*
My father’s mansion, because that was the only way to describe such a luxurious construction, was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. It was a two-story manor with shutters and balconies all around, a solid structure painted with pristine detail in crimson, pink, and cream. Doric columns spread throughout the porch to support the second story. From the balconies hung ceramic pots with ferns and blue orchids. The porch floor was made out of the loveliest coral mosaic perfectly matching the walls. Under the shade sat a lady with a porcelain cup and a book in her hands.
Martin parked in front of the house and the two of them got out. After a moment, they turned around and stared at me. Like a fool, I’d been waiting for them to open the door for me—out of habit more than anything. I scrambled to open the door myself and got out.
The woman on the porch wore an ivory hat covering half of her face. Her silk gown in pearl tones was long, loose-fitted, and similar to the stylish dresses I’d seen so many times on the most affluent customers that came by my store. Perched on the woman’s shoulder was a white cockatoo with a lengthy tail, as if to leave no doubt that her monochromatic presentation was deliberate.
As I approached the steps, I recognized my father’s eyes in the woman’s face. Growing up, I’d memorized every detail of my father’s face through a portrait that sat on our chimney’s mantelpiece.
She had to be one of my sisters.
When the woman saw us, she stood to greet us. The cockatoo remained still except for a thick yellow feather that popped on top of its head.
“Do?a Angélica.” Aquilino approached the young woman and kissed her hand.
She must have been a couple of years younger than me. Her body was slender, with a long, swanlike neck. There was elegance to every one of her moves, from the way she turned her head to examine us (me in particular) to the way her long fingers extended toward mine so I would kiss her hand once Aquilino had made the proper introductions. I couldn’t reconcile how someone who looked so fragile would live in a rural place like this. She belonged in Madrid or in Paris, not in the country.
My cheeks flushed as I kissed my sister’s hand. It felt so unnatural. The only hand I’d ever kissed had been the parish priest’s (and only because my mother had prompted me to do so). One of Angélica’s eyebrows lifted slightly as she examined my face more closely. I lowered my boater hat to cover as much of it as possible.
When Aquilino mentioned María Purificación’s tragic demise at sea, a frown creased Angélica’s brow.
“What a shame,” she said, shaking her head. “I was looking forward to meeting her.”
I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or just polite. Her expression revealed nothing more than discomfort, and given the strenuous heat, it might have been more of a reaction to the weather than to the sad news.
“Please come inside.” She picked up a white fan from the table and opened it in one swift move, like a flamenco dancer. I couldn’t help but picture my mother in her polka-dot skirt when she danced: her serious demeanor, her proud pose, the precision of her steps and the elegance of her hands. Flamenco had been her biggest passion, but she’d only danced in the privacy of our parlor; she’d always been so careful to hide her drops of sangre gitana.
The cockatoo adjusted its gray feet on my sister’s shoulder as we entered the house.
She was very feminine and graceful, this sister of mine. The sway of her hips as she entered the hacienda held the complete attention of both Aquilino and Martin. Even I was staring, and I was a woman!
Inside, she removed her hat and set the bird on top of a cage. Angélica had her hair in a bob, very chic. As I faced my late father’s oversized portrait in the foyer, I noticed how similar Angélica’s complexion and coloring was to his.
The mosaic tile carried on to the foyer, but the walls inside were powder blue. Behind another column was a spiral staircase and a crystal chandelier hung above our heads.
A tall man was descending the staircase.
“Perfect timing, cher,” Angélica told him. “Come meet María Purificación’s husband, Don Cristóbal de Balboa.”
When she said my name, it sounded as if she knew me well, as if she and I had grown up together, and the family talked about me often. There had been no awkwardness in her tone. It was somewhat touching, but I couldn’t let my guard down. As far as I was concerned, someone in this house wanted me dead.
“Don Cristóbal, this is my husband, Laurent Dupret.”
A Frenchman. I’d known beforehand that many Europeans had made their way to this remote corner of the world, but it still jarred me to find them here, looking so polished and radiant.
He wore a striped gray suit, a checkered tie, and a carefully folded handkerchief that strategically escaped his front pocket. He looked like he’d just shaved even though it was the middle of the afternoon.
“Enchanted,” Laurent said, extending his hand to mine.
He had long arms and fingers that appeared to be made out of elastic rather than flesh and bone. His handshake was significantly softer than Martin’s, but Laurent was manly, attractive, and had it not been for my disguise, I would’ve sworn his eyes scanned me with flirtation. There was something unsettling about him and I feared, more so than earlier, that he could see my true self beneath Cristóbal’s spectacles. But if he noticed something, he didn’t say.
I broke eye contact and followed my sister’s lead to an elegant living room that smelled of polishing wax and pine. A harp sat in the corner of the room.
“Would you care for a whiskey, Don Cristóbal?” Angélica said.
I was used to light alcoholic beverages like wine, sangría, even champagne on occasion, but never hard liquor.
All eyes were set on me except for Martin’s. After our initial introduction, he’d barely paid me any attention.
“Yes, thank you,” I said slowly.