Chapter 22: The Long Table

The old Don Quintero's will was read at breakfast, over eggs.

Ines insisted.

"Nobody reads a will on an empty stomach," she said, and set a plate in front of the lawyer before he could argue.

The long dining room smelled of coffee and warm bread.

The baker had been up since four.

He had taken over the Quintero kitchen without asking anyone.

The girl in the grey apron followed him around with a tray, looking at him.

"It's a good loaf," Ines said, with her mouth full.

"It's a very good loaf," said the baker, shyly.

"You're getting married to a woman who throws up at the smell of yeast."

"She's very brave."

"I am," said Giulia, from her chair, and she pushed away her plate.

"I'm also going to be sick if anyone mentions butter."

"Butter," said Ines at once.

Giulia threw a napkin at her.

I laughed so hard that Tadeo, beside me, turned his head.

He looked at me as if I'd done something remarkable.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing."

His hand found my knee under the table and stayed there.

At the foot of the table the old priest cleared his throat.

"If we could have the will," he said, mildly, "before the eggs go cold."

The lawyer opened his leather folio.

He cleared his throat the way old lawyers do.

"This is the last testament of the late Don Quintero, written eight years ago.

"It carries a codicil sealed fifteen years ago, not to be opened until a certain day."

"My father wrote it," Tadeo said quietly. "I never saw it."

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