In the Age of Love and Chocolate (Birthright #3)(30)

“Ahn-juh,” she said in a scratchy voice. Then she said something in Spanish, which I could not understand. My Spanish had become rusty. She wagged a knotted finger at me, and I looked to Theo for help.

“She says she is happy to see you,” Theo translated. “That you look very well, neither too plump nor too slim. She is sad it has taken you so long to come back to the farm. She wants to say again that she is sorry about what happened with Sophia Bitter. She—Nana, I am not going to say that!”

“What?” I asked.

Words were exchanged between Theo and his great-grandmother. “Fine. She says we are both nice Catholic kids, and she doesn’t like us living in sin. And God doesn’t like it either.” Theo’s checks turned as red as an overripe strawberry.

“Tell her that she misunderstands,” I said. “That you and I are only friends. Tell her that it’s a very large apartment.”

Theo shook his head and left the room. I took Bisabuela’s hand. “He is only my friend. It’s not a sin.” I knew this was not quite true, but I felt fine about a lie that would make a sweet old lady feel better.

Bisabuela shook her head. “El te ama, Ahn-juh. El te ama.” She clapped a hand to her heart, then pointed to the door by which Theo had just exited.

I kissed her wrinkled cheek and pretended I had no idea what she was saying.

* * *

I had been too worried to truly appreciate my last Christmas at Granja. I had been on the lam and torn from everyone I loved. But this Christmas, with Natty there and my worries at a record low, I allowed myself to drink in Theo’s family.

We exchanged presents in the morning. Natty and I had brought silk scarves for the Marquez women. For Theo, I had purchased a new leather suitcase, which I had already given him before we’d left. He traveled so much for the Dark Room that I thought he would find it useful. My present from Theo was a sheath for my machete, with ANYA BARNUM, my onetime alias, burned into the side. “Every time I see you pull that machete out of your backpack, I laugh,” he said.

Christmas dinner was turkey mole and tres leches. Natty ate so much she fell asleep—siesta was a sacred tradition at Granja. While my sister napped, Theo asked if I wanted to take a walk around the cacao orchard.

The last time Theo and I had walked these fields, we’d been attacked by an assassin come to kill me. (As absurd as it sounds to report such an incident, this had been my life.) Theo had been gravely injured, and I’d cut off someone’s hand. Two years later, I could still remember the sensation of swinging a blade through flesh and bone.

Still, the field did not have only bad associations for me. It was where Theo had taught me about cacao, and if I hadn’t come here, I never would have opened the Dark Room.

I saw a cacao pod with signs of rot. Out of habit, I drew my machete and sliced it off.

“You have not lost your touch,” Theo said.

“Guess not.” I resheathed my machete.

“I’ll sharpen it for you before we leave,” Theo said. He slipped his fingers through mine, and we walked in silence for a while. It was almost sunset, but I was glad to be outside with the last rays of warm Mexican sun on my skin.

“Are you glad you came?” Theo asked me.

“I am. Thanks for making me. I needed to get out of the city.”

“I know you, Anya,” he said. “I know you better than you know yourself.”

We walked a bit farther, stopping every now and then to tend the cacao. When we came to the end of the field, Theo stopped.

“We should turn around,” I said.

“I cannot,” he said. “I must speak.” But then he did not speak.

“What is it, Theo? Out with it already. I’m getting cold.” In December, the weather in Mexico abruptly turned from pleasant to frigid. He grabbed me by the leather belt that strapped my new machete sheath to my waist. He undid the buckle.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He took my machete out of the sheath. “Get your hands off my machete,” I said, giving him a playful smack on the wrist.

“Hold out your hand,” he said.

He turned the sheath over and a small ring—a silver band with a white pearl—fell out of the case and into the palm of my hand. “You did not look close enough,” he said.

I stood there, dumbfounded. I sincerely hoped it was not what it looked like. “Theo, what is this?”

He grabbed my hand and forced the band over my knuckle. “I love you, Anya.”

“No, you don’t! You think I’m ugly. We fight all the time. You don’t love me.”

“I tease, I tease. You know this is my way. I do love you. I have never met a person I love as much as you.”

I began to back away from him.

“I think we should be married. We are the same, and Bisabuela is right. It is wrong for us to spend our lives together, as we have been for the past year, and not be married.”

“Theo, we can’t get married just because we’ve offended your great-grandmother.”

“That is not the only reason, and you know it. I love you. My family loves you. And no one will ever have more in common with you than me.”

“But Theo, I don’t love you, and I never claimed that I did.”

“What does that matter? You lie to yourself about love. I know you, Anya. You are afraid of being hurt or of being controlled, so you tell yourself you are not in love. You are afraid of happiness, so you destroy and vex her whenever she arrives.” He took my hand. “Have we not been happy this year?”