The Spanish Daughter(89)

Yes, that was his explanation for things. Those women were witches and they’d cursed the entire region. When there was nothing else I could do or say to calm him, I left his house and went home.

The hacienda felt lonelier than ever. Prior to leaving the house, my sisters had apparently fired Rosita, the cook. But little did I care now about food or housekeeping. I collapsed on the sofa, watching the bottle of aguardiente on the coffee table and Martin’s empty glass. I hugged my knees and gently rocked back and forth until the night closed in.





CHAPTER 45

This was, perhaps, the hardest visit of my life. I stood in front of the sky-blue door for a few minutes. It was impossible not to compare the grandeur of the hacienda with the humble house that now stood in front of me; a house where, according to the rumors in town, my sisters were now living.

I rang the doorbell. A part of me understood that they might not open the door. After all, the last time they’d seen me—that horrible day at the hacienda where I’d disposed of my disguise—I’d left on less than amicable terms, one might even call them downright hostile.

The movement of the door startled me. So did the face in front of me.

I’d expected to see Catalina, even Angélica, but in front of me stood Alberto. It took me a moment to recognize him. He had shed off his cassock and was wearing gray trousers, a buttoned-up shirt, and suspenders. He looked so young.

I didn’t know what to expect from him. An insult? A sarcastic remark about the doomed plantation we’d fought over?

Instead, he nodded.

“Hello, Puri.”

He opened the door wider for me to come in. I hesitated before entering, but at least my long black gown was good for hiding the tremor in my legs.

The living room was a cozy combination of Angélica’s impeccable taste and Catalina’s discreet simplicity. There was a long, maroon sofa in front of three windows framed in oak wood. They were furnished with soft beige drapery, and there were plants scattered throughout the room. I noticed, without intending to, that there were no portraits of my father in sight.

Catalina stood upon seeing me and set her embroidery by her side.

There was something different about her, too. She no longer wore black. Instead, she’d picked a pink gingham dress with a belt that crossed over and buttoned in the front.

I greeted her first. She offered a coy smile. The silence between us prolonged for a few, unbearable seconds.

“Would you like something to drink?” Alberto said. “A fruit tea?”

“Yes, please.” I wasn’t thirsty, but I needed something to do with my hands, something to distract us from the tense silence.

And Angélica and Laurent weren’t even here yet.

“Any preference?” he asked.

“Whatever you have will be fine.”

“I’ll go get Rosita,” he said.

So they’d taken the cook with them. Well, I couldn’t say that I was surprised.

“Have a seat,” Catalina said.

I sat on the edge of a rocking chair that looked familiar—it might have been in Catalina’s room before. The old me would have known exactly what to say, how to engage Catalina in conversation and defuse our mutual discomfort. But after living like Cristóbal for a couple of weeks, I’d learned to appreciate silence. In some ways, I’d become more contemplative and introspective.

“You look so nice,” Catalina said. “So different.”

“And you look beautiful in pink,” I said.

“Thank you.”

I sat with my ankles crossed and my hands clasped in my lap. Someone was at the door. Catalina stood, nervously.

“I’m home!” Angélica said from the foyer.

Catalina stared at me, uncertain. I remained in my seat, though I could feel my pulse speeding up.

“I found the loveliest fabric at Le Parisien,” she said, entering the room, wearing a lovely mint frock. She nearly dropped the parcel in her hands when she saw me.

“Buenas tardes, Angélica,” I said.

She stood up straight and raised her chin.

“What are you doing here?”

My mind went blank. I had a speech planned. I knew exactly what and how I was going to say it, but the whole, rehearsed speech died on my lips.

“Visiting.” Alberto reentered the room, followed by Rosita carrying a metal tray with a teapot and three porcelain cups. The color drained from her face when she saw Angélica and me in the same room. Alberto spoke louder, with an almost annoyed tone, “What else would she be doing?”

“I don’t know,” Angélica said. “Maybe she wants more money?”

“Oh, stop it, Angélica. Haven’t you caused enough damage already?” He turned toward Rosita. “Just set that tray on the table and leave, please.”

Alberto sounded more assertive than ever. Gone was the youthful friendliness I’d seen at the bar when I’d just met him.

“I have caused damage?” Angélica said.

“What do you call that lawsuit you made us sign?” he said.

“Nobody forced you.”

“You took advantage of our vulnerable state. We were confused, angry, hurt.”

I stood up. “Please. I didn’t come here to fight. I don’t want to cause more conflict between you. Between us.”