The contents of my purse scatter across the marble floor in a clatter of keys, lipstick, and loose coins. My phone skids a few inches away, screen flashing. Heart pounding, I crouch down and attempt to sweep everything back into the bag with trembling hands. The Cardozos. They always appear like phantoms, materializing when least expected. One day, they’ll give me a heart attack.
Aunt Alma is already perched on the chaise lounge, her spine ramrod straight, legs elegantly crossed. A plume of smoke curls from the opera-length cigarette holder she wields like a scepter. The tendrils frame her face, sharpening the menace in her steely gaze.
“Why, hello, dears,” she says, voice smooth and cutting. “I hear there may be congratulations in order?”
She places emphasis on the word may and her gla
