A Blossom of Bright Light by Suzanne Chazin Page B

a blue-collar lens. It was something he did, not something he was. You gave it your best shot, and then you went home.
    She’d tried to see things his way. She’d tried to compromise. And look what it had cost—a child’s life.
    â€œLook,” said Schulman, “if you don’t want to be my Hispanic Affairs adviser, just say so.”
    â€œI do want it.”
    â€œThen you’re accepting?”
    â€œProbably. That is—look, Steve, a terrible thing happened this morning. A newborn was found dead behind La Casa. I’m having a hard time processing anything today.”
    â€œDid they find the mother?”
    â€œNot yet, as far as I know. I’m going to be asking around.”
    â€œA word of advice? Stay out of any controversy right now. Let the police handle it. You need to be squeaky clean if you’re going to work for me. Which brings us back to the big question.”
    They were both silent for a moment. Adele didn’t know what to say.
    â€œLook, Adele, I really, really want you for this position. I know you’d be terrific at it. But I need you to want it.”
    â€œI do. I just—I need a little more time to get things in order.”
    â€œHow about you give me your answer at the gala Saturday night? Deal?”
    â€œYes. Deal. Thank you, Steve.”
    â€œYou come to D.C., I’ll be the one thanking you.”
    Adele hung up the phone. She’d just bought herself six more days before she had to come up with a decision. So why didn’t she feel any better?
    Because I still have to tell Jimmy. Every bad thing Adele had faced in her life she’d handled by avoiding the issue and bottling it inside: her childhood traumas growing up with undocumented parents, her financial struggles at Harvard, her failing marriage. Adele had dealt with each by not dealing with it. She could do that largely because she was the recipient of the pain, not the instigator. But here finally was a problem she couldn’t pretend away. She was going to have to face him squarely when she delivered the news. Six days, six weeks—it didn’t matter.
    What mattered was—this time she was the one inflicting the pain.

Chapter 7
    A dele needed to clear her head. So did Sophia. They’d been working on math problems long enough. Outside, the late-afternoon sun had settled like butterscotch over the landscape, and the air carried the scent of cinnamon and fresh-cut wood. The days were getting shorter. Autumn was slipping through their fingers.
    Adele hauled Sophia’s bike out of the garage and pumped some air into the tires. Just a few blocks from their house was a small bodega that sold Good Humor ice cream. Adele and Sophia were both suckers for their Candy Center Crunch Bars.
    Walking into Claudia’s bodega was like stepping into another country. Light filtered through the stalks of green and yellow plantains that dangled from ropes on the ceiling. The air smelled like ripe fruit and strong coffee. There was a sense of treasure and mystery on every shelf, from the colorful peppers shriveled like old lady’s fingers to the rows of strange herbs that traditional healers— curanderos— used to treat a variety of ailments from diabetes to colic.
    There were items one could only find here: cartons of the cinnamon-rice drink horchata . Jars of cashew apple jam. Bins of squash seeds that the Guatemalan women ground up to make a nutty-tasting stew. And there were things one could find elsewhere but that had more meaning in a place like this: dried and salted codfish. Votive candles with the Virgin of Guadalupe etched across them. Beans in every shape and variety. Burlap sacks of rice. Cans of Café Bustelo, the old Cuban-style espresso. Jars of Vicks VapoRub, a staple in every Latin American’s medicine chest. Claudia Aguilar’s store was more than a bodega; it was a safe harbor for people who might never see their home port