The Spanish Daughter(45)

Staring at his mouth as he drank from his champagne glass, I couldn’t help but remember the first kiss he’d given me, under the shade of the evergreen. There had been more hurried kisses and caresses after that one. Back then, I’d lived in a permanent state of elation. I could’ve never pictured a scenario like this one—a time when I wouldn’t want to run to him and kiss him.

I couldn’t hold his gaze for much longer. How could I possibly explain to my younger self this change of heart? This disenchantment with reality when for so long, I’d relied on clouded, idealized memories when thinking about him?

I still remembered the day Juan left. I couldn’t stand the thought of my life without him. I’d wanted to go after him or hibernate like a bear until it was all over and he would return. But time had run its course and little by little, I’d become interested in other people—new friends—and other activities until there came a time when I wouldn’t think of him at all.

“Please join us for dinner,” my mother announced to all, entering the room, her long gold skirt swishing around her legs.

The guests entered the dining area where several tables had been brought in for the occasion. The meal would certainly be exquisite. That was where my mother put all her efforts when tending to guests.

Juan didn’t move from his spot. Laurent offered his hand to me and I took it immediately. Obviously, there was no comparison between the Frenchman and Juan—not only in looks, but Laurent was so refined, so knowledgeable that Juan seemed like a caveman in contrast. I glanced back at him nonetheless. Juan set his glass on the coffee table, but instead of following us to the dining room, he turned toward the front door.

“Excuse me for a moment, Laurent,” I said, disentangling my arm from his.

I wasn’t thinking straight. I just had a sudden urge to talk to Juan.

“Juan!” I said, as he opened the door to leave. “Wait!”

I followed him to the porch. He continued down the steps.

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” he said, without turning.

“But you haven’t had dinner yet.”

“So what? I’d rather eat a plant than stand another minute in the midst of so much arrogance.”

“That’s such an unkind thing to say!”

He finally turned, but I could barely see his features under the dim light.

“And it’s not unkind to ignore a guest, a . . . friend you haven’t seen in seven years?”

“I was busy!”

“Yes.” He raised his arms as he spoke. “I saw.”

Somewhere in the hardened features of the man standing in front of me, I could see the softness of the teenager I’d once loved. But I couldn’t recognize him anymore. It was the saddest feeling I’d ever had, a sense of loss that was indescribable.

“It’s been too long,” I said. “You were gone for too long.”

“I had to.” His voice softened a notch. “But I never forgot you.”

A couple of years ago I would’ve said the same thing to him, but I couldn’t now. Not when I was standing in front of a stranger. Oh, why did he have to come back now when I’d already forgotten him?

“Go back to your rich friends, to your fancy new beau.” He turned to leave. “I won’t bother you anymore.”





CHAPTER 23

Puri

April 1920



My father’s grave was exactly where Don Pepe, the caveman, had told me—in the heart of the plantation, where he’d asked to be buried. I hadn’t been this close to my father’s body since I was two years old. And yet, I’d never been more distant.

“Hola, Papá,” I said aloud, not finding a better place to sit than on top of the grave where he rested. “I hope I’m not squashing you.”

Someone had brought him hyacinths, but it must have been weeks or months ago because they’d dried completely and drooped hopelessly into a sea of dead petals.

Strange. The grave was so close to the house. Why wouldn’t anybody visit? Were they this resentful about the will?

I brushed the petals onto the ground.

“Well, I’m finally here,” I said, “trying to sort out the mess you left.” I looked around me. The tree branches seem to lean over me to listen. “I wish you wouldn’t have raised such greedy children. Well, one greedy child.”

I ran my fingers over my father’s engraved name.

“Not only greedy, but evil.” That was the only adjective I could use to describe what they’d done to Cristóbal.

I’d been thinking about my siblings last night. Catalina seemed incapable of any bad deeds. So she smoked. That only meant she wasn’t perfect, or the town’s saint, like everybody claimed, but simply human and as such, flawed. Alberto, well, why would he want to kill me when he’d renounced his fortune? And besides, why would he need money in the seminary? Unless he was planning to get out. I couldn’t help but remember our conversation about good vs. evil. Was there something I wasn’t seeing? So far, the only person who seemed capable of harm was Angélica. After all, she had a snake in her room; a snake who happened to find its way to my bed.

But there was a hole in this theory. Nothing seemed to link Angélica to Franco or the check. The only thing remotely interesting in her drawer had been the photograph of an unknown girl.