“Mom, I’m going down to see Myra,” I told my mother the next morning at ten o’clock. I had found her in her new garden, happily grubbing around and planning her orchidarium and rose garden. She said nothing, only nodded, so I started down the lane.

A woman was watering the flowers in the front yard of the Flores house when I passed. I stopped to admire the African daisies and babies’ breath, all in full bloom. Three rosebushes adorned the center of this miniature garden, and a bougainvillea bush was off to one side with a small bench in its shade. A few pots of dendrobium orchids hung from a low railing and provided a sort of backdrop.

The woman looked to be about Mom’s age, beautiful with unusually fair skin, thick long straight hair with no white strands caught up in a bun, and eyes like Michael’s, only darker like Celia’s. I supposed she was Michael’s mother, and every negative thing I’d heard about her notwithstanding, she seemed to be a good gardener by the looks of her plants, all healthy and blooming profusely.

The woman looked up.

“Oh, good morning, Auntie,” I said, returning the smile. “I was just admiring your flowers. They are so pretty.”

She smiled back, though vaguely.

“Thank you, dear. I haven’t seen you before, but you look familiar. Do you live near here?”

“Yes, Auntie, we moved here just a few days ago.”

“Where?”

“Up there, on the hill.”

“Ah, the old de los Santos place?”

“Yes, Auntie.”

“What did you say your name was, dear?”

“Adriel, Auntie. Adriel de los Santos.”

Her face clouded over briefly.

“Who’s your father?” she asked.

“Alberto, Auntie.”

“Oh, Alberto!” She looked thoughtful. “When did Alberto get married? The last time I saw him, he was still in college. Whom did he marry? Arianna, I suppose, no one else. Why didn’t Alfredo tell me about it? I must remember to ask him the next time he comes.”

It took a few moments for her words to penetrate my brain, but when it did, chills began running down my spine although it was a hot day. Especially when she added, “Imagine, not telling me about his own brother’s wedding!”

My Uncle Alfredo was Dad’s oldest brother and lookalike. But Uncle Freddie had been dead for seventeen years!

“Uh… Auntie… Uncle Freddie’s already dead, isn’t he?” I blurted out, which wasn’t the most tactful thing I’ve ever said in my entire life.