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Prologue
Julieta
When I was eightyears old, I got to watch my grandmother compete for the first time. She had traveled to the States for a tango competition —one that was local to us—and I sat there completely captivated.
Everybody will tell you that Celestina Rossi was captivating when she danced. That was the word. When she walked out onto that stage everybody knew they were in the presence of somebody great.
My mother insisted that we were all going to go see her. We got dressed up, and it felt like a rare special event. I got to wear my new outfit and lace-up canvas shoes. My brother was bored, of course, but he was only five.
I couldn’t help but fall completely in love with what I was watching. It was like she glided on air. Her moves were swift but purposeful. She was strong but delicate.
Strong legs, graceful arms. Powerful, mesmerizing and so glamorous.
Her lips were painted a deep wine red —her signature—and she wore a dress that swayed every time she moved, almostas if it was dancing with her, trying to keep up. Facundo, my grandfather and her longtime dance partner, danced with her, too, leading her gracefully.
I watched them take perfect steps across the floor. I sat silently watching their bodies entwined as they moved forward and back, from one end of the dance floor to the other. She danced like she loved: with abandon, with passion, with feeling.
From the corner of my eye, I caught my mother looking at me curiously, but I was too hypnotized to look away. I felt frozen, trapped in the beauty of what I was witnessing, completely succumbed to the music.
And in that moment, at that table, in a tango championship watching my grandmother dance a beautiful dance, I thought,I want to be her when I grow up.
But I was eight. What did I know anyway?
I grew up to be a lawyer instead.
Chapter one
Julieta
“Yes, I’ll get startedon that first thing.”
I haven’t taken more than ten steps into the building before Barbara Prescott, my boss at Prescott and Associates, throws demands my way. She’s in her office, huddled over her desk, elbow deep in paperwork already.
“I’m also going to need those appellate briefs, plus the summary judgment motion for the Warner case,” she says in her no-nonsense tone.
I add it to my mental to-do list, walking briskly to my office.
“Morning, Jim,” I call out as I pass by Jim Haskell’s office, senior associate at the firm, his door wide open.
“Morning, Julie.”
My office is towards the back of the building, the one where the air conditioner doesn’t quite reach some days. The one where I can at least do my work in peace.
The stark white walls keep in theme with how I’ve managed to decorate. Functional and efficient and just enough ofsomethingto give this room a little indication that it’s mine. A couple of family pictures, a plant that my mother gave me that I’ve hadto research to learn the best watering practices, a stock framed photo I found at TJMaxx once. Not like, say, Larissa’s with a bowl of candy and big vases with flowers and a bright painting and pictures of her sisters. Figurines and little knickknacks and an abundance of joy.
Larissa Post, paralegal at the firm, comes in shortly after. “Morning,” she calls out. Her vibrant curls match the vibrant office she’s so perfectly curated. Tight, gorgeous ringlets in a lush strawberry blonde.
“Hey, Larissa,” I say from behind my desk. “How’s it going?”
“Had a shit date,” she replies, dejected. “How are you?”
“Oh no. Again?” I boot up my computer as we chat.
“It’s fucking brutal out there. No wonder you don’t want to date.”
“Who said I don’t want to date?” I brush my long brown hair off my shoulder.
“Oh, please.” She laughs.
