The Spanish Daughter(76)

I lifted an eyebrow.

“I do.” He flashed a smile—it was disarming.

“And you go out with numerous women.”

He turned serious. “Not really, Puri. I may have exaggerated my amorous conquests some, just to test you, back when I didn’t know if you were—”

“Including those women?” I pointed my chin toward the door, where the prostitutes had just walked through.

“Including those women.”

“What about your family?”

Martin sat back. “We should go. They’re about to close.”

I was starting to think it was no coincidence that Martin always avoided going into details about his past.

*

Martin offered to drop me at the hacienda, but I thought it would be strange for two men to ride a horse together.

“Nobody’s watching,” he said.

It was dark outside and the weather had finally cooled down. I hadn’t realized until I stepped out of the bar how dizzy I was. People often said it was the cold air that got you drunk, not the alcohol. I never believed it—until now.

“No, I’ll go back with my sisters.” My speech was slurred.

“They probably left already. It’s one in the morning.”

I noticed then that the crowd had already dispersed. How unkind of me not to tell my sisters I was leaving the party with Martin.

I hesitated, but climbed on the back of his horse, Melchor, nonetheless. I did my best not to touch Martin, and instead, rested my hands on the horse’s rear, attempting to hold my balance as the animal started to move.

My arms and legs were so stiff they started to get sore. Worse yet, the ride was making me dizzier—I couldn’t go on. Martin said I could stay at his house; he had a spare bedroom I could use. I agreed, mostly because I feared that if I continued on that horse, I would end up retching every piece of food I’d consumed in the last two days. When I climbed off of Melchor, the world spun all around me. Martin helped me into the house, which was quiet and dark.

I nearly tripped on one of the steps and yelped.

“Shhh, Mayra is already asleep,” Martin said.

With Martin’s arm around my waist and my arm over his shoulders, we walked up the stairs. He led me to a room at the end of the hall, where I noticed a portrait of a man that looked like an older version of Martin. I pointed at it.

“That was my father,” he said.

There were still things I wanted to ask about his parents, but I couldn’t produce any words. He set me on the bed and helped me remove my jacket and my boots. Then, he stood up.

“Well, have a good night,” he said.

“Wait,” I said with a hiccup. “Would you help me remove this?” I pointed at my corset. “I can hardly breathe with it.”

Suffocated by the dense air around me, I unbuttoned Cristóbal’s shirt. I might have choked if I didn’t remove the pressure from my breasts right away. Gently, Martin assisted me in unwrapping the fabric around my chest until I was left in Cristóbal’s undergarments. After I removed my facial hair, something came over me, something I couldn’t explain. It could’ve been his scent—a blend of sweat and alcohol masked under his citric cologne; or maybe the fact that I’d been alone for too long and I yearned to be embraced, or the way Martin had watched me all evening—and was watching me now that I no longer looked like a man. Whatever it might have been, I didn’t care. I clasped my fingers around his neck and brought his face down toward mine. Off came my glasses, the buttons of my undergarment, his shirt. We kissed with the urgency of two people who’d been thirsty for too long and had finally stumbled upon a glass of water. Martin’s kisses had an unexpected tenderness to them. He was gentle, yet vehement. His hand traveled softly over my breasts, his lips on my neck.

“Puri,” he said. “Mi Puri.”

I’d never experienced a more intense and sublime moment. It was almost as if my entire life had been leading up to this moment of complete communion. Martin seemed to have known my body all along—in ways that Cristóbal never did. He knew exactly where to touch, where to kiss, how to make me feel alive. Above all, I was touched by his kindness—I’d never imagined him to be so giving.

After it was all over, he lay next to me, staring at the ceiling. I kissed the line between his eyebrows. He smiled and asked me if I was all right. I said yes, I said I’d never been better. Our fingers interlaced. I expected him to say something along those lines, one of those trite words lovers say when they’re feeling satisfied. But he only kept that faint smile on his face, a smile that—in ways I couldn’t understand—made me shiver.





CHAPTER 36

I woke up like one of those heroines in a fairy tale: the sun filtering in through the translucent curtains, the sounds of the birds in the forest vivid and sharp, a soft sheet covering my nakedness.

Martin was nowhere in sight. I refrained from calling out his name. Maybe Bachita had already arrived and Mayra might be tidying up the house. The door to my room was shut. I wasn’t sure if Martin had slept here with me, or if he’d gone off to his own chamber.

There was a dent in the mattress beside me, but his clothes were gone. Mine had been collected and piled on a chair by the armoire.

The door opened. I covered my breasts with the sheet.