Page 71 of Dial F for Finance

“I’m standing right here, Marisol,” my mom says under her breath.

“Well, stand closer! Look at this beautiful woman your son brought home.” Tía Marisol cups a hand around her mouth. “Everyone come and meet Dominic’s girl!”

“Deep breath,” I murmur close to Jenna’s ear.

She gives me a look, but it’s too late. Luz appears next, holding a phone with three dress photos open and the urgent expression of a woman in bridal crisis.

“Jenna, quick. Navy satin, green chiffon, or the rust thing my mother says is chic but I think makes me look like an autumn throw pillow?”

Jenna looks at me.

I slide an arm around her waist and squeeze. You got this.

“Ah . . . green chiffon,” Jenna says.

Luz gasps. “Exactly. Thank you.”

Somebody puts a beer in Jenna’s hand. She looks down at it like she’s been served an unexploded device. Then she sips from the bottle and gives me a look over the rim.

“I am not emotionally prepared for this,” she whispers in flawless Japanese.

Luz is already on to the next cousin, jurying dress options down the hall, and Tía Marisol has moved into the kitchen narrating Jenna as if she’s a program on PBS.

My father comes out of the kitchen then, apron tied over his shirt, arms already open, bellowing “¡Mija!” like Jenna is returning from a war.

She tries to lean in closer to me, like I’m somehow going to protect her from all this attention. My father grips her shoulders, kisses both her cheeks, then looks her up and down with theatrical grief.

“Too beautiful for him,” he announces.

The hallway erupts in agreement.

“Thank you,” Jenna says, faintly pink now. “You have a lovely home.”

My father clutches his chest. “Polite too. Helena! Nicky brought home a woman with manners. We should make a plaque.”

“Don’t scare her,” my mother says.

“I am welcoming her.”

“You’re all shouting.”

“I welcome loudly.”

Jenna turns her face slightly toward me. “This explains so much.”

“I’m a restrained version.”

“You are not.”

“I am in this house.”

My mother steps in and takes her by the arm. “Ignore half of what my husband says. Actually, ignore half of what my son says too.”

“Excellent policy,” Jenna says, recovering.

My mother smiles. Slow. Warm.

Then she pulls Jenna toward the kitchen. “Come. You can help me stop Esteban from ruining the pork.”