Brown-Eyed Girl

Sofia’s entire family had tried to pressure her to marry Luis, whose parents were respectable and had money. According to Sofia, Luis had been overbearing and egotistical, and terrible in bed, besides. Alameda blamed me for helping Sofia to leave Luis and start a new life in Houston. As a result, Sofia’s mother could barely bring herself to be civil in my presence.

For Sofia’s sake, I tried to be nice to Alameda. On one level I felt sympathy for her, as I would for anyone whom my father had hurt. However, the way she treated Sofia was hard to tolerate. Since Alameda couldn’t vent her anger on her ex-husband, she had made their daughter the scapegoat. I knew all too well how that felt. Sofia was always depressed for a day or two after her mother visited.

“Is she staying here?” I asked Sofia.

“No, she doesn’t like sleeping on our pullout. It hurts her back. She’s checking into the hotel tomorrow afternoon, and coming here for dinner at five.”

“Why don’t you take her out to eat?”

Sofia rested her head on the back of the couch and rolled it in a slow negative shake. “She wants me to cook so she can tell me everything I’m doing wrong.”

“Do you want me to leave while she’s here?”

“It would be better if you stayed.” With a halfhearted smile, Sofia said, “You’re good at deflecting some of the arrows.”

“As many as I can,” I said, feeling a rush of love for her. “Always, Sofia.”

Fourteen

After brainstorming and mulling over ideas, Sofia had come up with two concepts for the Warner wedding. The first was a traditional formal wedding, perfectly feasible and impressive. Following a grand ceremony at Memorial Drive Methodist, a fleet of pearl-white limos would transport the guests to a crystal-and-roses ballroom reception at the River Oaks Country Club. It would be tasteful and elegant, the kind of affair that everyone would expect. But not the one we wanted the Warners to choose.

The second wedding plan was a knockout. The location was the Filter Building at White Rock Lake, near Dallas. The historic building was a spectacular lakefront industrial design, with corbeled brick and exposed iron trusses and big windows overlooking the lake. It was almost a guarantee that Ryan would love the location, which would appeal to his architectural taste.

Inspired by the Depression-era building, Sofia had conceived of a lavish Gatsbyesque wedding in creams, tans, and gold, with bridesmaids wearing drop-waist dresses and ropes of beads and the men in dinner suits. The tables would be covered in beaded fabric, and the flower arrangements would feature orchids and plumes. Guests would be transported from a hotel in Dallas to White Rock Lake in a succession of vintage Rolls-Royces and Pierce-Arrows.

“We’ll make it fresh,” Sofia said. “Fancy but modern. We want it to be inspired by the Jazz Age without making it too accurate, or it will look like a costume party.” The team at the studio all loved the Gatsbyesque concept.

Everyone except Steven.

“You all know that Gatsby is a tragic story, right?” he asked. “Personally I wouldn’t care for a wedding based on themes of power, greed, and betrayal.”

“What a shame,” Sofia said. “It would be so perfect for you.”

Val interrupted before they could start bickering. “The Great Gatsby is one of those books that everyone’s heard of but no one reads.”

“I did,” Steven said.

“Required high school reading?” Sofia asked disdainfully.

“No, for my own enjoyment. It’s called literature. You should try it sometime, if you ever manage to tear yourself away from those Spanish soap operas.”

Sofia’s brows lowered. “You’re a fine one to judge, with all the silly sports games you watch.”

“That’s enough, you two,” I interceded, giving Steven a blistering glance.

He ignored me, picking up his phone. “I’m going to make a couple of calls. I’ll be outside. I can’t hear with all of you yammering.”

“Go easy on him today,” Tank suggested as soon as Steven wandered out of earshot. “He and his girlfriend broke up over the weekend.”

Sofia’s eyes widened. “He has a girlfriend?”

“They just started going out a couple of weeks ago. But on Sunday, they were watching football at his place, and all of a sudden she turned down the volume and told Steven she didn’t think they should see each other again, because he was emotionally unavailable.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked if they could wait to talk about it until half-time.” At our looks of disgust, Tank said defensively, “We were playing the Cowboys.”

The doorbell rang.

“It’s Mamá,” Sofia muttered.

“All hands to their battle stations,” I said, only half kidding. Since everyone at the studio had encountered Alameda on previous occasions, they wasted no time in collecting their belongings quickly. No one had any desire to make small talk with a woman who was so utterly humorless. Every conversation with her was the same, a litany of complaints concealed within complaints, like a set of toxic Russian nesting dolls.

Sofia stood, tugged at the hem of her turquoise top, and went reluctantly to welcome her mother. She squared her shoulders before opening the door and saying brightly, “Mamá! How was the drive? How was —”

Breaking off abruptly, Sofia backed up as if confronted with a rearing cobra. Without thinking, I leapt from the sofa and went to her. My sister’s face was leached of color except for bright pink streaks across the crest of each cheek, like signal flags sent up for a panic alert.