“If she’s Mimi, then I’m Aba to you too,” the stocky woman said as she wiggled her finger at Libby and then hugged her.
Libby couldn’t help but laugh. She’d never been in the middle of warring grandmothers before. It was so delightful; she’d nearly forgotten she still had an important person to face.
“And this is my mom, Natalia,” Reagan said as she hugged a tall, attractive blonde in her early fifties.
Libby forced her galloping heart to settle. “A pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for having me,” she said, handing her the gift she’d spent two week
s researching.
Natalia’s dark eyes dropped from her face to the box in her outstretched hand. With every microsecond, Libby was sure she’d made a mistake. Was she o ended by the present?
Why wouldn’t Reagan have told her not to bring one? Was it the beer in her hand? Did she look like a lush?
When the woman’s full lips parted into a smile, it took all of Libby’s self-control not to sigh and hold her hand to her chest in relief.
“Thank you, mija. You didn’t have to do that.” She took the gift before they kissed each other on the cheek. “Oh, and Nigerian Palm Wine!”
“It’s nothing. I hope you enjoy it,” she said, hot and aware of how constricting her dress and shoes were. “I mean, I didn’t bring the wine,” she added awkwardly.
“I know, honey.” Reagan’s mother shifted her gaze between Libby and her daughter. It was so quick, Libby couldn’t decipher the significance. “I’ll call Imani later and thank her.”
While Reagan’s mother opened the gift of hand-pressed olive oil and artisan soap from a small grove in Spain, her grandmothers looked her over like she was a car for sale.
“Look at this figure, Iliana,” the short Aba said as she reached for Libby’s hand and spun her around. “Don’t you remember having a body like that?”
The other woman laughed. “Oh please, you never had a body like that. I, on the other hand, was fourth runner-up for Miss Cuba 1967,” she said, holding her chin out proudly.
“Ha! That’s a laugh. No, you weren’t.”
Mimi glared at her. “Well, I would’ve been if the spot hadn’t been stolen from me.”
Ignoring the bickering grandmothers who had stopped objectifying Libby to argue with each other, Reagan hooked her arm in Libby’s and pointed her toward the hallway just o the kitchen.
“Come on, I want to show you my room,” Reagan said before they turned down the narrow hallway covered in framed family photos. Libby refused to be rushed down
memory lane and took her time indulging and asking questions as they inched along.
“Are these your brothers?” Libby pointed at the photos of a pair of handsome men in military uniforms.
“Yep. They’re both deployed. If you’re unlucky you might meet them for Christmas,” she joked.
Two massive portraits waited for them at the end of the hall, one of former US President Ronald Reagan, and the other of a young woman in an extravagant pink gown holding a parasol as she gazed o to the side while standing in a topiary garden. Her long blonde hair in ringlets were the tell-tale sign of a quinceañera. Every fifteen-year-old Hispanic girl's rite of passage. Somehow, Libby never imagined the cool Reagan ever having to su er one.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” Reagan said as she struggled against her own smile.
Libby covered her mouth with both hands. “You look so freaking adorable.”
Reagan scratched the back of her head. “Okay, enough of that,” she said, prodding her into the bedroom on the right.
“Your parents never changed your room?” Libby asked despite the answer being obvious as they stepped into a high-schooler’s room complete with posters and pictures taped all over the walls and ceiling.
“Nope. My mom is always nagging me to come empty it out, but I don’t think she really wants me to,” she said as she plopped onto the corner of the very feminine bed. “I think she comes in here once a week and cleans it while pretending I’m still seventeen.”
Libby perused the pictures stuck to the mirror on the small vanity facing the bed. In one of them, Reagan had long green hair and a nose ring. She couldn’t fathom that kind of freedom. In another, she was kissing a girl on the cheek.
“What did you want to show me?” Libby asked as she turned from the pictures and leaned against a dresser to rest her feet before setting down the beer warming in her hand.
“Nothing,” she replied, propping herself up on an elbow.