Delia’s Gift Read Online Free PDF Page B

I had made such a wish. Many times, I would have gladly woken to find myself back in that small bedroom I shared with Abuela Anabela. I would trade all the clothes, the glamorous events, the mansions, any and all of it, to return to that simple life, if only my parents were still alive.
    Because this bedroom wasn’t far from the circular stairway that led up to the second floor of the hacienda and because my door was still open, I could hear the voices below echoing up the walls, past the large paintings, and around the drapery. I could hear some joy in Señor Bovio’s voice. Someone who pleased him had arrived. At least mi tía Isabela hadn’t returned, I thought.
    I was sure that in these past weeks and months, Señor Bovio did not laugh or smile very much. I recalled when I had first met him at my friend Fani Cordova’s home. Her parents were holding a fund-raising dinner for his senatorial campaign. It was there I hadfirst met Adan as well. I remember thinking how alike they were, a father and son who were both handsome and charming. Abuela Anabela would have said, “ De buena fuente, buena corriente. From a good spring, a good current.”
    Adan had his father’s stature and his elegance. Señor Bovio looked as if he really should be a U.S. senator, someone who could be a protector of the less fortunate and less powerful. He reeked with confidence but not arrogance, and he had a smile that would calm a raging bull. Adan was more than reflection of all this to me. I could see he would grow into such a man himself. Even though he had lost his mother as I had lost mine and Señor Bovio had lost his beautiful wife, they looked solid, successful, and full of promise. Seated between them that night, I had felt safe and honored. How different now was the Señor Bovio who had brought me to his home. Sad and broken by Adan’s death, he was a shadow of himself, so any sound of happiness coming from his lips cheered me as well.
    I heard footsteps on the stairway and rose from the love seat in anticipation, wondering who could be coming to visit me so soon after mi tía Isabela. Could it be Fani?
    “ Hola, Delia,” Señor Bovio said. “Did you enjoy your lunch? Isn’t Mrs. Newell a terrific and efficient nurse?”
    He had changed into a light-blue sports jacket and was now wearing his trademark silk cravat. Seeing this resurrection of light and happiness in him, I didn’t want to start off with a complaint about the food or about Mrs. Newell, so I said, “ Sí, señor. Gracias. ”
    A short elderly gentleman stood beside him, holding a large, flat briefcase.
    “Good. This is Mr. Blumgarten. He has been my personal and my wife’s personal tailor for some time now.”
    “More than twenty years,” Mr. Blumgarten proudly added. He had a small nose, beady dark eyes, and ears too large for his small, watermelon-shaped head with its thin, graying hair lying so flat it looked ironed on his skull. I didn’t think he was much taller than five feet four, with a slim, almost childlike body.
    I nodded and waited to see what they wanted. Señor Bovio indicated that Mr. Blumgarten should enter the suite. They both came in, and Mr. Blumgarten put his large briefcase on the counter by the vanity table.
    “I am employing Mr. Blumgarten to design and create some maternity clothing for you personally, Delia,” Señor Bovio began.
    I looked at them with surprise. Personally designed maternity clothing? I had to smile, thinking about how Señora Díaz, our tailor back in my little Mexican village, would improvise with whatever a pregnant woman had in order to create so-called maternity outfits. Most of the time, it simply meant letting out waists.
    “It’s a very serious thing,” Señor Bovio said sharply, so sharply it chased the smile off my face as quickly as a shout would frighten a sparrow. “Your maternity outfits must be soft to the touch and able to stretch. The outfits have to be light and breezy. A pregnant woman feels