The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (67)

“What can I do?” Orquídea asked. “I’m no one.”

“You do not have to be. I could hear your wish from far away. It is what made me call to you.”

She shook her head. “I never made a wish.”

“You did not speak it out loud, but it was in your heart. It was in Bolívar’s heart, too. I knew his true love would free me from this place.”

She thought of Bolívar. Her Bolívar upstairs with a room full of women. Every time she blinked they multiplied. She found the courage to laugh. “I am not his true love.”

“Oh, but you are.” The light around him pulsed. “That is perhaps the cruelest part of it.”

“If I am his true love, why would I do that?”

“Because I can give you what he never will,” the Living Star said, letting the words hang between them. “My freedom for a taste of my power.”

She smelled something burn, then looked down at the hiss of his skin against the iron. She swallowed the scream that swelled within her as the storage door slammed open.

“You’re not supposed to be in here!” Lucho shouted, breathless as he barreled in. “Boss wants to see you.”

Orquídea might have been born unlucky, born poor, born a bastard, but she was not born to take orders. Not anymore. She raised her head high and imagined her entire body was made of iron, of steel. “There’s a poster with my face on it. Tell him to start there.”

She heard the haunting chime of the Living Star, followed by a scream as she stormed out. She ran down the damp streets of Amsterdam. Gas lamps lit her way along dark, humid canals until she found the pub where her friends were. She stayed with them until dawn broke but kept her ugly shame to herself. She was surprised to find that there was no amount of absinthe or cigarettes that could cure her of Bolívar Londo?o.

When she finally went back to her hotel, he was there, sitting outside the door of her suite. She didn’t know how long he’d been there, but he was asleep. He smelled clean, at the very least. She wondered if he’d showered alone. She wondered too many things.

She kicked him awake.

“Orquídea!” Bolívar Londo?o III got on his knees and stopped just shy of touching her. She shut her eyes. The steel was leaving her. How could she protect her heart from brittle things? She was the brittle thing. She didn’t have a “Lucho” to look out for her.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t say my name. Don’t look at me. Leave.”

He pressed his palms together in supplication. “Those girls were a gift from the Baron Amarand. They meant nothing to me. I—I just couldn’t refuse him. He’s given us so much.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against her door. “Then return to your gift, Se?or Londo?o.”

“They meant nothing,” he repeated.

But she should have known. When a man dismisses other women as nothing, he would eventually do the same to her.

“You said that, Bolívar.”

He looked pained when she said his name like that. Without the usual love or admiration. He raked his hair away from his eyes. Her belly gave a tight squeeze at the smell of him—lemongrass and sandalwood and smoke.

“The day I met you,” he said, “I knew that you’d been sent to me by the stars. You were the one I’d been waiting for because I wished for you, my dearest love. My truest love. And now that I have you, I’ll never let you go. I never want to hurt you again.”

He grasped her hand, and she was foolish enough to let him take it. She thought he was trying to stand, but he was only shifting. Getting on one knee. He brandished a round pale sapphire set in gold. “Marry me, Divina.”

Stunned, she got down on her knees to better look into his eyes, and said, “There’s something you should know. Bad luck follows me around. It’s attached to me. Stitched to my skin. I believe it now. You might be part of that curse.”

“We will make our own luck, Orquídea. Mi divina. Mi vida. Will you marry me?”

She should have said no. Should have known that the world never punished greedy men for their ill-gotten wishes. Instead she said, “I will.”

She let him slide the ring on her slender finger, and led him inside. They shared a kiss that made her forget the last several hours. She rewrote the evening so that she saw only him, on his knee, presenting her with a ring. He tasted like licorice and mint, and when he made love to her, he repeated, “you are mine. You are mine.”

Later, while he slept, she heard that voice again. The Living Star, calling out to her.

I will be here when you change your mind.





21

A HIGHLY IMPROBABLE BUT WELCOME COINCIDENCE




After scattering Félix Montoya’s ashes, they stopped by a farmer’s market unlike any Marimar had ever seen. While Jefita did the shopping, Ana Cruz was their guide through the busy rows of vendors. Raw meat hung from metal hooks, chickens, by their feet. Neat blocks of blue crabs were stacked like crustacean citadels. Bushels of corn and fresh herbs. Avocados so large they looked like footballs. Bins of dates and towers of coconuts. Ana Cruz treated them to fresh coconuts. A slender man, who introduced himself as Ewel from Esmeraldas, hacked open the tops with a sharp machete, jammed a straw in, and offered Marimar a straight, white smile she was happy to return. The sensory overload of it all was strangely familiar. Everywhere Marimar turned, she tried to imagine a young Orquídea walking ahead of her.