“It looks like it,” I said. I couldn’t imagine Christian being interested in her. They were both up to no good, I was sure.
Only time would tell me what new dagger she had prepared to stick into my heart.
8
The Party
Danielle Johnson’s family estate was as beautiful and as plush as Fani’s but smaller and with no heliport. The pool and the tennis court were visible from the driveway. Adan said the Johnsons had only a nine-hole private golf course. Poor Johnsons, I thought. I could see how going from one wealthy person’s hacienda to another, how living and playing in this world of overabundance, with its servants and gourmet foods, its fountains of wines and glittering gold and diamond accoutrements, could make anyone indifferent to the other world, the world where people struggled to feed themselves, to keep warm and safe. It was truly as if these rich people lived on another planet, and I was like some space traveler who had crossed into another solar system.
As we continued up Danielle’s driveway, I saw valets in black pants and white shirts rushing to park everyone’s cars. French music was piped out of speakers lining the driveway so people who arrived were immediately bathed in the ethnic nature of the party. Like Fani’s home and so many homes of the wealthy here, the front entrance opened to a large courtyard. Tonight, set up inside Danielle’s was a replica of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, with all the lights. Later, I learned the replica was done in exact detail and stood twenty feet tall. It even had a small elevator that actually worked.
“So, what do you really think of all this, Delia?” Adan asked me, waving his hand over the sights unfolding before us.
“If you wanted to drown yourself in wealth, this would be the place to die happy,” I said, and he laughed.
“I’m really impressed with your wit, Delia. I’m losing all of my stereotype assumptions about rural Mexicans. I guess I have been underestimating my own people.”
“And therefore yourself,” I said. “Don’t forget, your father told me where his family originated and where you still have relatives.”
This time, he looked at me less with an expression of amusement and more with an expression of appreciation. The look was so strong it made my heart flutter. A part of me had been afraid of my wanting him to like me this much, and a part of me that I began to sense might be stronger wanted nothing less. At the moment, thoughts of Ignacio were as far away as the moon. Was I slipping off the mountain of faithfulness and love? How far would I fall?
The valet who seized the door handle and opened my door shook me out of my deep thoughts.
“Welcome to the party,” he chimed.
“Got to get something out of the rear,” Adan told him, and hurried around the car to get my crutches. Then he guided me out, and I put them under my arms. “Okay?” he asked.
I nodded and looked at everything going on around us. It was very exciting. Waiters and waitresses dressed in the costumes of French street vendors were not waiting for people to get into the party. They were coming out to greet guests with the hors d’oeuvres and drinks. No alcohol was being served from trays. Adults had to go inside the courtyard and into the house to the bars that had been set up. I did not know what would keep the underage students from our school from getting the alcoholic drinks, but I did see men who looked like security personnel standing off to the sides watching people, especially young people, carefully.
The entryway and the living room of the huge home had been turned into a ballroom in Paris, even with a small stage on the right. Danielle’s father had hired dancers to perform the cancan. They wore costumes as skimpy as possible, and the crowd watching them consisted mostly of the fathers and Danielle’s father’s male friends. Some were smoking cigars, the thin streams of smoke rising in the air and perfuming it with the heavy, rich tobacco aromas. Deeper inside the house were a half-dozen men and women playing small accordions, juggling, and performing magic tricks for the amusement of the guests. There were kiosks of food almost everywhere I looked, ranging from shrimp, chicken, and meat on sticks to lobster and fish displayed on large colorful plates, breads and vegetables, and in one section a variety of French pastries that surely rivaled anything found in Paris itself. The servers wore chefs’ hats.
My first thoughts as I gazed around, drinking in as much of it as I could, was how different from this was a birthday party for a girl Danielle’s age back in my Mexican village. I even recalled the fateful night when I had attended Ignacio’s sister’s birthday party. All of the food was homemade, with friends and family all bringing something. Here, except for the banner over the front of the main house’s entrance that read, “Happy Birthday, Danielle,” nothing else suggested that it was a party in her honor. The invitation had forbidden gifts, with the simple statement that your attendance was gift enough. It could be a New Year’s Eve party if the banner was taken down. Did such a party make her happy or sad? If this was her birthday party, what would her wedding be like?
“There you are!” Danielle cried, clapping her hands and hurrying over to us. Three of her closer friends at school who were also friends of mine trailed along behind her like the tail of a kite. “I’m so happy you could still attend the party despite your accident. Are you in pain?”
“No,” I said, wondering how much she knew about my so-called accident.
“What a beautiful dress, Delia,” Colleen said. The other two agreed, their eyes washed in surprise and envy.
“Thank you.”
Danielle hugged me but saved her best smile for Adan, whom she kissed on both cheeks as a French girl would.
“I’m so happy you could come to my party,” she told him, turning completely away from me, as did the other three. It was as if I had been suddenly changed into a marble statue and no longer commanded even their slightest attention.
“No, it is I who am happy. What a party!”
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” Danielle leaned toward him so much I thought he would have to catch her in his arms to keep her from falling. “My father looks for any reason to throw a gala.”
“He did that,” Adan said, shifting so he could be closer to me, and took my hand.
She glanced at me and pulled back. “Fani is talking to my mother,” she said. “In French! She speaks three languages.”
“Four, really,” Adan said. “She can get by with German because of the time her family spent in Berlin.”
“German, too! Don’t you just hate her for being so perfect?”
“If we hated people for be