I shut down my computer, unplugging it and setting it aside. It was always a prudent measure to take, especially since the electrical systems were nowhere near as well set up as typical American houses. I’d learned my lesson several times in the past.
Heading downstairs, I gathered the house staff that was still on the property, tasking them out for securing the house for the storm. Not a minute too soon, either, as the first terrible bolts of lightning shattered the sky just as the last of the storm shutters were closed and the few animals that were kept on the grounds were secured.
Suddenly, I felt like someone had taken my stomach and twisted it in knots, and I had to leave, barely making it to the kitchen sink before I threw up.
"Are you all right?" One of the staff members asked me.
"Yes," I said, taking a dishtowel and wiping my lips with it. “I’ve been feeling a little queasy the last few days, but I’ve held it in until now—guess it’s the storm."
"You have looked a little pale, Se?orita. You know, when my Consuela was sick like that last time, it was because she was pregnant with our daughter." He laughed and shook his head. "But that can’t be what’s wrong with you, right?"
"No," I said, smiling back weakly. "I'm sure it must just be the weather, and maybe my stomach is readjusting to Brazil."
He nodded, and I went back to the dining room and watched as an unholy display of power rent the heavens asunder, only pausing for a moment before torrents of rain sheeted the entire world, lending a nearly impenetrable veil to even the lightning, which continued.
For hours, I stayed there, my stomach roiling while the storm raged, and a slowly creeping fear grew inside me. I did the math in my head as the rain slowly gave way to hail, which clattered down on the roof of the house with such a racket, it was hard to think.
"Oh no," I whispered, thinking. "It can't be . . .”
I had to know for sure, and the burning inside me didn’t want to wait until the storm was clear. I thought and realized there was one place I could check. The house had a small medical room. After two of the maids had been found hiding their pregnancies in fear of being fired, my father had insisted that all the female staff take tests once a month. I think the fear was more about my father suddenly ending up with a new son or daughter instead of having to deal with a pregnant staffer, but what would his reaction be if he found out he was going to be a grandfather?
I made my way to the little medical closet-room just as the lights went out. I waited a few seconds to see if they’d come back on, then I fumbled around for the penlight that was in the medical kit. I found it and squeezed the little button on the side, a weak but adequate glow coming out.
Shining the light around, I saw the box of pregnancy kits and grabbed one, tucking it inside my shirt. Wasting no time, I went to my private bathroom, locking the door behind me. Lowering my pants, I held the stick in the stream that came out, capped it and set the kit on the sink edge, and waited. I looked down and took a deep breath.
A plus sign. Oh hell.
Chapter 19
Tomasso
The cane still felt strange in my hand, but I could at least get rid of the damn crutches as I walked toward the dance studio. With my current condition, I couldn't do much in terms of learning how to be an enforcer, and I was going nuts hanging around the house all day, so I had asked Dad, and he agreed to let me help out around the Bertoli Pizza offices. It meant that I spent a lot of the day doing basic typing and office work, and I'd learned a lot in the past two weeks about just how much food it takes to keep a five-location pizza restaurant and delivery chain in business. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at a cow the same ever again.
All that sitting around left my lower back tense and my legs cramped, which is why I was making my way toward the dance studio—I was going to see a friend of the family. The woman who owned the studio would be Adriana’s maid of honor at her upcoming wedding.
I opened the door, a little bell tinkling as I did. I looked around and saw that the studio was still pretty raw, with that sort of just-opened feel that most new businesses had. The floor was bare concrete, but there were a couple of moveable dancer bars lined up against the wall, and the far wall was fully mirrored. "Hello?"
"Just a moment," a voice from the back called. "Are you Tomasso?"
"Yeah," I said, looking at the chairs in the reception area and deciding I'd rather stand. "You're Carmen?"
"Yep," the voice said, coming closer. The curtain separating the studio floor from the rest of the space twitched, and out came a tiny little woman, maybe only five foot one or two, with dark brown hair and a tan that belied her Latina heritage. "Hi."