After the divorce, my ex-mother-in-law stood outsi…

The house had a live-in manager named Florino, who had managed it for my mother and stayed on for me. It had a caretaking staff of four, stables with three horses, a dock on the lake, gardens my mother had planted herself over twenty years, and original art on the walls that she had collected methodically and that had appreciated in ways that would have impressed even the most skeptical appraiser. I moved back in on a Wednesday.

On Thursday, I called my executive assistant, Valentina, who had been running my consulting operations out of our Guadalajara office throughout my entire marriage. Valentina Reyes had worked for my mother for six years before she worked for me. She was thirty-eight, relentlessly competent, and had the communication style of someone who was never once sent an email that could be misunderstood.

“Are we ready?” I asked. “The firm has been ready,” she said. “Were you waiting for something specific?”

“I was waiting for Easter,” I said.

Three weeks later, ivory envelopes with gold lettering arrived at the Cortez residence. Our firm stationery. The good stock.

The kind used for serious invitations. Inside was a card in my handwriting. Easter Sunday.

Valle de Bravo. I look forward to hosting you. An address.