He was so nonchalant he made it seem as though there wasn’t anything awkward about the way we’d met or gotten to know each other. I tried hard not to think about what he meant by “like.”
“But what about my sisters?” I said after a long pause. “You must not care about the family at all.” And if so, what did that say about his character? As far as I understood, he’d worked for my father for years. Had he no loyalty? Not that I was complaining about having his help, but it was also worrisome.
He pulled up, gathered his things from the table.
“Not any more than they care about me. Ours is a professional arrangement. I’m a free man and can switch jobs or bosses if I want.” He returned the menthol to the drawer. “Land can be sold, acquired, or passed down from one person to another, it doesn’t belong to one person or one family until the end of time. We don’t live in a monarchy.”
So which one was it: Did he really like me or did he want to fall in my good graces so I would sell him my property?
He shut the drawer. “Did you ever wonder how Don Armand acquired such a big cacao plantation?”
His question was not only unexpected but also carried a smack of resentment.
“No,” I said. “I was so small when he left Spain that I never questioned how he made his fortune.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Well, you will find the answers inside a locked drawer in his study.”
“The drawer?” I recalled. I’d tried to open it. “And where’s the key?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he took it to his grave.”
“In that case, why don’t you just tell me what’s in there?” I didn’t feel like looking all over the house for the mysterious key.
“No, I’ve already said enough. Maybe too much.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Don Martin! The bolones are ready,” Mayra said.
I collected my things. Before I put my disguise on, Martin said, “I hope it’s not long before I see you without that beard again.”
CHAPTER 33
There was something wrong with me. How could I be attracted to another man so soon after my husband’s passing?
It was immoral. It was vile.
But I couldn’t help it. Martin appealed to me on an animalistic level. I’d never been as attracted to Cristóbal as I was to Martin—even during the early stages of our courtship. There was no comparison between the bleak intimacy and lackluster companionship of my eight years of marriage and the physical sensations Martin was provoking in me as we sat together at the dining table.
While eating Mayra’s bolones—exquisite fried balls of plantain filled with cheese—I tried my best to ignore the tingle in my stomach, the way my hands were positioned in relation to Martin’s, his solicitous demeanor. When had he cared about whether I needed more salt or if I wanted to try some ají sauce? In the past, he’d only cared about filling our glasses with alcohol to the rim. Why couldn’t I go back to the ease I’d felt before when I was near him? Why couldn’t I concentrate on whatever he was saying?
Because I couldn’t go back in time. Martin had seen me naked. He knew I was a woman. Now he looked at me differently. His tone had also changed. He knew things about me that nobody else in this country did.
Pay attention. Focus.
He was telling me a story about his high school days. Something about him and his classmates fixing a graduation lunch for their teachers—a group of somber Salesians with hefty appetites—and frying frog legs for them instead of chicken.
I grimaced. “Did you get caught?”
He shook his head. “They were licking their fingers by the end of the meal.” He patted his flat belly. “I tried them, too.”
“And?”
“Not bad. Similar to rabbit.” He grabbed the pitcher of water and served me, as if he hadn’t just uttered the most disgusting thing. “What about you? Did you ever play a prank on anybody?”
“Nothing that wicked,” I said, taking a sip. “I once put salt inside the sugar bowl for my assistant’s tea. But only because she annoyed me.”
“How so?”
My ears warmed up. “Uh, nothing important.”
“Then, why are you blushing?”
“?Por amor de Dios! Do you have to know everything?”
“Yes.” He leaned on the table. “I want to know everything about you.”
I sat back and glanced at the door leading to the kitchen.
“She criticized my singing.”
“Oh, your singing.”
“Save it!”
“All right, all right.” He covered a chuckle with his hand. As if I couldn’t hear him. “So, acting like a man. What are your thoughts? Is it what you imagined?”
“Well, aside from the obvious advantages of having more freedom and wearing more comfortable clothes, it’s given me a better understanding of my husband, of how his mind worked.”
“In what way?”
“By being forced to act like him, I’ve had to suppress a side of my personality that had been prevalent all my life.”
“Which is?”
“The need to persuade others to do what I want.”
“You think this is a feminine trait?”
“Not necessarily. But certainly, Cristóbal wasn’t that way. He let others act as they saw fit; he was reserved, discreet, and always in control of his emotions. I, on the other hand, couldn’t be quiet for more than a minute and constantly had the need to fix everyone’s lives.”
“Like Mayra’s?”
“Like Mayra’s.”
“Interesting. Angélica has those same traits.”
*
I was still thinking about Martin’s words when I returned to the hacienda.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he’d said right before I left, “but you’re a lot more pleasant as a woman. Cristóbal is a little too straitlaced for my taste.”
I could see why he thought that. It had been such a relief to have a conversation without having to watch everything I said or did every second.