The Spanish Daughter(21)

“Don Cristóbal,” Angélica said. “This is my brother, Padre Alberto.”

“Delighted,” he said, setting his glass of water down.

I nodded in return. He stared at me. Too intently. He was a lean man with lengthy arms, like mine, and sunken hazel eyes. He gave an aura of ease that contrasted with Angélica’s constant fidgeting.

I took a seat in an empty spot across from Catalina and Martin. To my left was Angélica’s husband, Laurent, and to my right, the priest. Laurent served me a glass of wine. It seemed I had interrupted a conversation and the silence in the room was making me nervous. I inadvertently touched my chin to make sure my beard was still in place.

Martin was also staring—did he live here, too? I found his presence unnerving, knowing he carried a gun with him. The only one who didn’t seem threatening was Catalina, who watched me with a kind smile as she dabbed her mouth with a napkin.

Maybe I should’ve stayed in Vinces. Or maybe I should have hired someone to protect me as I stormed into the hacienda to claim my inheritance. But where in this remote land would I find this someone? Certainly not in the newspaper.

“Quiere cacao, quiere cacao,” the cockatoo recited.

It took me a minute to understand what she was saying.

“Here, Ramona, but be quiet, dear, we have guests.” Angélica picked some kind of bean from a tiny bowl by her plate and fed it to the bird.

“Quiere cacao, quiere cacao.”

Wants cacao? Yes, that’s what she’d said. Angélica was feeding her cacao beans. As hard to find and expensive as they were in Spain and this woman wasted them on a bird.

“Angélica, honestly, does Ramona have to be with you even at dinnertime?” Catalina said.

Angélica frowned. “Nobody asked your opinion.”

“Come on, hermanas, be nice. Our brother-in-law is here,” the priest said.

Brother-in-law? Oh, yes. Me.

“Don Cristóbal,” Alberto said, “I’m looking forward to learning about your country. I’ve always wanted to go to Spain. It must be so different.”

“It is,” I said, “Andalucía is a lot drier.”

“Is it true there are fortress cities all around?”

“Some.”

“And windmills, like in Don Quijote?” Alberto said.

“Yes, and rows and rows of olive trees.”

“Fascinating,” he said.

“If you like olives,” Catalina said, grimacing.

“Father used to love them,” Angélica said with a distant voice. “He always teased Catalina that it was better that she didn’t like them because they were so expensive and hard to have shipped to this part of the world. We usually get them from Perú.”

I didn’t comment. Not that I didn’t want to hear about my father, but to learn about these cozy moments between him and my sisters bothered me. It reminded me of everything I’d missed.

I pulled crab meat from one of the legs. Another advantage of being a man was that you could eat with your hands and nobody looked at you twice. My sisters, on the other hand, had to use forks and knives to remove what little meat they could from the carcass.

Martin brought up the subject of the city’s celebrations coming up.

“You should stay, Don Cristóbal,” Catalina said. “There are a lot of amusing activities during that week.”

“What’s the celebration for?” I asked.

“The foundation of Vinces,” Martin said.

I wasn’t in the mood for celebrations, honestly, but my husband would’ve probably enjoyed this colloquial tradition. Plus, it could buy me some time. “I suppose it could be inspirational for my book,” I said.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Laurent pitched in. “It’s all very archaic if you ask me.”

“Archaic or not,” Martin said, “it would be a good opportunity to mingle with foreign buyers.”

“I agree,” I said, unable to suppress my opinion; this was going to be my business, too.

Martin gazed at me.

“You know what would bring some cachet to the festivities?” Laurent told his wife. “A regatta.”

“A regatta?” Martin said. “How is that going to sell cacao beans?”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to bring in foreign buyers? Regattas are the fad in Europe.”

“Who said we wanted to be like Europeans?”

“Martin, please,” Angélica said, then squeezed Laurent’s hand. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, mon amour.”

“A regatta. I like the sound of that,” my brother said. “Perhaps the Church should have its own team, too. The exercise would do a lot of good to some of its heavier members. Perhaps Father Telmo could be team captain.” He winked at me, patting his flat stomach.

“Alberto!” Catalina said. “That’s not a very Christian thing to say.”

“Relax, hermanita. The Virgin likes jokes, too.”

“Quiere cacao, quiere cacao.”

“Julia!” Angélica said. “More cacao for Ramona, please.”

Julia entered carrying tiny cups of coffee for all. “There’s no more cacao.”