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.
“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.