The Spanish Daughter(90)
“Then what do you want?” Angélica said, the veins in her forehead visible.
“I want . . . I came to make a truce.”
The three of them stood silent.
“It was wrong of me to deceive you. I should have been less of a coward and confronted you with the truth of what happened on the ship, but I was so angry, so filled with hatred, with fear.” I squeezed my hands together. “But then, I got to know all of you, to like you. I didn’t realize until much later that none of you were at fault over what happened to my husband. None of you ever had any intention to cause me harm. I now see that a big injustice had been committed against you, against all of us. Our father should have left us an equal share of the money and properties. It wasn’t your fault that he abandoned me. I now understand your frustration.”
“Nice thing to say now that you’ve lost everything,” Angélica said.
“I didn’t lose everything. All of us did. But you know, the loss of the plantation, of that dream I’d had for so long, was nothing compared to”—my voice broke—“losing my family.”
Angélica lowered her gaze, squeezing the package in her hands.
“I understand if you never want to see me again.” I searched through my purse, avoiding their gazes. “I caused you a lot of harm, even if I didn’t intend to.” I removed a key from my purse’s inner pocket and set in on the coffee table. “Here’s the key to the hacienda. You may do with it whatever you choose. I know it’s not worth much anymore, but maybe one day, the plantation will rise again.” I dried the tears from my cheeks. “At any rate, it’s not fair that you should live in this tiny house any longer.”
None of them said a word as I snapped my purse shut and walked out of their house with the fear that this might be the last time I would ever see my siblings.
EPILOGUE
Vinces, 1922
The cacao beans were almost ready. The roaster my grandmother had invented was truly wonderful. I’d refused to use it back in Spain because I kept it as an heirloom—a souvenir from my grandmother to be revered and admired as an art piece. But ever since La Cordobesa had sent it to me across the ocean and the contraption had gone through perilous waters and an uncertain destiny aboard two transcontinental ships, I was so grateful to see it again that I’d installed it in my new chocolatería and had been using it faithfully.
I’d gotten back into the habit of singing zarzuelas aloud, and my new assistant, Mayra, had also acquired La Cordobesa’s old (bad) habit of sticking cotton balls in her ears. I didn’t care because at least Alberto’s two-year-old son, Armandito, seemed to enjoy my singing and often followed me around the kitchen, learning the lyrics of my songs, or asking me over and over again all the ingredients in my truffles, which he loved more than life itself.
“Chocolate, butter, leche,” he recited in baby-talk.
How I loved those round, rosy cheeks of his—I could watch him all day long. Although Mayra had initially been guarded with me because her cousin Elisa had ended up in prison, she eventually understood that it had been Elisa’s own doing, not anything I’d done.
It also helped that I encouraged Alberto, slightly, to marry her. I must admit it wasn’t easy. It took a while for him to make the decision to marry Mayra—after all, he’d been preparing to be a priest for years—but he finally came to terms with his feelings for Mayra and decided to give Armandito a family.
After the cacao industry collapsed in the region, most of the French landowners returned to Europe, including Laurent and Angélica. The four of us sold our land and hacienda to Don Fernando del Río, who decided to start a new cultivation from scratch. He tore down the old, infested trees, and replanted new ones. It was a project that might take years to succeed, but that was no longer our concern.
With the money from the sale, Angélica bought tickets to Europe and planned to spend the next few months traveling all over the Old Continent. She seemed more than a little excited to embark on this new adventure and even smiled at me the last time I’d seen her.
Begrudgingly, the two of us had realized we had more in common than we ever thought: our sense of adventure, our impatience for the town’s tattletales, even a dislike for beets. It was bittersweet that once I started to know her and make amends, she had to leave.
I ended up buying the coffee shop I had once visited with Martin. It took a small investment, but with my experience and the excitement of being the first chocolatier in the region, the business was paying off. In the few months since I’d opened the shop, I’d acquired a small, but regular clientele. People came all the way from Guayaquil to try my chocolate. As it turned out, I had access to very exclusive and fine cacao beans, which arrived from a new and promising plantation in Colombia, owned by none other than Martin Sabater.
After the turmoil of the plague, Martin stayed for a while, offering to help me in any way he could. But when there was nothing left to do, he collected his life’s savings and bought a property of his own in the south of Colombia, in a region called Valle del Cauca. In honor of our friendship, he offered me cacao beans at discounted prices and extended an invitation for me to visit his land one day, which he grew more and more excited over with each letter.
When he parted, leaving me a goodbye letter where he apologized for the pain he’d caused me, I considered returning to Spain. There was nothing left for me here. But a fortuitous encounter with Catalina at the Vinces marketplace made me change my mind. She told me, over a cup of coffee and pristi?os, that she’d never been close to Angélica and that she’d always longed to meet me and have a relationship with me. She told me about her lonely childhood locked in the hacienda—her golden cage—and then she squeezed my hand and asked me to stay, at least for a while longer. Her request made me postpone my trip time and time again until one day, after leaving her house, I saw a FOR SALE sign outside the coffee shop where I’d eaten with Martin. I knew then that I had to stay.