From Barcelona, with Love by Elizabeth Adler Page A

you.”
    â€œShe’s in the kitchen, Buena’s feeding her cookies, I suppose. She’ll spoil her to death.”
    â€œWell, somebody should take care of her,” Lorenza said briskly.
    She was still not quite sure how it had worked out that Bibi’s daughter lived with Jassy, though in fact it was Lorenza’s own fault because it was she who had asked Jassy to fly to Los Angeles and bring Paloma “home” to Spain, while Bibi was under suspicion of the murders.
    When they’d got back Jassy told her how Paloma had cried when she kissed her mother goodbye, such loud tearing sobs it had almost broken Jassy’s own heart.
    Jassy still remembered that journey vividly. She’d torn Paloma away from her mother, driven her to the airport in a rented bright blue Porsche followed by a squadron of motorcycle paparazzi that she’d dodged like an expert, simply dumping the car outside Arrivals and calling the rental company to come and pick it up.
    She’d dragged the reluctant seven-year-old into Starbucks, bought her a chocolate frappucino and a giant chocolate-chip cookie, taken her into the store and stocked her up with teen magazines and candy, bought her a gray sweatshirt that said FLY L.A. in pink fluorescent script on the front, tied the laces on her red Converse high-tops for her, held the frappucino and the rest of the stuff while Paloma went to the bathroom, then fled into the Admirals Club where she ordered a large vodka martini and tried to take her mind off her niece’s sobbing, as Paloma gulped down the frothy iced drink.
    â€œListen, chiquita, ” Jassy had said finally, when she could bear it no longer. “I’m your aunt. I’m going to be taking care of you until your mother gets back.”
    Paloma’s soulful, red-rimmed eyes, shiny as autumn chestnuts, sought hers. “Come back from where ?” she’d asked. “ This is home.”
    For once Jassy had been lost for words. What could you say to a child whose mother might well be going to jail for murder?
    â€œWell, anyway, you’re going to live with me until Bibi gets back,” she’d said finally. “And that’s that. So, let me mop up your tears, and I’ll tell you all the fun things we’re going to do together. You’re going to love living with me, Paloma, we’ll travel the world, you’ll go to all the parties, you’ll know everybody. ”
    â€œWhat about school?”
    â€œI’ll get you a tutor … a governess, she’ll teach you to speak Spanish properly.”
    â€œI already speak it a little,” Paloma said. “Mom never does, but our Mexican housekeeper always speaks to me in Spanish.”
    â€œThen all we have to do is polish it up a bit.” Jassy beamed her wonderful smile, drawing little devastated Paloma into her magic circle. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you,” she’d said, hugging her.
    And Paloma, breathing in Dior’s Poison, thought she might quite like that.
    Later, Jassy regretted promising to take Paloma under her carefree wing, but despite Lorenza insisting Paloma go to live with her at the de Ravel bodega, nothing could change Paloma’s mind.
    â€œI want to live with Aunt Jassy,” she’d said firmly.
    So that’s where Paloma had lived for the past two years, ever since she’d left her mom, frightened. Even though then-seven-year-old Paloma had not understood why she was frightened—at the big Hollywood Hills house, with the photographers parked outside the gates so Paloma couldn’t go to school, where anyhow the kids all talked behind her back and the teachers frowned at her.
    But that final image of her mother had never left Paloma, or Jassy. Bibi had looked so small and alone and Paloma felt as though somehow their roles had been reversed; somehow she had become the mother and Bibi the child. It haunted her days and her dreams, even