“I’m absolutely willing. When do I leave?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. That will give us enough time.”
“Enough time for what?” Flor asks nervously.
“To get you ready,” Poppy replies.
Chapter 6
Poppy reaches out and touches the freshly trimmed ends of Flor’s hair. “Five inches and it’s still long. Much better though.”
Flor grimaces. Poppy’s attention is overwhelming. She’s beginning to regret coming to New York, but as she was being shampooed, she reminded herself that by tomorrow night, she’ll be far enough away from her and the City that none of what she does today will matter. Besides, her mother had subjected her to far more rigorous beauty treatments from the age of six. To a Brazilian woman, beauty is held to the highest standard, far above anything else. A simple haircut is hardly the worst of it.
“Oh come now, you must admit you needed it. Those split ends were abominable. It’s one thing to economize, and completely another thing to let yourself go.”
“I wasn’t letting myself go,” Flor replies defensively. “I was maintaining alright. Being at an all women’s school meant I could just relax and not worry about my looks.”
“A woman should always be concerned about her appearance, dear,” Poppy says condescendingly. “It’s part of her power, the impression she makes.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that. I took you for a feminist.” Flor glances out the car window, the afternoon summer sun shining brightly as they take the Central Park transverse back to the East Side. What she wouldn’t give to take a walk and be outside. But clearly Poppy isn’t finished with her yet.
“Oh, I certainly am a champion of all that, but I’m also a pragmatist.” Poppy leans toward her and whispers, “In case you haven’t noticed, the world is kind to beautiful people.”
Flor shakes her head. “You and my mother seem to share the same opinion. She had me in the salon every week until I went away to school. Most of my memories of spending time with her involve going to the salon to have my hair blown out or my nails done. I wanted to be out playing while she busied herself with turning me into a doll. I don’t want to be anyone’s doll.” She bites her lip, regretting that her tone became so vitriolic.
“Is that what you think I’m doing?” Poppy asks.
The young woman shakes her head. “I’m sorry. That was more about my mother than you. I appreciate you taking the time to do this for me,” she replies, attempting to sound as genuine as possible.
“No you don’t.”
Flor’s eyes widen.
“That’s okay.” Poppy pats her on the knee. “You’re young. Recognizing the value of a gift or favor will come with time.”
“Then why are you doing this?” Flor asks.
Poppy regards her momentarily. Her expression is unreadable, but there’s a sadness in her eyes. She wonders if it would be worth telling Flor that she knew her grandfather, Gustavo Sr., and how shocked she was to see how much the girl resembled him, especially in the eyes. She laments all the possibilities that ceased to be when she refused to go to Rio, like being Flor’s grandmother. Seeing Gustavo’s only granddaughter standing in her office in her worn-out jeans and thrift store clothes nearly broke her heart. He would never have allowed his family to fall so hard. The least Poppy could do for the girl is to buy her some new clothes.
The Mercedes comes to a sudden stop on Lexington Ave. Poppy forces a smile, and says, “You’ll need a wardrobe for your new job.”
Chapter 7
Flor’s patience has completely vanished as she follows Poppy onto the “Up” escalator. After two hours of shopping, she already has more than enough to see her through the summer. Half of it isn’t even suitable for ranch work. However, Poppy insisted on variety and being ready for everything.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Poppy says, sensing her impatience, “We’re almost finished.” She leads Flor through the brightly lit marble corridor in the designer department into lingerie. “A few things from here and perhaps some summer pajamas and you’re all set.”
“I think I have enough bras,” Flor says, mustering up the courage to put her foot down. Allowing the Baron matriarch to buy her underwear feels like it’s crossing some sort of line.
“Then why don’t you wear them?” Poppy scans the tags on Chantelle bras. She looks over at Flor who’s standing next to her with her arms folded across her chest like a stubborn child. The woman pretends not to notice and asks. “You’re a 34C, right?”
Flor glares then nods almost imperceptibly when she sees Poppy won’t be deterred.
“I don’t wear bras because I find them uncomfortable and unnecessary. Why should we adopt this repressive practice if men aren’t held to the same standard?”
Poppy raises an eyebrow. On the surface she’s intrigued, but deep down she’s relieved she doesn’t have to raise a daughter from Flor’s generation. It would be exhausting. Even the eldest of her twin daughters, Dahlia, wasn’t this intractable.
“I get it. ‘Free the nipple’ and all that. I saw the film too.” Poppy waves a hand and goes back to rifling through the rows of bras until she finds one for Flor, a simple beige demi-cup with lace trim. “My dear, this may surprise you, but I burned my bras with everyone else. Read The Second Sex when it was considered subversive and marched for equal pay. I moved to New York with a college degree and not a dime to my name and did everything I could to find success.”
Flor scowls at Poppy’s apparent hypocrisy. If she was such a feminist, then why are they even standing in a lingerie department in the first place?
“Change was slow to come, too slow. When it did happen, women were expected to shut up and be grateful for a few crumbs. It gets old, my dear. Hopefully your generation will be more successful than mine. Until then . . .” Poppy thrusts the bra at her and points to the changing rooms, “Wear a bra. You will be one of three women on that ranch, and the only one under forty. You don’t need unwanted attention. You can burn them when you get to Smith.”
Flor marches off and is ushered into a large changing room. Just as she’s about to hook the first bra, the saleswoman knocks on the door. The young woman opens it and is handed several more. “Your mother wants you to try these.”
“She’s not my mother,” Flor replies, slamming the door.
She hears Poppy chuckle.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, feeling embarrassed. Flor’s too polite and considerate to offend her host outright.
“Don’t be. You’re right, I’m not your mother. I’m thinking about what’s best for you.”
Flor slumps into a leather chair in the corner and covers her face with her hands. In less than forty-eight hours, she’s gone from her small, uncomplicated life at Belle Grove to being made over by one of the wealthiest women in America. While Poppy’s intentions seem genuine, it’s overwhelming for Flor who would go out of her way to avoid the same attention from her own mother. To be fair, her mother would’ve made the entire afternoon about herself. At least Poppy doesn’t say much.
Flor takes a deep breath and runs her hands along the front of her jeans. She can’t let herself have a meltdown in the lingerie department at Bloomingdales. Imagining the hideous tabloid headline brings her out of her self-pity. She quickly tries on the bras and selects a few, hoping it will get Poppy off her back. When she opens the door, the woman is standing on the other side.
“That was rude of me. Please accept my apology,” Flor says.
“Of course, dear. I’m sorry as well. I shouldn’t have been so pushy.” Poppy laces her arm through Flor’s. “Like I said, I only want what’s best for you. I can understand you have your beliefs and you should be true to them, but it’s important that you consider how you can be ready for the world too. Sometimes what the world expects of you and what you want for yourself are incompatible. You have to find a way to make it work or suffer the consequences.” Like I did, Poppy thinks to herself. She takes a deep breath, lamenting
how much easier it is for her to express herself to this girl who came into her life only a day before than to her own daughters.
Flor stops mid-stride. “I’m scared that I’m not going to be ready,” she confesses. “I have no idea what my life is going to look like after I graduate. I’m afraid I’m going to fail and have to go back to Brazil.” She lets out an exhale, feeling better just getting that off her chest.
“Chances are you will fail and probably fail miserably. But you have to try. It’s the only way you will really know what you’re capable of—which at this point in your life, is everything. That’s the magic of youth. You have plenty of time to reinvent yourself.” Poppy turns away and watches the saleswoman ring up the bras and matching underwear she had selected without consulting Flor, including a black lace bra and panties from Agent Provocateur. Poppy winks at the young woman. “It never hurts to have little extra.”
Flor’s jaw drops open. As if buying underwear with a near stranger wasn’t embarrassing enough. Now she’s completely mortified.
“Oh come off it. If you’re such a feminist, then you have to own your sexuality.”
The young woman glimpses the saleswoman stifle a laugh.
“I know what boarding schools are like. You can’t possibly be a virgin. I just hope you’re being responsible.” Poppy presses.
Flor turns and heads for the escalator. She’s had all the mothering she can take for the day.
Chapter 8
Flor wipes the sleep from her eyes and opens the window shade as the plane descends toward a private airstrip outside of Reno. Flying commercial was yet another argument she wasn’t going to win with Poppy. Despite missing her own family’s private jet, Flor wasn’t entirely comfortable accepting the offer. The Baron matriarch had already done so much for her. Never mind that Flor had only asked for a job. Had she known what came along with the request, she might have explored other options. She rests her head against the window. There’s no turning back now. It’s done, she resolves.
A black SUV greets Flor on the tarmac. By the time she slides into the backseat, it’s already loaded with her luggage. In addition to her own travel bag, she required two large suitcases for the clothes Poppy bought her, also compliments of her new benefactor.
“Did you have a good flight, Ms. Campos?” The driver asks as he slips on a dark pair of aviator sunglasses. The older gentleman, with a thick gray mustache, smiles kindly at her through the rearview mirror.
“Yes, thank you. Please call me Flor.” The young woman returns his smile, relieved he used her new surname, new for the summer at least. Poppy suggested she adopt her mother’s maiden name while she stays at the ranch. Any excuse to shed the de Lima name was more than welcome to Flor, who had briefly considered legally changing it when the de Lima empire crumbled. New name means a new start. But she couldn’t go through with it, knowing full well it would crush her father.
“The name’s Gary. I work out at the ranch, doing mostly odd jobs and errands for the manager.” He turns around and reaches out a hand, rough and wrinkled from years of manual labor. Flor shakes it, quickly put at ease by his warmth and friendliness. “Sit back, it’ll be a couple of hours before we get there.”
The scenery becomes more breathtaking the more distance they put between them and Reno. Flor counts a few towns before they head up along the 395. Despite California’s dry season, they’re surrounded by lush green mountains, reminding her of her family’s land in Paraná.
“It’s somethin’, isn’t it?” Gary says, getting Flor’s attention once again.
“I didn’t realize that California looked like this.” She points outside. “Whenever I think of California, I picture miles and miles of beaches.”
“And Hollywood, I’m sure.”
Flor laughs. “And that.” And endless shopping in Beverly Hills with my mother.
“Just you wait. It gets better. Belo Horizonte is a sight to see,” he says, pronouncing the last part of the name “tay”. “It’s the most impressive place I’ve ever worked.”
The young woman turns away from the window. “Belo Horizonte?” She asks, repeating the way he pronounced it rather than the Brazilian way which is with a “chee” at the end. Along with forsaking the de Lima name for the summer, Flor’s attempting a more generic ethnicity, preferring to be taken for Hispanic of unknown origin than Brazilian. Needless to say, she’s surprised to hear the name of the Brazilian city where her father’s family is from.
Gary nods. “I looked it up, means ‘beautiful horizon’ in Portuguese.”
“Now I’m very intrigued,” Flor says, returning to gaze out the window. Beautiful horizon, she murmurs to herself, the wild landscape outside blending together.
“Not much farther now,” Gary says about an hour later, as he quickly exits. They drive several miles through nothing but dry, barren land before turning off onto an unmarked road. Gravel and broken tree limbs cover the narrow road for the first couple of miles before it becomes level and smooth. In a matter of minutes, Flor is transported into another world.
Large maple and walnut trees line the road on each side, the branches and leaves creating a canopy over them. For as far as Flor can see, she’s surrounded by green, from the trees to the glimpses of the fields beyond them. A few more miles and the trees give way to a stone and iron fence that appears to span the length of the property, although she can only guess since she can’t see where it ends. Finally, after about five minutes, they come to an iron gate with the name Belo Horizonte in plated gold on the front of it.
Gary lowers his window, a rush of warm wind entering the air-conditioned SUV. “Summer came early. You’re lucky though, today should only reach about eighty-five degrees.” He punches in a code, and the iron-gate slides open, revealing a long dirt driveway lined with juniper trees on the left and a large pond on the right.
Gary takes his time as he drives, pointing out the different features of the property to Flor. “Belo Horizonte sits on almost 1,800 acres and has over twenty natural springs, ponds and reservoirs. Most of it is untouched, but you’ll see as we approach the main house, this is some of the finest land you’ll ever find in California.”
“How much of it is actually used?”
“’Bout a third. There’s a lot of wildlife out here so the owner wanted to leave as much habitat as possible. If you like fishin’, there’s a year-round creek that runs through the north side of the property. That’s where I like to go on my days off.”
“Can’t say I have much experience fishing,” Flor admits.
“Oh, then I hope you accept my personal invitation to show you what you’ve been missing. Once you get settled in, I’ll be sure to give you a proper tour of the property.” Gary gives her another one of his friendly smiles.
They reach a fork in the road marked by a large magnolia tree. He turns to the right where beyond a large paddock lies a one-story ranch house. “This is where you’ll be staying,” he says, putting the SUV into “Park.”
“This is the guest house?” Flor asks.
“If we had gone left at the fork, that’s where the guest cottage and manager’s house is. This,” he says gesturing toward the house behind a white stucco wall, “Is the main house.” Gary puts on a hat and steps out of the Escalade.
“I don’t need so much space. I’m more than happy to stay in the guest cottage, or even the boarding house if you have one,” Flor insists, getting out of the car. The heat instantly melts away the cool air from the air conditioning. Even though she’ll be working at the ranch, she doesn’t want to come off like a free-loader.
“Nonsense. The owner insists that, as his guest, you stay here.”
“But I haven’t even met him. A family friend arranged this for me.”
“No matter,” Gary says, taking out the luggage and setting it down on the driveway. “Boss says you stay here, then that’s what you’ll do.” He lifts the bags and cocks his head toward the gate. “This way.”
Chapter 9
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The other side of the white wall is unlike anything Flor could have imagined. The wooden door opens up to an expansive central courtyard with a large oak tree to the right and a blue and white tiled fountain in the middle. Flor shields her eyes from the sun with her hand to take it all in—the covered walkways, the red brick pillars and Spanish tile throughout.
“Does anyone live here?” Flor asks as she follows Gary through a set of French doors into the house.
“Not since it was fixed up,” he replies vaguely, leading her down a long corridor of white painted brick.
She stops to gaze at a bronze sculpture in an alcove. Something about it is familiar, but she can’t place it. Realizing that Gary had continued without her, she picks up her pace, glimpsing a wood-burning fireplace in the large library to her left. Exposed wooden beams and terracotta floors give the house an indoor/outdoor feeling. Secretly, Flor is thrilled to have the house to herself. Throughout her life, she’s stayed in large penthouses, estates and even yachts. It mattered to her parents that their accommodations were the finest that money could buy. That’s all it was though, she later realized. Like a funhouse of mirrors, it appeared fun from the outside, but the mirrors only reflected back a distorted reality. But this understated ranch house, from the courtyard to the Spanish hacienda details, make it the coziest place she’s ever visited.
“There are five bedrooms and six bathrooms,” Gary says when Flor catches up to him. “This, I think, is the nicest room.” He opens the door, and they enter a master suite, with a large bed against one wall. The rest of the room consists of floor-to-ceiling windows. “There’s a large garden and plenty of trees to give you privacy. It can get plenty warm in here, but the view, in my opinion, makes it worth it.” He points to the East. “In the morning, you get the sun coming up over that hill there, and in the evening, the sunset is just as nice.” Gary motions toward a set of French doors opening up to a terrace that leads to the private garden. “Like I said, ain’t nothin’ like this place, and I’ve seen plenty of ranches in my lifetime.”
Blossoming Flower (Wildflowers Book 1) Page 3
