The Spanish Daughter(60)

I glanced at Catalina, whose cheeks turned slightly pink, but she didn’t utter a word.

“Franco? What does he have to do with this gentleman?” Angélica said. She seemed so oblivious to Franco’s connection to me that for the first time I questioned if she had anything to do with Cristóbal’s murder.

Either that, or she was an excellent actress.

“This gentleman promised to help me find him.”

I scratched my forehead. I’d forgotten all about Soledad’s request. Not that I was seriously considering contacting the police about a missing man. If anything, I would accuse him of killing my husband.

“I said I would help her, but I’m no detective,” I told my sisters. “I offered to talk to the police since Do?a Soledad said they won’t listen to her.”

“I just didn’t know who else to turn to”—Soledad looked at Angélica—“since you didn’t want to help.”

Angélica didn’t want to help?

“It’s not that I didn’t want to help, Soledad, don’t be stupid. But I told you, Franco is a grown man. I don’t see what is so strange about a man leaving this place to find new opportunities. I’m sure he’ll be back.”

“He didn’t move away, Do?a Angélica. He left all his things, and besides, he said he would be back right away.”

“Soledad, don’t be so innocent, men are like that. They don’t need a lot of things to start over somewhere else. I’m sure he found something or someone interesting wherever he went that is keeping him away.”

I had a strange reaction to Angélica’s words. I used to make the same assumptions about men. In a lot of ways, I still did. But the more I impersonated Cristóbal, the more it affected my psyche. I almost took offense at Angélica’s comment; the way she trivialized men and bundled them all together as if they were one entity. Living as a man was having strange effects on me. For one, it was forcing me to see them as individuals. Cristóbal and Martin, for example, were different in so many ways I could no longer subscribe to the “all men are the same” mentality.

Catalina removed the measuring tape from her neck, her eyes on the floor, and she turned toward the sewing room. I wanted to follow her in, but what would I say? I spoke before she entered the room.

“You’re right, Do?a Soledad. I made you a promise that I didn’t fulfill. Let’s go right now to the police station and report Franco’s disappearance.”

“You don’t have to do such a thing, Don Cristóbal,” Angélica said. “I can’t believe you’ve been bothering our guest with your problems, Soledad. I’ll take you myself.” She turned to the maid. “Julia, have her wait for me in the kitchen while I change.” With her hands in her pockets, Angélica headed for the stairs while Julia escorted Soledad to the kitchen.

This was my opportunity to talk to Catalina about Franco. I went into the sewing room.

“Are you all right, Do?a Catalina?”

She was now sitting behind her sewing machine.

“You look pale,” I said.

“I’m fine.” She rested her hands on the fabric she was about to sew. “That just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“Why? Did you know Soledad’s son?”

She averted her gaze. “Of course, his father worked here for years. They lived by the creek.”

“Was he . . .” I dragged a chair in front of her and sat down. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“He used to be.”

“And what happened?” I was having palpitations, sweaty hands. Was Catalina the woman Franco had been in love with? The woman who’d asked him that perverse favor?

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I think I know what this is about,” I said, taking a gamble.

Her eyes widened.

“He was an admirer of yours, wasn’t he? I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you are a beautiful woman. I’m sure a lot of men would like to be with you.”

“You think”—she blushed again—“you think I’m beautiful?”

“Of course. I can’t believe you would even doubt it.”

She smiled coyly. “I will admit that Franco and I were close, but that was years ago, that was before, before . . .” She squeezed Angélica’s dress.

“The fire?”

“Even before that.”

I reached out for her hand. “Sometimes it’s better to talk about those things that upset us or give us grief. You may find that it relieves your soul.”

The moment her tears started trailing down her face, I knew she was ready to talk.





CHAPTER 30

Catalina Vinces, 1919



The paper trembled in my hands. Franco’s handwriting, still childlike, was unmistakable to me—his Ms looked more like crashed spider legs than letters—but I’d given up on his penmanship years ago.

“Meet me at the creek,” the note said, “I have something for you.”

Franco had been acting strange lately. For years, I’d cherished his companionship. There were not a lot of people our age in this area and those who lived nearby ignored us. We were the outcasts, the eccentric ones. My sister had already gotten married to Laurent and only talked to me during our rehearsals. Juan, or Martin as he liked to be called now, was always busy with my father, and after the Virgin pilgrimage, I never saw Elisa again.