She basically runs my life. Like a jail warden. Only not as cuddly.”

Grace says pleasantly, “Hello, Magda. It’s nice to meet you.”

With slitted eyes, Magda gives Grace a searing once-over.

“Uh, Magda. This is my guest. Don’t bite.”

“It’s okay, Brody,” says Grace, smiling. Then she says something to Magda—in Spanish.

“Hahaha!” cackles Magda loudly. Her leathery face creases into a grin.

“Wait—was that a laugh?” I’m astonished because in over a decade of knowing her, I’ve never heard her make that particular sound.

Magda fires something back at Grace, who answers with an equally rapid-fire response, and then the two of them are cackling like they’ve been besties since forever.

I have no idea what the f**k is going on.

Magda walks past me again, bumping me out of her way with her shoulder. She goes to Grace, takes her hand, and gently pats it. Then she turns it over and inspects her palm. After a moment she pronounces in perfect English, “Don’t take the coast highway at night.”

She turns and exits the garage.

“Are you kidding me?” I shout after her. “You speak ENGLISH? All these years you’ve been speaking only Spanish to me but you speak ENGLISH?”

A faint cackle comes from inside the house.

Grace says warmly, “What a darling woman. Except that last bit was a little cryptic, don’t you think?”

I turn and stare at her. “Did we smoke a bowl that I forgot about or something?”

Grace’s smile is angelic.

“No, seriously. I’ve gotta be on drugs. Magda speaks English!”

“Did she say she didn’t?”

“No, but it’s not like I could ask her—I don’t speak Spanish!”

“Why on earth would you hire a Spanish-only housekeeper if you can’t speak the language?”

“She was my family’s housekeeper from when I was a kid. She moved with me when I came to California to pursue a career in music after high school.”

Grace’s brows lift. “Mommy and Daddy didn’t trust their baby boy to survive on his own?”

“It’s a long story. Never mind.” I turn back to the box with the wetsuits in it.

Grace says sharply, “Stop.”

Arrested by the tone of her voice, I glance at her over my shoulder. “What?”

Her expression is severe. Fraught, even. Surprised, I turn all the way around. “What’s wrong?”

Slowly, holding my gaze, she says, “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the complete truth. Everything depends on you being totally honest.”

This sounds bad. I’m scared already. “Uh . . . okay?”

She drills me with those steely eyes of hers. “Do you have a terrible secret?”

My blood crystallizes to ice. “A secret?”

Grace takes a threatening step toward me. “Yeah. A secret. Like, the person everyone thinks is your girlfriend is really your sister, or you have a brain tumor and only have so long to live?”

She’s referring to Nico and A.J., respectively, and the whoppers they were hiding from Kat and Chloe. I only have seconds to decide on an answer, but I already know there’s no force in the world that could ever convince me to hurt this woman, so really it’s no decision at all.

“Oh. A secret secret. No, I don’t.”