The Spanish Daughter(80)

Lizardo rubbed the case slowly.

“We called the police, of course. Well, I did. This one was in shock and swore on his mother’s grave that the girl would never rob us.” He stared at Carlos, sighing. “Men in love are idiots, you know?”

I pretended not to notice that the younger son was blushing.

“But she did,” the old man said. “A couple of days later, the police found her. She was part of a ring of thieves who sold stolen things. It turns out she worked for her stepfather.”

Her stepfather? My pulse raced. “What happened to her?”

“She went to jail for some time. Then, we lost track of her.”

“We recovered all the merchandise but this watch,” said Lizardo.

“It goes to show you,” the father said, shaking his head. “You can never fully trust people. You think you know someone, but then, as soon as you turn your back on them, they’ll stab you.” He pointed his finger at his elder son, as though teaching him a lesson that had escaped his younger one. “The only God out there is money. It’s the one everyone follows.”

“Papá . . .” Lizardo said.

“Anyway.” He looked at me. “That’s the story.”

“I would like to pay for this watch and keep it,” I said, “if you don’t mind.”

“That’s generous of you,” the older brother said.

“Well, it’s the fair thing to do. You deserve payment for your work, even if it’s nine years late.”

The father banged the counter. “I got it!”

The three of us turned to him.

“Her name.” He smiled as if he’d uncovered one of the biggest mysteries in the world and spoke in an ominous voice the words that only confirmed my suspicions. “Her name was Elisa.”





CHAPTER 38

I spent the night at Aquilino’s house. The lawyer was discreet enough not to ask me where I’d been and I didn’t offer any explanations, either. I returned to the hacienda the next day. When I arrived, it was already nighttime and the house was silent and dark. I hadn’t eaten all day so I headed directly to the kitchen. The sobs inside the room stopped me. I could tell it was a woman but didn’t know whether it was Catalina or Angélica.

I really needed to eat something if I didn’t want to pass out, but I didn’t want to intrude in this private moment.

Before I made up my mind, Angélica opened the door, handkerchief in hand. Had Martin told her who I was? I held my breath.

“Don Cristóbal! I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming back tonight. Someone in town said they saw you leaving with Tomás Aquilino yesterday.”

“Yes. He offered to take me to a dentist in Guayaquil.”

“Oh, good.” She pointed at a silver teapot on the counter. “I just prepared some Hierba Luisa tea. Would you like some?”

Her eyes were swollen. I’d never seen her hair this untidy. Even in the mornings, she was well-groomed.

“No, thank you. Is something the matter?” I said.

“No. Yes.” She blew her nose, sitting on a stool.

“Do you want to talk?” I said.

She nodded.

I sat beside her.

“I must explain what you saw yesterday,” Angélica said. “My . . . familiarity with Don Martin.”

Yes, please explain!

“I’ve loved Martin since I was a little girl,” she said. “Growing up, he was the center of my world, but it all changed after he left for school. Our relationship cooled down considerably and I was . . . what shall I call it? Enchanted with Laurent when I first met him and frankly disillusioned with Martin’s rash manners and lack of sophistication. It was my mistake, I admit it. It was a time of confusion for me. I thought I loved Laurent, but I didn’t really know what he was like.” She covered her mouth with her hand.

We sat in silence at her revelation, but I needed to know more. I squeezed her hand.

“I think I understand what you mean.”

“You do?”

I nodded. “It’s not that uncommon. I’ve met men like him before.”

She breathed out, seemingly relieved.

“I don’t know what it is about you, Don Cristóbal,” she said, “but sometimes I feel I can talk to you about things I’ve never told any other man.”

It was a compliment, but instead of being pleased, I experienced tremendous remorse in the face of my lies.

She lowered her voice. “Laurent tried to”—she sniffed—“change at the beginning of our marriage to no avail. In the end, we reached an agreement. We both had things we wanted, things we needed. He wanted a wife, he wanted to be part of an important family. I wanted a French husband to please my father. Of course, I would’ve never considered marrying Laurent if Martin hadn’t betrayed me.”

She wiped her tears with her handkerchief.

“I know Martin is a womanizer but I can’t deny that I’m partly at fault for what happened between us.”

“What happened?”

She looked at me for a moment, as if debating whether she should speak more. “I hope that what I’m about to share stays between us.” Her finger traced the glossy tile on the countertop.