Page 5 of No Sweeter Poison

Dahlia. So that’s her name.

Color rises to Dahlia’s cheeks, and I hear rustling under the table. Judging by the scrunched up look on Karina’s face, I think Dahlia just kicked the shit out of her. I bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

When she lifts her head, full lips parted, long lashes sweeping over blushed cheeks, I make up my mind.

She’s coming home with me tonight.

O nce the kitchen is fully opened, Karina and Dahlia place their orders and I’m momentarily distracted by the evening rush. The Maldonados and Santoses arrive expecting their usual table, one of the ovens suddenly gives out, and the beer keg has decided to stop working. The band plays sultry music and I light the lanterns one by one but only as needed. The tables are arranged in a circle around the center dance floor and a handful of couples sway to the music.

Lettie comes out of the kitchen no longer wearing her apron and chef’s hat, but a sleek black cocktail dress and her golden-brown curls are pulled back with our mother’s antique brooch. She makes a sweep of the room, locks eyes with me on the stage, and nods. Joni exits the kitchen next with a tray of food and I start making my way toward him, smiling and shaking hands with patrons as I go. He lowers it onto a tray stand and I reach into my pocket, closing my fingers around the tiny pearl shaped capsule. It’s barely bigger than my pinky nail and easy to lose if he isn’t careful.

I lift my hand to wave at the Betancourts across the room whose granddaughter is trying to catch my attention and the capsule drops on the tray. Joni, as he’s removing the silver tops from the plates, slips the capsule between his thumb and forefinger and then crushes it against the rim of the third bowl. I keep walking and lose sight of him but judging by the way Lettie stands guard at the steps, I know she’s watching his every move.

I smile and greet the Betancourts. “Doña Laura,” we kiss on both cheeks and I extend my hand to her husband. “Don Refugio, que tal?”

We fall into pleasant conversation about the weather and how it was perfect for sailing today. They put their granddaughter, Samantha, on display. Young, beautiful, and only freshly eighteen which means she’s way too young for me. Although, at first glance she appears older in her fitted black dress and stilettos. Since Regina and I separated, every family from here to Granada has been throwing their daughters in my direction. There are times where I wish I could scream at them from the top of my lungs but always think better of it.

Never burn a bridge you may later need to cross, my grandfather always tells me. Fire forgets but the water beneath does not.

I dismiss myself just in time to meet Lettie’s gaze and she nods in my direction. I make my way to her, and we stand side by side, older brother and younger sister, counting down the minutes left of Roberto Garcia’s life.

Joni sets the soup down in front of him. Roberto laughs and clanks glasses with the patrons at his table.

“Say when,” Lettie tells me. She has her fingers on the Rolex resting on her left wrist. “Alex—”

“Wait, Lettie.” My jaw clenches.

Roberto reaches for a spoon.

“Come on,” I whisper. “Eat. Eat.”

“Alejandro—” she warns again, her stern voice never betraying her worry.

“I can’t force it down his throat, Leticia.”

“It’s not going to work in sixty seconds.” She lifts her head. “Son of bitch never stops talking.”

Desperately I search the crowd for someone who might help but all the waiters seem occupied. Then, in a perfect stroke of luck, Diego appears from the kitchens having just brought out a new case of champagne. He laughs and turns his head just in time to catch my gaze.

I flick my head in Roberto’s direction and the smile dies on Diego’s lips. He gives a firm nod and takes off. Lettie returns her attention to the Rolex.

“Forty-five seconds, Alejandro.”

“He’s got it,” I tell her.

Diego strikes up conversation with Roberto and his table, wickedly funny and charming as always. He places his hand on Roberto’s shoulder and gestures towards the soup, seemingly commenting on how much he enjoyed it judging by the way he pats his stomach.

“Fifteen.” Anxiety leaks into her voice.

“Lettie—” I reach out and grab her upper arm before she can move.

With ten seconds left, Roberto takes his first bite. Then a second and third. His eyelashes bat in ecstasy as Diego riles up the table, laughing and saying things I cannot hear from this distance over the music and chatter. Lettie expels an audible sigh but never stops looking at her watch.

“How long?”

“You have an hour,” she tells me. “No more, no less. I don’t want him seizing all over the floors. We just got them polished.”

Lettie turns to go upstairs, and I touch her shoulder. “Hey.”