The Spanish Daughter(5)

“You’re the one who suggested that I write my novel during the trip.”

“Yes, but is that all you’re going to do, Cristóbal? Write your novel all day and all night? You barely eat, and when you do, it’s in haste. I’ve spent this entire trip by myself.”

He shrugged. “I can’t help it if I’m feeling inspired.”

“And I don’t inspire you? You haven’t touched me since before. . .”

A woman with a mink coat glanced at us.

Cristóbal coughed, his cheeks a deep red. “I don’t think this is the right place to talk about this.”

There were two couples nearby. I didn’t care what they heard. In fact, it might be better. Perhaps their presence would motivate Cristóbal to stay, at least to avoid a scandal. Besides, I was tired of always avoiding the subjects that made him uncomfortable. I resented that he never mentioned my last miscarriage—my third one so far—as if it had never happened, as if that baby had never existed.

“I’m already doing what you wanted. Am I not?” he said.

He had a point there. I’d been the one who insisted that we sell everything in Spain, including my beloved chocolate shop, and that he travel with me to Ecuador to claim my inheritance—whatever that patrimony entailed. I’d used every tactic in my arsenal: how much this war had devastated Europe, how our shop was losing money, and my last resource: how this trip would be the perfect opportunity for him to write that novel he’d been dreaming about his entire life. But instead of letting it go, I pushed him further.

“Yes, but you make it seem like I did it for my own benefit.” I couldn’t control the volume of my voice anymore. “I did it for us!”

“Why couldn’t you be happy with what we had? Why did you need more?”

“Are you serious? What did you want me to do with my inheritance? Give it away? Forgive me for looking out for our well-being. Forgive me for wanting to get us out of that tiny apartment and move to a splendid plantation in one of the top exporting countries in the world!”

“Oh, don’t even start with that. I know all about that plantation. You’ve talked about nothing else since we received that damned letter! You’re just like your father, crazed with ambition.”

“You never even knew my father. I barely remember him!”

“It’s what your mother said.”

I didn’t want to hear about my mother either. This trip had made me miss her even more—I thought about her every day.

“Look, Puri,” Cristóbal said, softening his voice. “I don’t want to argue with you. Not here. I promise I will be more available later, but now, be a good girl and let me get back to my novel.”

He kissed my forehead, as though I were a four-year-old with a temper tantrum.

I took a step back. “Don’t touch me!”

I’d spent an hour fixing my chestnut hair just right, reapplying my face powder—my poudre de riz—and choosing a lavender sequin dress that exposed my entire back. And this was what I got from my husband? A fraternal kiss? If he didn’t look at me now that I was twenty-eight years old, what would happen when I turned thirty?

“Let’s talk about this later,” Cristóbal muttered as more people turned to look. “When you’re calmer.”

“No. Let’s talk about it now.”

Cristóbal let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re being unreasonable, Puri.”

Unreasonable? I couldn’t even formulate a response. I would’ve probably insulted him if I did. I turned around and dashed out of the foyer, away from this man who had the power to infuriate me like no one else.

I climbed the ladder that led to the deck and darted forward without looking back. I didn’t want Cristóbal to see my tears. I took in quick breaths, cool air clashing against my cheeks and a crescent moon over my head. I gripped the taffrail at the end of the ship.

Unreasonable, he’d said.

The black waters smashed against the hull—the sea could be so intimidating. My breathing slowed as my eyes focused on the hypnotic waves.

I supposed I was being a little obstinate. Normally, I wasn’t this demanding with Cristóbal. In Sevilla, I had many friends to keep me entertained. I didn’t need his constant attention. But I had no one else here. I’d been lonely for a week already and I was nervous about what awaited us in Ecuador. I needed his reassurance that everything would be all right. Had I made a mistake by giving away everything we had to chase after a dream—my father’s dream?

If only Cristóbal and I weren’t so different. Whereas he could live the rest of his days in a blissful immersion of his books, I couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes. In the beginning of our marriage, I couldn’t stand the long afternoons cross-stitching or mending socks while listening to the ticking of the clock marking the slow hours until dinnertime. The walls in our apartment suffocated me. Chocolate had been my salvation. From a young age, my grandmother—whom I’d been named after—had taught me all there was to know about chocolate. From how to transform the hard cacao beans into a silky, smooth liquid to learning what ingredients to mix in order to create a variety of textures and flavors that could be both pleasurable and addictive.

It had been my idea to transform the old bookstore, which had belonged to Cristóbal’s father and grandfather, into a chocolate house. It was the most fashionable thing, it would bring some cachet to the neighborhood, I told him. And people would pay for my chocolate drinks and truffles. After all, chocolaterías were the fad in France—and my people wanted so much the prestige and status of the French.