The Spanish Daughter(33)

My mother never forgave her for that. Until the day she died, she blamed my grandmother for the loss of my father. Mamá said it hurt even more than losing her first husband to illness because there was no finality with my father, just waiting and longing.

As I glanced around the dining room, I asked where Martin was. Catalina informed me, in that angelic voice of hers, that he lived in a house between Vinces and the plantation, which he’d inherited from his father.

After finishing his meal, Laurent excused himself, saying he was due to play Corazones with the region’s ranchers. “It’s the only thing he likes about Vinces,” Angélica said. “Cards, celebrations, and bird-watching.”

Involuntarily, I glanced at Ramona, who was picking at the cacao beans on her plate.

Julia entered the room and asked Angélica if she could collect our plates. As usual, she only spoke to her. It was odd how Julia asked Angélica’s permission for Every Single Thing. I knew Angélica was the oldest, but it appeared as if she was purposely ignoring Catalina.

What a relief when both of my sisters excused themselves, claiming exhaustion, and left me alone in the dining room. After the table was empty and the maids busied themselves washing dishes, I ventured into the house’s lower level.

My mission? To find out connections, papers, signatures. Something to give me clarity about what had transpired after my father’s death.

There were a few rooms surrounding the central patio. I peeked through the windows. One was a sewing room with a machine, a cutting table, and piles of fabric on top. There was a music room with a pianoforte and a phonograph, and the last room was a study.

My father’s study?

I glanced over my shoulder and opened the door. The lantern in the hall cast light inside the room. I picked up an oil lamp from the desk and explored the space. There were two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves harboring what appeared to be an encyclopedia and several books in French.

On the cherrywood desk sat a wooden cigar box and a miniature sailboat. I opened the side drawers. There were several documents with my father’s signature, which appeared to be the same from the check. There was also an accounting ledger from last year. The bottom drawer, which was larger than the top two, was locked. I opened the center drawer to find the key, but aside from fountain pens and other office supplies, there was nothing of interest except for a leather-bound notebook. I pulled it out and sifted through the pages. It was a journal, it seemed, dated years ago.

I glanced at the door. How long did I have? Nervously, I flipped to the beginning of the notebook.

My father must have started this journal when he first acquired the plantation as he’d written observations about the vegetation found on the hacienda, the plants’ growth cycle during the seasons, a list of buyers, and other work-related information. As I turned the pages, I found charts, prices, and a variety of drawings of cacao pods and leaves. I was about to shut it when something caught my attention. Toward the end of the book, the writing was upside down. I shut the notebook and opened it from the back. Sure enough, he’d started another kind of journal from the back. On this one, there were long passages in French. I’d sat down to read when I heard a noise by the door.

I dropped the notebook inside the drawer as the door swung open.

“Don Cristóbal? What are you doing here?”

“Do?a Angélica, you scared me! I apologize for my impertinence. I was just looking for some reading material as I suffer from chronic insomnia. I should have asked you.”

She strolled into the room, looking at our father’s desk.

“Please, help yourself. My father had some novels there.” She pointed at the lower level of one of the bookshelves, which was nowhere near where I stood. “I have to tell you, though, my father was very particular about his things. He didn’t let me or anybody else touch them. He was organized to a fault and one of his last dying wishes was that his encyclopedia and his book collection remained intact. He would’ve been cross if he found you here.”

I headed for the bookshelf.

“Again, I apologize. This shall never happen again.” Now how could I manage to take the notebook with me with Angélica’s eyes scrutinizing my every move?

“Aha! The Count of Monte Cristo.” I slid the book from the shelf. “I’ve always wanted to read it.”

“You’re welcome to it.”

I refrained from turning toward my father’s desk as I crept to the door. Angélica waited for me by the threshold, her hand on the knob. As soon as I walked out, she shut the door.





CHAPTER 17

Today I was going to prove my manhood to Don Martin.

I’d run into him in the morning after breakfast while taking a walk by the plantation. He’d disposed of his usual jacket and tie and had his shirt rolled up all the way to his elbows and long rubber boots over his pants.

“Want to come fishing?” he said.

“Right now?” I asked.

“It’s what Sundays are for.”

“Not church?” I said.

“This is my church,” he said, pointing at the vegetation around us.

I couldn’t say I disagreed. I accepted his invitation, mostly out of a desire to find out from him who was the mysterious woman dating Franco. I had a feeling that Martin knew a lot more than he let on about the foreman’s son.