Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“Loren Isabel De Vere, it’s half past eleven. I thought we agreed on nine thirty?”
I smile at her comforting accent, a unique amalgamation of Spanish and French from spending equal portions of her life in both countries. “I was busy.”
“Doing what? You’d better have a good explanation. You’re already on thin ice with me.”
My grandmother, Caterina De Vere, is one of the most terrifying women I’ve ever met. Never mind that she’s in her late seventies and occasionally needs the help of a cane to get around; she has a fiery spirit and a lot of attitude, and quite frankly, I think she could take me in a fight. Especially if she had that cane.
Right now, this very minute, I’m supposed to be in France with her. That’s been the plan for months. I was going to fly out in early May and spend a long summer with her at her estate in Marseille, but I called her two days before my flight from LAX with my change of plans.
“I’m not coming,” I told her, launching into things right away, scared I’d lose the nerve the longer we spoke.
“What do you mean? Is there an issue with the flight?”
“No issue. I—”
“These airlines have no respect for their customers,” she declared, quickly and staunchly coming to her own wrong conclusions. “Changing flights, delays nonstop. Last month, I was scheduled—”
“Lita,” I pleaded, cutting her off. “It’s not the airline’s fault. I changed my ticket.”
Her string of rapid-fire Spanish was completely lost on me, even more so when it devolved into French. I might be the spitting image of my grandmother—jet-black hair, long and straight; round green eyes; perpetual dimples—but she grew up in Barcelona and I grew up in Montecito. We’re from two different worlds.
Her voice softened. “I don’t understand. If there’s an issue with the travel days or…”
Her sentence dwindled as I tried to regain my courage.
“Can I trust you?” I asked quietly.
“Of course.” Her tone hardened with suspicion. “Mi niña, what’s going on? Is there trouble with you? All these months I’ve been expecting you here. I can’t wait to see you.”
I sighed, purposefully pushing aside the niggling guilt her words were spurring in me. “I want to see you, too. I miss you so much, and I will come visit you, but… I have this plan.”
She hmmed. “What plan? It sounds interesting.”
I smiled, knowing if anyone was going to cheer me on in this wild endeavor, it would be Lita. “I want to go to Ibiza. I want to spend my summer there, for Winnie.”
“Oh.” I could hear her heartache in that word. Then, a moment later, “You should, Isabel. Ibiza is so special. You know I love that island. I spent a lot of time there as a girl, traveling with Dolores before I met your Tito. You remember my stories?”
I laughed, recalling all the times she spoke of her youth, recounting how the men would crowd around when she and her best friend, Dolores, danced in their flamenco dresses. The way she tells it, she could have made any man fall in love with her, but she wasn’t interested in that. She and Dolores wanted to be rebels, uninhibited and wild during a time when women in general had very few freedoms, and I’ve always admired that about her.
“Yes, I remember. Your Ibiza stories are legendary. What was that one about you and Dolores trying to make secret sangría in a huge bucket out in your father’s shed? And one of your goats ended up drinking half of it?”
She hissed a warning. “Don’t force me to regret telling you so much. Now, do your parents know of this plan of yours?” she asked carefully.
“No. And I won’t tell them. My mom wouldn’t be happy. She’d try to talk me out of it, and even if they did end up giving me their blessing to go, they would find a way to ruin it somehow.”
In some ways I feel bad that my parents still don’t know I’m on Ibiza, but I’m not a child; I don’t live under their roof, and it’s been years since I’ve had to get their permission for things. Besides, for all intents and purposes, the current situation isn’t so different than if I was going to be with my grandmother all summer as planned. Only instead of strolling through museums in France with Lita, I’ll be bikini-clad on a beach on Ibiza.
“Then it’s our secret,” my grandmother confirmed. “I won’t say a word, but my silence comes with strings.”
They didn’t sound like very difficult requirements: checking in with her at least once a week and giving her updates about how I’m doing, hence why she’s chiding me over the phone right now.
“What have you done since you arrived?” she asks me now. “How many men have you been with? Is that why you’re calling me so late?”