“What do you mean?”
“Well, you are a beautiful woman. I’m sure a lot of men would like to be with you.”
“You think”—she blushed again—“you think I’m beautiful?”
“Of course. I can’t believe you would even doubt it.”
She smiled coyly. “I will admit that Franco and I were close, but that was years ago, that was before, before . . .” She squeezed Angélica’s dress.
“The fire?”
“Even before that.”
I reached out for her hand. “Sometimes it’s better to talk about those things that upset us or give us grief. You may find that it relieves your soul.”
The moment her tears started trailing down her face, I knew she was ready to talk.
CHAPTER 30
Catalina Vinces, 1919
The paper trembled in my hands. Franco’s handwriting, still childlike, was unmistakable to me—his Ms looked more like crashed spider legs than letters—but I’d given up on his penmanship years ago.
“Meet me at the creek,” the note said, “I have something for you.”
Franco had been acting strange lately. For years, I’d cherished his companionship. There were not a lot of people our age in this area and those who lived nearby ignored us. We were the outcasts, the eccentric ones. My sister had already gotten married to Laurent and only talked to me during our rehearsals. Juan, or Martin as he liked to be called now, was always busy with my father, and after the Virgin pilgrimage, I never saw Elisa again.
The only friend I had was Franco. And yet, I couldn’t quite pinpoint what had changed in the last few weeks, but he seemed different now. He would constantly fidget with stones or wood sticks and would often start to say something only to stop mid-sentence.
He now worked collecting cacao pods with his father but—it pained me to admit it—he was lazy and often hid from his father to meet with me. This lack of drive was frustrating because I knew firsthand how bright he was. When I’d taught him numbers as a child, he’d learned all four operations in a matter of days and would often figure out an answer faster than I would.
Why was he wasting his life here? I’d asked him, but he said he had a good reason, though he wouldn’t say what.
In all truth, we didn’t talk much. Mostly, we went for walks and sometimes I read to him while he fished.
This afternoon, he stood by the creek, throwing stones in the water. In his back pocket, as usual, was a slingshot for catching lizards. Even though we were in our early twenties now, he still carried it around. From the puny boy I’d befriended ten years ago, he’d turned into a stocky man with large, callused hands. But in some ways, Franco never grew up.
I came up behind him and whispered a hello.
When he turned to me, there was a glint in his eye that sometimes made me nervous.
He wasn’t attractive, nothing like my brother-in-law Laurent, or even Martin, but he had the most expressive and melancholic eyes I’d ever seen.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said.
“A surprise? Why? It’s not my birthday.”
“I know, but I didn’t want to wait any longer.” He pointed in the direction of his house with his chin. “Don’t worry, my mother went to town for rice and flour.”
Years ago, when I’d started schooling him, I’d gone to his house when his parents were away. But as we grew older, it seemed improper. That was why we always met here.
“I left my cigarettes there,” he said with a wink.
I’d run out of cigarettes days ago. They were so hard to come by. My vice depended on Franco one hundred percent. Even though my mother had passed away two years ago from diabetes, I still hid my habit from everyone in the family. I couldn’t explain why. My father paid me so little attention he would’ve never noticed if I smoked. But years ago, I’d decided that I would live up to the high standards of my reputation. It wasn’t always easy, like today when I nodded and followed him to the house. Such was my urge to smoke.
Franco and I had an implicit rule: we never touched. I suspected it had to do with the fact that he considered me sacred, like the rest of the town. I often wished I’d never come up with that lie—I would probably be married by now if I hadn’t. Whatever the reason, there was always a tension between us that I didn’t know how to break through.
His house was exactly how I remembered it: the same floral wallpaper, the flight of stairs curling up behind the sofa, even the smell of fresh-baked bread. Besides being the town’s curandera, Do?a Soledad was a baker.
From a wooden box, Franco removed a couple of cigarettes and lit them, hands shaking.
I took in a lungful of smoke.
The sun following a long winter.
We stood close to each other, enjoying our cigarettes, and then he broke the silence with his hoarse voice.
“Come.”
He held my hand, surprising me. I followed him up the stairs, as inappropriate as it was, but I was curious about his surprise.
On his bed was a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a blue ribbon. He handed it to me.
I undid the bow and ripped the paper to pieces. I’d always been impatient when opening presents, even though it was unladylike and disrespectful to the giver, according to my mother.
I gasped.
In my hand was a miniature violin so carefully carved and varnished that it looked like my own violin had been shrunk so Pul-garcita could play it.
“Franco, this is beautiful! Did you make it?”
He smiled. He so seldom did.
“I’ve been working on it for weeks.”
“But you hate classical music.”
“But I love anything you do.”
He’d never said the word “love” before. Especially close to the word “you.”
“This is the nicest thing someone has ever done for me.”
“Well, you’re the only person who’s ever been nice to me.” He cleared his throat. “It’s the least I can do. After all you’ve done for me.”