The Spanish Daughter(91)

I never regretted my decision. I was happy to introduce the people of this country to the wonders of chocolate. I worked hard, but not as intensely as I had in Sevilla. I now took the time to enjoy a tinto de verano, a good conversation, or a sunset.

Since Catalina moved to town, she progressively shed her saintly image among the eligible bachelors in the region. I must admit I’d been pushing her a little bit. Since I often met people at my chocolate shop, I’d been systematically introducing men to Catalina. But she was hard to please. Still, I held hope that one day I would find her perfect match.

After Laurent and Angélica left the country, I agreed to move in with Catalina. So far, it was working out. I loved those late-evening talks with her or watching her sew for the women in town.

The peal of the doorbell woke me from my ponderings. I asked Mayra to keep an eye on my cacao beans and went to open the back door.

The postman stood before me with a parcel.

“It’s from Guayaquil,” he said, handing it to me.

There was no sender’s address, so I impatiently tore the packaging paper to shreds and removed a small cardboard box. Inside was a doll with a pillow for a dress. It looked old, her face dirty, and her blond hair, matted. Underneath the doll, there was a paper folded in half.

I recognized the handwriting immediately.



Purificación,

I gave this doll to Catalina years ago. I recently found it inside a box in the storage room of the hacienda and took it with me. This is the only memory I have of our father, the only gift he ever gave me when I was a little girl.

It is, also, the only thing I can give you as a peace offering and an apology for all the suffering I caused you with my petty, rash actions. Perhaps one day you will find it in your heart to forgive this girl who only wanted to be close to her father, but didn’t know how to do it right.

With much regret,

Elisa.





I refolded the letter and carefully stored the doll behind the shop’s glass counter, right next to my husband’s typewriter. Then, I headed to the room in the back of the shop, where my twenty-month-old son, Cristóbal, napped in his crib. I picked up his chubby hand and gave it a soft kiss. He was more perfect than I’d ever envisioned my child would be—with long curly eyelashes and bright eyes, just like his father’s.

I’d discovered I was expecting shortly after Martin left. I’d been afraid to lose this baby, too, but somehow my pregnancy came to fruition and my baby was born healthy and strong. I often wondered why I could carry Martin’s child and not Cristóbal’s. Had it been the conditions of this land, my more leisurely life, maybe even fate? I would never have an answer. To everyone’s eyes, though, this child was the son of Cristóbal de Balboa, a man of simple ambitions who knew that true happiness lay in the things we couldn’t own.





Author’s Note

In an obscure corner of the internet, I once found a list of women inventors that included a Spanish woman who allegedly developed the cacao bean roaster in 1847. Her name was María Purificación García. My imagination wandered after learning this piece of information—whether it was true or not. What would have prompted a woman in the nineteenth century to come up with such an invention? Despite my many attempts to confirm the data, I never unearthed more details about who she was, but I found her name in a historical archive in Spain, which proved that she had, in fact, patented the idea.

While studying women inventors, I learned that in the past, many of them had to have their patents registered under their husbands’ names, which led to another interesting discovery. Since women were not allowed to develop in several fields, such as warfare or medicine, they cross-dressed.

I had to do something with all this information.

I could’ve written a story about María Purificación García, but I was also fascinated by a historical event that took place in my native country: the arrival of a group of French landowners to the coast of Ecuador where they grew cacao for export, and as a byproduct, replicated their own Little Paris in the town of Vinces. During the early twentieth century, Ecuador became one of the top cacao-exporting countries in the world, but the cacao bonanza ended in 1920 with two devastating plagues that wiped out the entire region.

That’s how my protagonist, Puri, was born—the granddaughter of this wonderful lady inventor, the daughter of a French landowner, and a chocolatier herself who introduced an exporting country to the irresistible allure of chocolate.





Acknowledgments

My infinite gratitude to the following people:



My wonderful agent, Rachel Brooks, for her perseverance and drive—not even a pandemic could stop her from finding a home for this novel.

To Norma Pérez-Hernández, an editor whose vision and enthusiasm for my work made not only this book possible, but also a sequel to explore Puri’s further adventures.

To Susie Salom for her astute eye which helped me pinpoint what wasn’t working with the book—I believe your guidance and energy were pivotal to this story.

To María Elena Venant for always rushing to clarify my many historical and fashion doubts, and for lending an ear when I need one.

To Marriah Nissen for her ruthless line editing and historical accuracy.

To Shea Berkley, a kindred spirit who’s always there to bounce ideas off and do anything artsy I propose.