Angélica sat back, petting her bird.
“I’m not a man of great ambitions,” I continued. “My one and only dream has always been to write a novel. It’s truly the only reason I agreed to accompany my wife on this odyssey.”
Angélica smiled for the first time. “How wonderful. Laurent is also artistic. At one point, he had literary ambitions himself. Didn’t you, querido?”
“Oui, chérie,” Laurent said.
Martin folded his arms across his chest, as though this was the most boring subject in the world.
Even though I was lying when I told them I would sell my portion of the estate, I considered the possibility for a moment. Did I really want to spend the rest of my life surrounded by these vultures? Wouldn’t it be better to go back to my country, where I still had friends who loved me, where I could see the magnificent Giralda bell tower from my window every morning, and where I could start a new business with my father’s money? But if I returned to Spain, I would be going back without my husband, thanks to someone in this room.
This was a matter of justice, not ambition. My sisters had my father to themselves their entire lives and it was apparent that they didn’t want to embrace me as one of their own, but instead, intended to wipe me off the face of the earth.
Tomás Aquilino stood. “In that case, Don Cristóbal, we can go back to town now and I can find you accommodations there.”
“Nonsense,” Catalina spoke in a firm voice. “Don Cristóbal is our late sister’s husband and the proper thing would be for him to stay here, with family. Don’t you think, Angélica?”
Angélica seemed taken aback, but remained silent.
I was torn. The only way I could find out more about these people and who was capable of murder was to stay nearby, but at the same time, I hated to admit—even to myself—I was nervous about the prospect of being so close to my potential killer, or to be discovered as an imposter.
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” I said. “But I do find this place most inspirational for my writing.”
I was going against all my instincts, but as much as I disliked the idea of staying, I had to do it. If I boarded in town, how would I discover the truth?
“Of course you’re not imposing, Don Cristóbal,” Angélica stuttered a bit. “We’d be delighted to have you.”
She held my gaze, her eyes glimmering.
“If everyone is in agreement then, I would like to get going before night falls,” Aquilino said. “Don Cristóbal, once Do?a Purificación’s death certificate arrives, I will collect all the paperwork and we can continue with the will’s proceedings. That will also give time to the other family members to decide if they want to purchase your share.”
“Excellent,” I said.
Everyone stood up to thank the lawyer, except for me. The whiskey gave me—albeit briefly—the courage to stay behind as Aquilino said his goodbyes. I’d been hoping I didn’t have to pose as a man any longer. I hated to be deceitful, but I saw no other way. In a week’s time, I would probably know who wanted me dead and I could reclaim my portion under my own name. Assuming, of course, that they didn’t manage to kill me first.
CHAPTER 6
Angélica
Three months earlier
Laurent squeezed my hand as Aquilino read a name that hadn’t been spoken aloud in this house for years: María Purificación de Lafont y Toledo.
My father’s Spanish daughter.
The legitimate one.
If it weren’t for her, I would’ve been my father’s favorite. Call me petty if you want, I don’t care, but if you had to live under the shadow of a ghost—a perfect ghost, at that—you would know what it was like to never be good enough, to get crumbs of attention, a smile here and there, a soft squeeze on the cheek as payment for practicing the harp three hours a day and playing like the angels. My good disposition went unnoticed; so did my efforts to manage the household with mathematical precision after my mother’s passing.
I straightened my back, listening to the long list of assets my father was leaving her. This only confirmed what I’d believed my entire life.
It wasn’t that my father was cruel. On the contrary, he spoiled me with gifts all my life. But that was all I received: things. The problem was that I wasn’t her, his firstborn; born in Europe to a Spanish mother. I wasn’t passionate about the land, about those damned cacao beans and chocolate like she was—even from afar. No, I was born in the New Continent; I was the daughter of a mestiza, his second not-so-legal wife and certainly not a full-blooded hidalga. It didn’t matter that I wore the latest fashion or how light my hair was （I washed it with manzanilla tea every other day to keep my blond streaks）。 It didn’t matter that I married a Frenchman, just to please my father, or that I’d memorized the name of every important wife in París Chiquito. It made no difference how meticulously I ran the kitchen, including my father’s favorite recipes every week: chateaubriand, quiche Florentine, cordon bleu, soufflé, and of course, fish on Fridays, like a good Catholic family. We never skipped the rice, either—a day without rice in this country was like not fixing a complete meal at all.