“Julia!” Angélica called. “Bring the whiskey bottle, please.”
As we gathered around a marble-top table, a maid in a black-and-white uniform entered the parlor, her feet barely audible, her hair coiled in a braid around her head. She carried a tray filled with glasses and a golden bottle.
“Call Catalina,” Angélica told her, picking up the bottle.
Catalina, my other sister.
You would think that as lonely as I was, I would be excited to meet my family. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve been. But after what had happened on that ship, I was wary, resentful. And yet, a part of me was curious to know more about them. I tried, unsuccessfully, to control the tremor in my hand as I reached for the glass Angélica offered me. As soon as my gaze met hers, she produced another smile.
“Have a seat, please,” Angélica told me.
I picked a chair with a scarlet cushion.
A woman dressed entirely in black entered the room. She was much too young to be dressed with such severity. Her lace skirt covered her legs all the way to her ankles, and the long sleeves of her blouse concealed her arms entirely, but hard as she tried to hide underneath the dress, the fabric hugged her waist and hips so snugly it enhanced every curve of her body. Her eyes and eyebrows, carefully shaped and outlined, were so stunning it was impossible to look anywhere else.
She slid her hand over her tight bun and looked at me, the one stranger in the room.
“This is María Purificación’s husband,” Angélica said. “He came to us with the sad news that our sister perished aboard the Andes.”
It was nearly imperceptible, but Catalina’s eyes widened as she shot a quick glance at her sister. I couldn’t tell if the gesture was a reaction to their sister’s demise and what that meant for them, or if she had somehow discovered the truth about me.
“Don Cristóbal, this is my sister Catalina.”
Catalina faced me and muttered what sounded like condolences.
“May the Lord have her in His eternal glory.”
I stared at the gigantic cross hanging from Catalina’s neck and nodded at her, tightening my fingers around the cold glass—I couldn’t bring myself to kiss her hand, too.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, mechanically.
For once, I was glad to have alcohol within my reach. I needed it. I took a shot that burned my throat on its way down, and turned to all the faces around the room, resisting the urge to blurt out accusations. One of them was responsible for the death of my Cristóbal, and yet, they behaved as noble, concerned family members, as though they cared about my fate. The only thing they might regret was not killing us both.
“Would you like something to eat, Don Cristóbal?” Angélica asked me.
“No, I’m fine.”
My face was flushed, I could feel it. I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees, and the silence became intolerable. I could tear off my spectacles and beard, shout my name, and demand to know who killed my husband.
But things weren’t so simple.
While Laurent and my sisters sat complacently across from me, Martin stretched to reach for another bottle in the cupboard. His jacket sagged open, revealing the menacing handle of a revolver.
If I became a nuisance, who’s to say that he wouldn’t shoot me? It would be convenient to all of my father’s descendants. Nobody in this land knew who I was or had any affection for me. They could always pay off the lawyer. He owed me nothing. In fact, he’d known of our travel arrangements in detail—Cristóbal had sent him telegrams from Spain and Cuba. Anyone here could’ve bribed him to send a mercenary to dispose of this Spanish daughter, this pest coming to claim part of the Lafont estate.
I used to think that people were innately good. The Puri that grew up in Sevilla and befriended everyone in the neighborhood wouldn’t have believed for a minute that this seemingly honorable group was capable of hurting her. But that Puri was long gone, she’d stayed behind in those Caribbean waters.
The taste of alcohol filled my mouth.
Aquilino removed a manila envelope from his briefcase, wiped his forehead and neck for good measure, and pulled out a stack of papers.
“Well,” he said. “Let’s talk about the issue at hand, Don Armand’s inheritance.”
CHAPTER 4
One week earlier
My mother always said that men were only useful when they were gone. After Cristóbal got lost in the Caribbean waters, the nostalgia of our lives together enveloped me like a cloak. There was not an hour, not a minute of the day, that I didn’t think of him.
I kept reliving those last moments on the deck as though thinking about them would change anything. I should have hit the man before he stabbed Cristóbal. I should have jumped behind my husband and saved him from drowning. I should have. I should have. And then, after I was done tormenting myself for what I didn’t do, I would try to convince myself that I did the right thing. I’d called for help immediately after Cristóbal’s head got swallowed by a wave. I’d pressured the captain to stop the ship. I’d volunteered to go with the search team in one of the lifeboats. (The captain, however, denied my request. It was too dangerous for a woman, he said.) I’d stayed on the deck until dawn, my gaze fixed on the unrelenting waters, hoping to catch a glimpse of my husband.
They’d searched for hours, shining bright lights on the water’s surface, calling out his name. But they couldn’t find him or the vile man who had killed him. The captain offered me the consolation that my husband must have died a quick death. He probably didn’t suffer, he said, with that wound you mention. He probably lost consciousness from the loss of blood.
Yes, that was my consolation. He must not have suffered.
Except that he never would’ve died had I not brought him to this wretched ship. Had I not fought with him that evening, he would’ve spent the night sleeping on top of the metal keys of his typewriter instead of in the bottom of the ocean.