The Spanish Daughter(10)

For once, I was glad to have alcohol within my reach. I needed it. I took a shot that burned my throat on its way down, and turned to all the faces around the room, resisting the urge to blurt out accusations. One of them was responsible for the death of my Cristóbal, and yet, they behaved as noble, concerned family members, as though they cared about my fate. The only thing they might regret was not killing us both.

“Would you like something to eat, Don Cristóbal?” Angélica asked me.

“No, I’m fine.”

My face was flushed, I could feel it. I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees, and the silence became intolerable. I could tear off my spectacles and beard, shout my name, and demand to know who killed my husband.

But things weren’t so simple.

While Laurent and my sisters sat complacently across from me, Martin stretched to reach for another bottle in the cupboard. His jacket sagged open, revealing the menacing handle of a revolver.

If I became a nuisance, who’s to say that he wouldn’t shoot me? It would be convenient to all of my father’s descendants. Nobody in this land knew who I was or had any affection for me. They could always pay off the lawyer. He owed me nothing. In fact, he’d known of our travel arrangements in detail—Cristóbal had sent him telegrams from Spain and Cuba. Anyone here could’ve bribed him to send a mercenary to dispose of this Spanish daughter, this pest coming to claim part of the Lafont estate.

I used to think that people were innately good. The Puri that grew up in Sevilla and befriended everyone in the neighborhood wouldn’t have believed for a minute that this seemingly honorable group was capable of hurting her. But that Puri was long gone, she’d stayed behind in those Caribbean waters.

The taste of alcohol filled my mouth.

Aquilino removed a manila envelope from his briefcase, wiped his forehead and neck for good measure, and pulled out a stack of papers.

“Well,” he said. “Let’s talk about the issue at hand, Don Armand’s inheritance.”





CHAPTER 4

One week earlier



My mother always said that men were only useful when they were gone. After Cristóbal got lost in the Caribbean waters, the nostalgia of our lives together enveloped me like a cloak. There was not an hour, not a minute of the day, that I didn’t think of him.

I kept reliving those last moments on the deck as though thinking about them would change anything. I should have hit the man before he stabbed Cristóbal. I should have jumped behind my husband and saved him from drowning. I should have. I should have. And then, after I was done tormenting myself for what I didn’t do, I would try to convince myself that I did the right thing. I’d called for help immediately after Cristóbal’s head got swallowed by a wave. I’d pressured the captain to stop the ship. I’d volunteered to go with the search team in one of the lifeboats. (The captain, however, denied my request. It was too dangerous for a woman, he said.) I’d stayed on the deck until dawn, my gaze fixed on the unrelenting waters, hoping to catch a glimpse of my husband.

They’d searched for hours, shining bright lights on the water’s surface, calling out his name. But they couldn’t find him or the vile man who had killed him. The captain offered me the consolation that my husband must have died a quick death. He probably didn’t suffer, he said, with that wound you mention. He probably lost consciousness from the loss of blood.

Yes, that was my consolation. He must not have suffered.

Except that he never would’ve died had I not brought him to this wretched ship. Had I not fought with him that evening, he would’ve spent the night sleeping on top of the metal keys of his typewriter instead of in the bottom of the ocean.

Had I not, had I not.

I’d yelled at the captain when they stopped the search. I’d demanded they keep looking. I told him we were important people in Spain. Filthy rich. Plantation owners. We would pay him with gold, with land, if he found my Cristóbal. But when none of the yelling, the promises, or the threats worked, I begged. The man, his face tan, his mustache covering his upper lip, managed a sad smile and placed his hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s nothing else we can do. Your husband is with Our Lord now.”

“How do you know?” I said, bitterly. His eyes widened a bit. I bet he’d never heard a blasphemy of this caliber coming from a Spanish woman before.

But instead of a look of reproach or a curt dismissal, he gently squeezed my shoulder and nodded.

The truth was I didn’t want to think about where Cristóbal might be right now. None of the possibilities sounded good. They were downright horrific. Decomposing at the bottom of the ocean. Eaten by sharks. Bloated. Purple. I shut my eyes. I’d rather think of him coming back to me, somehow reemerging from the water and climbing the ten, fifteen meters from the waterline to the deck.

How I longed to hear the tapping of his keys now, but his precious typewriter had fallen silent since Cristóbal’s disappearance, six torturous days ago. Had he thought about his novel in those last moments, about the fact that he would never finish it?

What I wouldn’t give to trip over his boots in the dark.

Yes, my mother had been right about men. You only appreciated their virtues after they were gone.

Straightening my back, I knocked on the captain’s door.