“I do, I guess.” The door opened, and Diana walked out wearing a black-and-white floral-print romper.
Margo couldn’t help but smile. “You’re so adorable in that.”
Diana looked away, bashful. “Well, you did get it for me.”
“It’s perfect on you.” Margo scoured her daughter’s face. Diana seemed different today. Light, loose. It could have been the warm shower, or simply, because she wasn’t in her usual scrubs. “What do you say? We wouldn’t want your outfit to go to waste. You can go out, and I can handle the old lady.” She winked.
Make it like it’s her idea, Leora had said once. Diana had been at the sour age of four—because the terrible twos had been a misnomer in Margo’s experience. Twos were glorious. At two, their words weren’t quite as formed, unlike the fours, where they had enough logic and will to create chaos on purpose—and Diana had decided in the middle of the market to throw a tantrum over the wrong kind of apple. Only the red varieties were acceptable to Diana, and Margo had reached for a Golden Delicious.
Leora had been there, and in a whisper reminded Margo that her little one wanted choices—that was all. Choice was its own power. Leora had picked two green apples, and presented them to Diana. “We have to have green apples for the dessert, Di, but you can pick which green apple you want. Will you do that?”
And her daughter, hiccupping from the last of her tantrum, chose the Granny Smith.
Right now was the green apple choice.
Diana leaned against the bathroom doorway. “How will I know you’re okay? Do you have a plan on what to say? I know how you are, Ma. You’ll get around Flora and fall for the trap—you’re too nice to people.”
Margo winced at the implication that she was a pushover. “Well, I figure, I’m okay now, aren’t I, and I feel like the worst part has passed. And I … I’m going to go with what feels natural to say. Though I promise to demand the truth.” She lifted her eyes to her daughter slowly.
“Hm … we’ll definitely the get the answer faster if Flora feels comfortable, and she is most comfortable with you. And I don’t want to waste these tour tickets. Joshua, Colette, and I can still make a good day of it,” Diana began. “But I want you to promise me that you’ll bring your A game. Practice these words, Out with it. It’s what I tell my med students and interns. Like, bottom line up front.”
Margo scrunched an eyebrow down. “Okay, but that’s not really my style. I’m more like a ‘Can you clarify?’ kind of woman.”
“Nope. Just say it, Ma. I won’t leave until you do. Out with it.”
“Out with it,” Margo said, in a normal voice, feeling silly.
“Louder. Out. With. It.”
“Diana, this is—”
“Out! With! It!” Diana yelled. “Out! With! It!”
“Okay! Fine, fine! Out! With! It!”
Her daughter’s grin was smug and refreshing. “See, that wasn’t so bad, right?”
Margo’s heart was pounding so hard from all the yelling, but Diana was right. It wasn’t bad at all. She laughed. “No, no it wasn’t.” She swallowed a breath. “Though our neighbors are probably calling the front desk as we speak.”
She shrugged. “We know the owners, so … but remember, that if you feel weird at all—”
“I’m out of there. Promise.” Margo held a hand up like a Girl Scout.
“Okay.” Diana clapped her hands together. “I guess I’d better text and update Colette—”
“Actually, she mentioned accompanying me if I felt the urge to see Flora earlier.”
A knock on the door caused Diana to turn. She headed toward it. “Oh?” She opened the door to that handsome Joshua on the other side.
“But there’s always you and Joshua.”
Her daughter turned to her and rolled her eyes. “Sneaky, Ma, sneaky.”
To that, Margo simply shrugged. “Caught red-handed.”
* * *
An hour later, Margo had arrived at Sunset Corner to find that Flora was napping.
“Tita, do you want to go to the mall so you’re not bored? You’ll be impressed at how big it is. You can get your steps in, maybe buy some souvenirs? Whatever you’d like,” Colette said.
They were standing in the kitchen, and Colette had just handed her a cold glass, frosted and filled with ice and what Margo suspected was lemonade. It wasn’t lemonade, though; it was citrus and sweet and woke her palate.
“Oh my goodness,” she said, delight rushing through her. “What is this?”
Colette beamed. “Calamansi juice.”
Margo stared at the magic drink. “I need to find a way to grow calamansi. Anyway, no, I don’t want to miss Manang Flora when she wakes. I can walk around the grounds or read a magazine, anything, really. I’m not the kind of woman who gets bored.” Although, a tingle of guilt ran up her spine from her ignored work and communications with her friends that she should be responding to.
“Hm.” Colette gnawed on her lip, looking deep in thought. Then her face broke into a smile.
“What?” A smile burst from Margo’s lips, too. Colette was a joy, and Margo couldn’t help but be enamored by her. Was her half sister, Marilou, Colette’s mother, just as charming?
The thought brought tears to her eyes. A sister. She’d cherished her friend-sisters. How much more would she have loved Marilou? She took a drink of the calamansi juice to steer her thoughts away, and thank goodness that Colette had turned to the refrigerator.
Colette dug into the fridge with both hands. “Remember when I mentioned that you should show us your version of arroz caldo? Would you mind doing it now? I have chicken, ginger …”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Margo hedged. This woman was a restaurateur. Surely, in comparison, Margo’s food would taste like it came out of an Easy-Bake Oven.
“I know it’s going to be delicious!” Colette turned around with ingredients in her arms. “Thank God for my belly. It’s like a little perch!”
Margo giggled and helped her unload ingredients onto the wooden kitchen island: bone-in chicken, ginger, fish sauce, onions, and garlic.
“Oh, and of course we have rice.” She gestured to a waist-high receptacle with buttons labeled 1, 2, and 3.
“What is that?”
“A rice dispenser. So will you do it? Not only is this Lola’s favorite dish, but the baby is hungry.” She splayed her hands against her tummy.
Margo acquiesced, never one to say no to a pregnant mama. “Fine. C’mon, let’s do this before I lose my nerve.”
It wasn’t that she was a horrible cook; Margo was a great cook, in fact. But Margo had never questioned if what she was making was authentic. She’d trusted her mother’s taste buds and then her own, and gradually morphed her recipes. For example, she used teriyaki and oyster sauce to liven up her chicken adobo, and she used sweet potatoes instead of regular potatoes in her picadillo. She didn’t want to insult Colette.
But when she began to cook, and the scent of ginger and garlic frying in the oil hit her nostrils, Margo relaxed. She was back in her mother’s kitchen. She worked with ease, adding the chicken to brown on both sides, and then taking it out, then pouring in the rice to be coated in the seasoned oil.