Salma Hayek and the brain of a financial planner, which she was.
She tried not to, but Miranda envied the way her younger sister moved even while performing the mundane task of laying out refreshments. Calista had all the fire and feistiness of their mother’s roots in Bahia, Brazil. She oozed passion and vitality, everything intoxicating about being Latina. From her soft, floral perfume to the way her hair floated on the slightest breeze, Calista always seemed to be dancing to some secret rhythm only she could hear. Unlike Miranda, who’d inherited her father’s eyes, mouth and lanky, angular build. There was no inner music when Miranda moved. She was more like a broken marionette than the Queen of Carnivale.
Miranda turned her attention to her sister’s labors. Calista had layered the white, wrought-iron table with all the tabloids, newspapers and magazines that had run cover stories on Lucas Fletcher and his “crush,” Miranda Penney. The papers and periodicals covered the five-week span since Miranda’s weekend in Wales, but each story had basically the same photos, the shots of her and Lucas in London exiting Harrods, in varying degrees of clarity.
“Lucas was very cool about the photographs,” Miranda said. “His people did a good job of keeping our plans private. The only paparazzi we ran into were at Harrods.”
“I read Bernie’s article about the date online.” Calista set out a plate of freshly baked biscoitos de maizenas , the Brazilian cornstarch butter cookies Miranda loved. “He did a really good job of conveying the romance of the date without over sentimentalizing it.”
“I didn’t realize that he’d noticed so much.” Miranda stuffed a cookie into her mouth, her jaw jutting out as she tried to chew and talk at the same time. Calista daintily handed her big sister a paper napkin with lacy embossing on the edges. “Bernie was all about Bernie over there. He’s a crackerjack writer, though. I’ll give him that.”
Calista wore beige cotton twill Capri pants, a burnt-orange twin set and a pair of jute-colored espadrilles. The garden boxes in her enclosed back deck overflowed with mums in russet, butterscotch, goldenrod and rust. Against the riot of rich fall colors, Calista looked like a junior version of their mother. “So tell me what really happened in Wales,” she said.
Miranda didn’t answer right away, although she stopped chewing her second cookie. Her eyes fixed on one of the magazine covers, and she could almost feel Lucas’s arm around her, steeling her to face a crazed mob of Karmic Echo fans.
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Calista said.
“Who?”
“Lucas Fletcher.”
Miranda snorted and finished her cookie. Calista patiently leafed through a magazine. “How could you tell?” Miranda finally said, rolling her eyes.
“You get a gooey look on your face when you hear his name.”
“I do not.”
“Lucas Fletcher.” Calista abruptly leaned forward and pointed at her sister’s face. “That’s it. That’s the look.”
“I came all the way down to Silver Springs to help you choose the menu for your big Penney-Henderson engagement dinner, not to talk about Lucas What’s-His-Butt.” Miranda wiped her hands on the leg of her jeans before she gathered the publications from the table and set them in Calista’s recycling bin. She went into the spotless kitchen, retrieved a pile of menus from the counter beneath the wall phone, and thumped them down in the middle of the deck table.
“Okay,” Calista said matter-of-factly. “I can keep this up as long as you can.”
“Keep what up?” Miranda groaned.
“Not talking about your date with Lucas.” Calista opened a bridal magazine that was as thick as the Baltimore phone directory. “According to Psst! , you and Lucas were secretly married on a private beach in a moonlit ceremony in Northern Wales. The bride wore overalls, I assume?”
“Shows how unreliable their informants are.”
She tried not to, but Miranda envied the way her younger sister moved even while performing the mundane task of laying out refreshments. Calista had all the fire and feistiness of their mother’s roots in Bahia, Brazil. She oozed passion and vitality, everything intoxicating about being Latina. From her soft, floral perfume to the way her hair floated on the slightest breeze, Calista always seemed to be dancing to some secret rhythm only she could hear. Unlike Miranda, who’d inherited her father’s eyes, mouth and lanky, angular build. There was no inner music when Miranda moved. She was more like a broken marionette than the Queen of Carnivale.
Miranda turned her attention to her sister’s labors. Calista had layered the white, wrought-iron table with all the tabloids, newspapers and magazines that had run cover stories on Lucas Fletcher and his “crush,” Miranda Penney. The papers and periodicals covered the five-week span since Miranda’s weekend in Wales, but each story had basically the same photos, the shots of her and Lucas in London exiting Harrods, in varying degrees of clarity.
“Lucas was very cool about the photographs,” Miranda said. “His people did a good job of keeping our plans private. The only paparazzi we ran into were at Harrods.”
“I read Bernie’s article about the date online.” Calista set out a plate of freshly baked biscoitos de maizenas , the Brazilian cornstarch butter cookies Miranda loved. “He did a really good job of conveying the romance of the date without over sentimentalizing it.”
“I didn’t realize that he’d noticed so much.” Miranda stuffed a cookie into her mouth, her jaw jutting out as she tried to chew and talk at the same time. Calista daintily handed her big sister a paper napkin with lacy embossing on the edges. “Bernie was all about Bernie over there. He’s a crackerjack writer, though. I’ll give him that.”
Calista wore beige cotton twill Capri pants, a burnt-orange twin set and a pair of jute-colored espadrilles. The garden boxes in her enclosed back deck overflowed with mums in russet, butterscotch, goldenrod and rust. Against the riot of rich fall colors, Calista looked like a junior version of their mother. “So tell me what really happened in Wales,” she said.
Miranda didn’t answer right away, although she stopped chewing her second cookie. Her eyes fixed on one of the magazine covers, and she could almost feel Lucas’s arm around her, steeling her to face a crazed mob of Karmic Echo fans.
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Calista said.
“Who?”
“Lucas Fletcher.”
Miranda snorted and finished her cookie. Calista patiently leafed through a magazine. “How could you tell?” Miranda finally said, rolling her eyes.
“You get a gooey look on your face when you hear his name.”
“I do not.”
“Lucas Fletcher.” Calista abruptly leaned forward and pointed at her sister’s face. “That’s it. That’s the look.”
“I came all the way down to Silver Springs to help you choose the menu for your big Penney-Henderson engagement dinner, not to talk about Lucas What’s-His-Butt.” Miranda wiped her hands on the leg of her jeans before she gathered the publications from the table and set them in Calista’s recycling bin. She went into the spotless kitchen, retrieved a pile of menus from the counter beneath the wall phone, and thumped them down in the middle of the deck table.
“Okay,” Calista said matter-of-factly. “I can keep this up as long as you can.”
“Keep what up?” Miranda groaned.
“Not talking about your date with Lucas.” Calista opened a bridal magazine that was as thick as the Baltimore phone directory. “According to Psst! , you and Lucas were secretly married on a private beach in a moonlit ceremony in Northern Wales. The bride wore overalls, I assume?”
“Shows how unreliable their informants are.”
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