A short elderly gentleman stood beside him, holding a large, flat briefcase.
“Good. This is Mr. Blumgarten. He has been my personal and my wife’s personal tailor for some time now.”
“More than twenty years,” Mr. Blumgarten proudly added. He had a small nose, beady dark eyes, and ears too large for his small, watermelon-shaped head with its thin, graying hair lying so flat it looked ironed on his skull. I didn’t think he was much taller than five feet four, with a slim, almost childlike body.
I nodded and waited to see what they wanted. Señor Bovio indicated that Mr. Blumgarten should enter the suite. They both came in, and Mr. Blumgarten put his large briefcase on the counter by the vanity table.
“I am employing Mr. Blumgarten to design and create some maternity clothing for you personally, Delia,” Señor Bovio began.
I looked at them with surprise. Personally designed maternity clothing? I had to smile, thinking about how Señora Díaz, our tailor back in my little Mexican village, would improvise with whatever a pregnant woman had in order to create so-called maternity outfits. Most of the time, it simply meant letting out waists.
“It’s a very serious thing,” Señor Bovio said sharply, so sharply it chased the smile off my face as quickly as a shout would frighten a sparrow. “Your maternity outfits must be soft to the touch and able to stretch. The outfits have to be light and breezy. A pregnant woman feels heat far more than a woman who is not pregnant. And you don’t want to wear anything that cuts into your circulation or binds and draws.”
Mr. Blumgarten nodded after every sentence Señor Bovio spoke, as if he were providing the periods.
“I have fabrics that contain Lycra,” Mr. Blumgarten said, smiling as proudly as a parent bragging about his children. “So they stretch and move with your body.”
“Exactly,” Señor Bovio added. “And he has very bright and attractive colors. I want you to look like a flower about to bloom and not like some faded rose. There must always be an air of health and vigor about you. It’s something our baby will sense.”
He paused to smile at Mr. Blumgarten, who instantly smiled himself, although I could see he had no idea why he should.
“I remember vividly how my wife felt when she was pregnant with Adan,” Señor Bovio continued, as if to justify his comments. “She went through a terrible period of depression, worrying that she looked ugly, deformed. There were weeks, months, even in the very beginning, when she wouldn’t step out of the house, terrified some paparazzi might snap photos of her and sell them to a magazine. If I didn’t start every day telling her how beautiful she still was, she would go into a sulk.
“And, as I said, don’t think these emotional and mental downturns have no effect on the baby you’re carrying. It’s another form of stress, and stress is unhealthy for you and for our baby. Just as people are healthier in a house full of happiness, a baby is surely healthier in the womb of a happy woman.”
I thought Mr. Blumgarten’s head would never stop bobbing.
“I understand, and I am grateful for your concern, señor,” I said.
“Sí. Good. Mr. Blumgarten,” he said, turning to the tailor, “we need clothing immediately.”
“I’ll get right on it today, Mr. Bovio. By the end of the day tomorrow, she will have her first outfit.”
“Outfits,” Señor Bovio corrected.
“Absolutely. Without delay,” Mr. Blumgarten said.
Señor Bovio stepped back, and Mr. Blumgarten opened his briefcase and spread the fabric samples out, smiling at me to invite me to come choose what I liked. I glanced at Señor Bovio, who nodded and smiled as well.
“Just feel this material,” Mr. Blumgarten said. I did, and I had to admit it was all so soft.
“Don’t make her skirts too short,” Señor Bovio ordered, and left us.
Mr. Blumgarten showed me some styles and then took measurements. When he grazed my breasts with his knuckles, he immediately blushed and apologized.
“Well, now, I…that is,” he said, stammering, “I don’t think you’re going to show too much until your sixth or seventh month, but we’ll allow for it, especially…” He nodded at my bosom. “Of course, Mr. Bovio wants me back to redo or add to your wardrobe every three weeks.”
“Every three weeks!”
“Changes come quickly,” he said, although I sensed that even he thought that was extravagant.
I shook my head, imagining the expense.
Afterward, every style and garment he suggested looked fine to me. I really wasn’t all that worried about being in style. I was no movie star. He was happy I made his work so easy for him, so he could hurry out to go to his shop. He said he would return before dinner the next day. When I told him there was no reason for such a rush, that the clothing I had available would be fine for a while, he looked at me as if I had gone absolutely mad.
“It’s what Mr. Bovio wants. It’s his first grandchild,” he said, as if nothing could be more obvious.
I smiled to myself as he fidgeted with his briefcase and reconfirmed all of his measurements, taking special care not to touch my breasts. He checked and double-checked what he had written. The way he fluttered about reminded me of the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland chanting, “I’m late. I’m late for a very important date…”
For now, this was amusing, and I was grateful for Señor Bovio’s almost motherly concern for my comfort and welfare. I had been here barely a few hours, and he was rearranging anything and everything to make things as easy and pleasant for me as could be. If he wanted to spoil me with personally designed and tailored maternity clothes, so be it, I thought, as I ran a brush through my hair again and started out. I wanted to take a short walk and get some air. I had been shut up in the clinic too long, and I was interested in exploring this wonderful estate.
“Wait!” Señor Bovio shouted from the bottom of the stairway when I appeared and was about to descend. He held up his hand like a traffic officer.
Next to him was a young, light-brown-haired man in a dark brown suit and matching tie. He carried a black leather satchel and stood nearly as tall as Señor Bovio. I imagined him to be in his early thirties at most. They both stood at the foot of the stairway and looked up at me.
“I was just going to take a short walk, señor,” I said.
“In a while,” Señor Bovio said.
He and the young man started up the stairway.
“First, there is one more thing I want to get out of the way immediately. Dr. Denardo will be happy we’ve made these preparations, too.”
I had forgotten the doctor was yet to come.
“Please, go back to your bedroom,” he said, waving at me.
Curious about what else he wanted done, I returned.
“Delia, this is Mark Corbet from the New Mom Shop on El Paseo,” he said when the two followed me into the bedroom suite.
El Paseo was the street of fancy and expensive stores, a street I was told was similar to Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills or Worth Avenue in Palm Beach. I had been there before, shopping with Tía Isabela.
“Hi there,” Mark Corbet said.
I nodded and said hello.
“One of the things they specialize in is maternity shoes,” Señor Bovio said.
“There are maternity shoes?” I asked, surprised.
“Well, you may or may not know that pregnancy will cause your feet to get a good half-size bigger,” Mark Corbet said. “Your shoes should allow for some swelling. Also, you’re better off in low-heeled shoes. Less stress on your spine.”
I nodded. In Mexico, we wore sandals, so what he was talking about never mattered.
“However, that doesn’t mean you have to wear something ugly,” he quickly added, smiling at Señor Bovio. “We have some pretty fancy styles. I have a few samples here, and I—”
“Mark will measure your foot. I’ve explained that I’d like the shoes personally made for you.”
“Personally? Shoes, too?”
“Sí. Mark
.”
Mark Corbet moved into my room quickly and set his satchel on the floor. He took out his mechanism for measuring foot size. I sat on the chair by the vanity table. I was still quite surprised. Tailored maternity clothing and now shoes? Why was it necessary for everything to be made personally for me?
“I don’t want any cheap imitation materials,” Señor Bovio emphasized. “Exercise is important. You’re going to do a lot of walking, I’m sure, and I don’t want to see you get any blisters.”
“Oh, we have specially designed walking shoes for pregnant women, too,” Mark Corbet said. He looked up at me. “May I?”
I nodded, and he slipped off my shoes and began taking foot measurements.
“No swelling. That’s good,” he said, smiling at me. He held my foot tenderly.
“Get on with it,” Señor Bovio ordered.
“Yes, yes. I’m no obstetrician,” he said as he measured, “but wearing maternity support hose helps support tired leg muscles, too. We sell that, of course.”
“Sí, she’ll have that,” Señor Bovio said. “You’ll bring it all with the pairs of shoes.”
“Yes, sir.”
It suddenly occurred to me that Señor Bovio was having everyone come to the hacienda rather than have me taken to the shops. Even if he didn’t intend for it to happen, I was in danger of becoming as spoiled as Tía Isabela and especially my cousin Sophia. Señor Bovio stood by and watched Mark Corbet complete his measurements and then suggest some styles and colors for my maternity shoes. I really didn’t believe it mattered very much, but I made choices to get it over with as quickly as possible. He promised, as Mr. Blumgarten had, to put a priority on everything and return quickly.
When Señor Bovio emphasized that cost was no concern and that he was sure we would need different shoes as my pregnancy evolved, Mark Corbet almost fell over himself in his excitement.
“I’ll get right on all this, Mr. Bovio,” he said, and then turned to me. “Any problems with anything, you just holler.”
“She won’t have to. I will,” Señor Bovio said sternly, and led him out so quickly he barely had time to squeeze in a good-bye.
I sat back to catch my breath. Nutritionist, private maternity nurse, private tailor and shoemaker, doctor who would make house calls—who else would Señor Bovio bring to my room? A hair stylist? Maybe a dentist for an initial checkup? Nothing would surprise me now, I thought, and laughed at how amazed mi abuela Anabela would be if she could see all of this.
Once again, I started downstairs, intending to take a short walk around the hacienda. When I stepped out, I was surprised at how warm it had gotten. It was difficult to go far. I went around the hacienda to look more closely at the pool. It was a bigger pool than Tía Isabela’s, and it was oval in shape. The lounges had been set out with towels, as if Señor Bovio had a houseful of guests. A young Mexican man was vacuuming the pool. He wore a wide-brimmed sombrero and was shirtless, in a pair of knee-length white shorts and sandals. He glanced at me but quickly returned to his work as I drew closer.
“Buenos días,” I said, and he smiled and nodded.
“Buenos días,” he replied, and paused to take a better look at me. “I will have everything ready in a moment, señorita.”
“That’s all right. I’m not going swimming today. Why are all the lounges prepared? Are there guests expected?”
He looked toward the hacienda before replying. “Every day, the lounges are prepared,” he said. “For as long as I’ve been here, I have been told to put them out in the morning and then take them in early in the evening. Most of the time, nothing is used.” He smiled and shrugged.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Tres años…three years. I work with my brother. Sometimes, he comes here and I go somewhere else.” He looked back at the hacienda. “You are Señor Bovio’s guest?”
“Sí.”
“I was told he had a guest who was una muchacha hermosa. I was told the truth,” he said, smiling.
“Gracias,” I said, feeling myself blush. I quickly went around to a lounge. Once there, I unbuttoned my blouse a bit. He continued to smile at me and then returned to his work.
I loved hearing the compliment. It had been a while since I could even think of myself as attractive, but I didn’t feel like a beautiful young woman. At the moment, I felt like a lost young woman.
I closed my eyes for a few moments and enjoyed the soft breeze that carried the scents coming from the well-manicured gardens. In a day or so, I’d go swimming, I thought. I imagined I could find a bathing suit of Señora Bovio’s that would fit. Swimming, like walking, would be good exercise for me now.
Finally relaxing, I casually looked about the enormous property. Trees had been planted to the north and south in front of the high stone walls marking the boundaries of Señor Bovio’s estate. There were two tennis courts nearby, and way off toward the western boundary of the property, I saw the horse-training track and the stables.
It all reminded me of that first night at Fani Cordova’s house. I closed my eyes again, remembering. Fani had taken Adan and me around her family’s property in a golf cart, and she and Adan had had an amusing argument about who was richer, who had more. I recalled Fani’s mentioning the horses when Adan pointed out that her father had a helicopter. It seemed like just yesterday. I couldn’t help but smile, recalling how happy and optimistic we three were once. It seemed as if the world were opening endless opportunities for all of us to pursue. It was hard not to fall in love with ourselves.
“What are you doing?” I heard, and opened my eyes to see Señor Bovio standing over me. He had shocked me out of my pleasant musing.
He gazed at the young pool man, who immediately began to rush through his work and gather his tools.
“Just resting, señor,” I replied. “Getting some fresh air and walking, too.”
“It’s better you’re not here at the pool when the help is working,” he said.
“Por qué?”
“It distracts them, and they don’t do their work as well,” he said.
He glared again at the pool man.
“You should button up. The sun is right on you. It’s too hot already,” he continued, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “You should go out only in the morning these days. You have to be careful. You don’t want too much sun, and you don’t want to get dehydrated.”
“I haven’t been in the sun long, señor. I haven’t been out in the fresh air and sunshine for some time.”
“Yes, yes, but you have to be careful,” he muttered.
“I will,” I promised. I gazed toward the stables. “Do you still have horses, Señor Bovio?”
“What? Yes, there are two. One was Adan’s, and the other was his mother’s. But I don’t race horses anymore,” he added. “I don’t know why I bother keeping them. It’s expensive, and no one rides them except for the man I have looking after them.”
He looked at me, a terrifying thought coming to his mind.
“Don’t you go there,” he told me quickly. “There are too many flies, and you can’t ride, either. Don’t even think of such a thing. Not yet.”
“No, señor. I was just curious.”
“Sí,” he said. He looked at the pool man again, who was now hurrying away. “Did he bother you?”
“No, señor.”
“He’s taking longer than he should. I don’t approve of them working without shirts,” he said. “I might get rid of him. I told him previously I didn’t want him working like that in front of my guests.”
“There was no one here until I came, señor.”
“That’s not the point. Don’t stay out too long,” he told me, and walked after the young man, who was approaching his pickup truck.
I watched them talking. Señor Bovio waved his arms around. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he looked very angry. The young man lowered his head and got into his truck. Señor Bovio headed back to the hacienda. Not long after, I follow
ed him.
It was quiet when I reentered the house. I made my way up the staircase. I paused at the top, looking down the hallway at the various doors and wondering which one had been Adan’s bedroom. Suddenly, one of the doors opened, and Teresa stepped out. She had a vacuum cleaner in hand and some dust rags. She nodded, hurrying by me.
“Teresa?”
“Yes, Miss?”
“Which room was Adan’s?”
“The one I was just in, Miss.”
“Oh. So, you look after it from time to time?”
“No, Miss. Just like always, I clean and dust and wash the windows every day. I don’t mind, and I can see it eases Mr. Bovio’s pain.”
“Eases his pain? How?”
“Well, Miss, it’s like Adan’s returning, like he’s just on one of his trips.”
“Oh. I see.” I smiled at her. “How long have you worked for Señor Bovio, Teresa?”
“I’m going on thirty-two years, Miss. This has been my first and only job since I came to America.”
“From where?”
“England, Miss,” she said.
“So you’ve been here ever since Adan was born?”
“Yes, Miss. I was quite fond of him. He was a very nice young man. His absence makes the house feel empty. It’s nice that you’re here,” she added.
“Thank you. I’m sorry Mrs. Newell was so stern with you, Teresa. There’s no reason to put so much pressure on you. Everyone just has to calm down. I’m not the first woman to have a baby.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“No, really. I don’t need all this special attention, tailors, shoemakers, nurses. I bet you think it’s all a bit over the top,” I added, imagining all the help were buzzing about the things Señor Bovio was doing.
She nodded but looked at me as if I were totally crazy to suggest it.
“Don’t you agree?” I pursued.
She shrugged. “Yes, Miss, but from what I see, nothing is really much different.”
“Nothing?” I smiled at her. “What do you mean, nothing’s much different, Teresa?”