*
When I entered the house, my hacienda, I felt a chill. My heels echoed across the foyer. I met my father’s gaze from his portrait, sitting proud, oblivious to all the havoc he would cause after his passing. In the parlor, everything was in order: the elegant furniture intact, the grand chandelier dangling above my head, not a single ornament seemed to be missing. I ran my finger by the sideboard, where the porcelain figurines of three ballerinas were covered with a thin layer of dust.
There was an empty space in the corner of the room; it was the spot where Angélica’s harp had always sat—apparently, it was the only thing she’d taken. It almost seemed as if my sisters had left in haste and would be back any second.
But that wouldn’t happen.
Somehow, the sight of these elegant furnishings was more painful than if I’d encountered a demolished house with tables split in half, lamps turned upside down, sliced curtains, and shattered glass all over the floor.
The excitement I’d first experienced when I boarded the Valbanera to come to Vinces was no longer there. I couldn’t even identify with the woman I’d once been, the one who’d innocently believed a grand cacao plantation would give her everything her life lacked.
The truth was that this perfection, these beautiful objects surrounding me, held no meaning for me.
CHAPTER 43
Martin looked like he hadn’t slept in a couple of days—large circles darkened his eyes—his hair was longer and disheveled, and his beard, unshaven. Had the realization that he would never own the plantation affected him this much? Or was it Angélica’s departure? He’d said their relationship was complicated.
I was annoyed at my own quickening pulse as he walked into the hacienda.
“I heard you were back,” he said, studying me as if seeing an apparition.
I realized why. This was the first time he’d seen me in women’s clothes. I wore a black dress with silk chiffon sleeves and a leaf-like design embroidered on the collar, which I’d purchased in Panama, among other gowns. I was finally paying Cristóbal the proper respect by donning mourning clothes.
I grasped the doorknob; mostly because I didn’t want Martin to see the involuntary tremor in my hands and how his presence affected me.
“Please come in,” I said, leading the way across the foyer.
He followed me in silence.
“I went looking for you at the warehouse this morning,” I said, sitting down. “But nobody was there.” I studied his muted expression. “Look, I understand if you don’t want to work here anymore. I can find someone else, but I was hoping we can put our differences behind us. I need people who know and understand the business. I’m not a fool to believe that I can run this plantation on my own.”
When I was done speaking, he approached the sideboard.
“May I?” he asked, opening the cabinet and grabbing a bottle of aguardiente.
I nodded.
He took out two glasses and filled them. Then, he handed me one. He sat in front of me and gulped his drink at once. I took a cautious sip of mine before speaking.
“I understand you might be . . . frustrated with what’s happened,” I started. “With your father, with the inheritance, well, with everything, but the truth is I need you here, and I want to make you a business proposition.”
“No.”
“I’ll raise your salary.”
He shook his head.
“I had no idea you disliked me this much.”
“It’s not you,” he said, staring at his glass.
Angélica, then. He was this distraught because she’d left.
“Well, I’m sorry if my arrival here has posed an inconvenience for your complicated relationship with Angélica.” I wasn’t proud of the bitterness in my tone.
“It’s over.”
“It can’t be over if you’re this troubled about it.”
“I don’t mean my relationship with her. This is over.”
Did he mean us?
I fingered my string of black pearls, my sole ornament. “I know that.”
He banged the armrest and stood up, dragging the chair’s legs back, making an unbearable screeching sound.
“I mean this plantation! It’s over!”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“It’s not about you, woman! The plantation is dead. Yesterday, we got confirmation from a technician from Guayaquil that there are traces of witches’-broom and frosty pod rot in most of the plants!”
“What are you talking about?”