Seven Lost Years novel · Chapter 1 of 16
Chapter 1: The Summit
The wedding planner looked at me like I'd just asked her to set the estate on fire.
"Miss Camargo, there are two days left."
"I know."
"There are three hundred confirmed guests, the menu is paid for, and the orchid arrangements arrive tomorrow from Medellin."
"I know."
We were standing in the garden at La Cumbre, an estate in Cota with a view of the savanna.
I'd spent three months in that garden.
I'd picked every white chair, every lantern, every shade of cream in the tablecloths.
Now the wind was moving the ribbons on the flower arch where I was supposed to get married on Friday.
"Don't you want to wait until Mr. Ortigoza returns before deciding something like this?" she asked in a low voice.
"He doesn't have time for this."
I smiled, because it was the only thing left to do with my face.
"He's busy marrying his ex in Slandsdeca."
The planner opened her mouth and found nothing to say.
I pulled out my phone and showed her the screen.
It was the society page of a newspaper from Puerto Maren.
Puerto Maren is the capital of that rich Caribbean island where Xavier had spent five weeks "closing a merger."
The headline read: "Wedding of the Year: Anais Zubiria and Xavier Ortigoza, this Friday at six, at the cathedral."
Below it was a photo.
My fiancé, in a tuxedo I'd never seen, was holding a blonde woman in an ivory silk dress by the waist.
She was laughing with her head thrown back.
He was looking at her, not at the camera.
He'd never looked at me like that in seven years.
"Oh my God," the planner whispered.
"Same Friday," I said. "Same time. So punctual."
She touched my arm with a tenderness that almost broke me.
I pulled away.
If anyone touched me with tenderness, I'd cry, and it wasn't time for that yet.
"I need the cancellation contract," I said.
"You'll lose the deposit. It's ninety million."
"Better ninety million than the rest of my life."
I signed where she indicated.
I signed the catering closure, the band closure, the photographer closure.
My hand didn't tremble once.
That surprised me.
When I finished, I handed her back the pen and took off my ring.
It was a small diamond, old cut, that Xavier had put on my finger seven years earlier at a restaurant in Chapinero.
I'd believed it was an engagement ring.
Turned out it was a waiting ring.
I left it on top of the contracts folder.
"Send it to his mother," I said. "She'll know what to do with it."
The planner looked at it, then at me.
"Do you want me to notify the guests?" she asked.
"I'll notify them."
"Miss Camargo, forgive the question. Are you okay?" she asked.
I thought about the truth.
I thought about seven years of Sundays when he said "it's not the right time yet."
I thought about the Madrid conference I didn't attend because he wanted me in Bogota when he got back.
I thought about the pottery studio I'd opened with my savings, where he never stayed more than ten minutes.
"I'm better than I was an hour ago," I answered.
I walked out along the gravel path to my car.
I sat behind the wheel and breathed.
My phone vibrated on the seat.
It was Xavier.
I let it ring four times and answered.
"Ileana, my love." His voice sounded tired and sweet, the voice he used when he wanted something. "My mother called. She says you canceled everything."
"Yes."
"You're in shock. Listen to me, it's just paperwork, nothing more. The thing with Anais is for the merger, her father demands that..."
"Xavier."
"...I'm back Saturday, and Saturday itself we get married, I swear, I'll pay for the orchids myself..."
"Congratulations on your wedding."
There was a silence.
When he spoke again, he wasn't sweet anymore.
"Ileana, don't do anything crazy. You don't have to. I'm covered with the Zipaquira thing, you know that, and I'll fix it when I get back."
The back of my neck went cold.
"What about Zipaquira?" I asked.
"Nothing. It's nothing. I'll call you later."
"Xavier, what did we sign in Zipaquira?" I asked.
He hung up.
I stared at the black screen.
I remembered Zipaquira.
A small notary office, a purple stamp, a rainy afternoon seven years ago.
He'd asked me to sign a cohabitation paper for his student visa.
"Just paperwork," he'd said.
That same word.
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