The morning after the fund-raiser, Miguel took Sonia to the library before breakfast. He hadn’t intended to show her the room until after they’d eaten, but en route to the main kitchen they had passed by and she’d caught sight of several framed photographs on the wall and had asked if they could spend a few moments inside.
The stone fireplace with great arch and black-ash burl mantel, along with the floor-to-ceiling bookcases constructed of more exotic hardwoods, took her breath away. Rolling ladders and tracks stood on each side of the room, and Sonia mounted one to take in all one thousand square feet.
“Your father likes to read!” she cried, her gaze playing over the thousands of hardcover texts. No paperbacks. His father had insisted that all books in the library be hardcovers, many of them leather-bound.
“Knowledge is power, right?” he replied with a grin.
A small wet bar stood near the entrance, from where Jorge often served cognac produced by houses like Courvoisier, Delamain, Hardy, and Hennessy. Leather sofas and tiger-skin rugs imported from India formed an L- shaped seating area in the middle, with smaller islands of heavy leather recliners positioned around them. On several broad coffee tables sat magnifying glasses for reading and stacks of old
Sonia climbed down from the ladder and returned to one of the photographs that had caught her eye.
“What was her name?”
“Sofia.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“She was,” he said with a slight tremor, imagining what her funeral was like, the one he’d not been allowed to attend because it would have been “too traumatic for him.” He wished his father was aware of the guilt he suffered because he was on an airplane while others were paying their last respects to his mother. He’d cried all the way to Switzerland.
The photograph of his mother had been taken on the beach in Punta de Mita, and, with an expanse of turquoise water sweeping out behind her, Miguel’s mother stood there in her black bikini, smiling broadly for the camera, looking like a glamorous movie star from another era.
“My father loved this picture.”
“And what about this one,” Sonia said, drifting over to a smaller photograph of father, mother, and baby wrapped in linen and silk. They stood before a sea of candles and stained glass and icons adorning the walls.
“That’s my baptism. And the one over there is my first Holy Communion. Then my confirmation later on.”
Sonia stared deeply at the pictures of his mother. “She looks like …I don’t know …She just looks strong.”
“No one could tell my father what to do. No one but her. She was the boss. I don’t think I told you this, but one time we were in Cozumel on vacation, and she was snorkeling. We were looking at this sunken airplane, and she thought something bit her, and then we lost her and she almost drowned. We think she might’ve hit her head on some coral. My father went in after her, and he pulled her out and gave her mouth-to-mouth and she came around and spit up water, just like you see on TV.”
“Wow, that’s amazing. He saved her life.”
“When she told him that, he just said, ‘No, you saved mine.’”
“Your father is a romantic.”
“That’s true. He told me that night that if she had died, he didn’t know what we’d do. He told me he’d be lost. A few months later they found the cancer. It was like the trip was a premonition or something, like God was trying to prepare us for what would happen. But it didn’t work.”
“That’s just …I don’t know what to say …”
He smiled weakly. “Let’s go eat.”
They did, and their omelets with salsa, jack cheese, cumin, and garlic powder were prepared by his father’s private chef, Juan Carlos (aka J.C.), who’d said that Jorge had gone off to the beach for a run and a swim. Alexsi was at the pool, already into her third mimosa, according to J.C.
When they were finished eating, Miguel showed Sonia their workout facility, which she remarked was better equipped than most five-star hotels. He said his father was very dedicated to fitness and did two hours per day, five days per week, with a personal trainer.
“Only soccer for you?” she asked.
“Yeah. Those metal weights are heavy.”
She grinned, and they ventured on to the media room, with giant projection TV and seating for twenty- five.
“More like a movie theater,” she remarked.
He nodded. “Now I’m taking you to my favorite place in the entire house. He led her to a door, then down two flights of stairs and into the basement. They passed through a hall whose walls contained soundproofing material, and Miguel had to plug in a series of security codes on the electronic lock mounted on the next door. The door clicked open, and the lights ahead automatically flickered to cast reflections off a glistening white marble floor that unfurled for twenty meters. A rich black carpet divided the room in half, and on each side stood imposing metal display cases and display tables whose lights also switched on.
“What is this? Some kind of museum?” she asked, stepping inside, her heels clicking across the marble.
“This is my father’s weapons collection. Guns, swords, knives — he likes them all. See that door over there? Just inside is a shooting range. It’s pretty cool.”
“Wow, look at this. He’s got some bows and arrows. Is that a crossbow?” She pointed to the weapon hanging from a peg.
“Yeah, it’s, like, hundreds of years old or something. Come over here.”
He led her down toward a table where more modern-day handguns and other assorted weapons were on display. There were AR-15 long guns, MP-5 submachine guns, AK-47s that his father called “goat horns,” along with dozens of other handguns, some inlaid with diamonds, plated in gold and silver, and engraved with the family name, collectibles that his father said should never be fired.
“These are the ones we like to shoot,” he said, gesturing to a row of Berettas, Glocks, and Sig Sauer pistols. “Pick one.”
“What?”
He lifted his brows. “I said pick one.”
“Are you serious?”
“Have you ever fired a gun?”
“Of course not. Are you crazy? If my father found out …”
“We won’t tell him.”
She winced, bit her lip.
“No way. We come down here all the time,” he lied. It’d been a few years since he’d engaged in target practice, but she didn’t have to know that.
“Can we fire fake bullets, like in the movies?”
“You’re scared?”
“Sort of.”
He pulled her in to his chest. “Don’t worry. Once you get that feeling of power in your hand, you’ll be addicted. It’s like a drug.”
“I can think of something else I’d rather put in my hand.” She wriggled her brows.
He shook his head. “Come on. We’re going to be badasses and shoot some guns.”
She sighed and chose one of the Berettas. He picked a similar pistol, then crossed to a cabinet, worked the padlock there, and pulled out some of the magazines. He led her to the back door, plugged in the code, and they entered the range, again the lights automatically switching on. He took her to one of the shooting booths, where he loaded both of their pistols, then handed her the headphones and safety glasses.
“Do I have to wear these?” she asked of the ear protection. “They’ll mess up my hair.”
He started laughing. “What’s more important? Your hair or your hearing?”
