Angélica
Vinces, 1913
“I think you should wear royal blue,” Silvia said. “You can never go wrong with blue. It’s very becoming. More so than pink. Pink is for young girls or people like Catalina.”
I resented my best friend’s disdain when mentioning my sister. I knew Catalina was awkward and not popular among the girls in París Chiquito, but that didn’t mean Silvia had to mock her.
Only I could do that.
“It’s not every day that one turns eighteen,” she said. “You have to do something memorable, something this town has never seen.”
Every time I tried to say something, she would speak again. But that was how Silvia was. Difficult to talk to. She never listened to anyone but herself. And yet, I enjoyed her company more than anybody else’s.
She strolled by my side along my favorite trail. The ground was plastered with torn twigs and fallen leaves, which crunched with every one of my steps. I’d always loved the crisp sounds of the morning: the wind ruffling the towering tree branches, blackbirds and white-tail jays singing, and, if you were lucky enough, you might hear monkey howls coming from the forest. Above my head, a canopy of foliage shrouded the rising sunlight. The familiar scent of moist earth and decomposing vegetation was somewhat placating. I loved this place, particularly these majestic trees flanking the road. In the distance, I could see the hacienda standing proudly among my green Eden. Even though I lived here and took this walk every morning, I never grew tired of looking at my father’s impressive construction.
“Actually,” I said, lifting up my skirt to avoid soiling the hem, “I was thinking about red.”
Silvia stopped sharp and dropped my arm. “You’re joking, right?”
I smiled. I knew all about the Indecency of Red. Even if I wanted a red gown, my mother would’ve never allowed me to wear it. It was scandalous, she would say, and would cancel the party at once. “I’m thinking about white.”
“No. Too chaste.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Do you want to be the center of attention or not? If you wear white, you’ll look muted. That only works for brides.”
“How come you always have an opinion about everything?”
“Because I do. Now, listen to me and have your seamstress make you a blue dress.”
“Fine!”
I was not thrilled with “our” decision but at this point, I would’ve said anything to quiet her. The only reason I let Silvia be so overbearing was because I was grateful that she’d moved to Vinces two years ago. She’d energized the entire town. She came from one of the most affluent families in Guayaquil and was full of opinions about fashion and boys. All the girls had wanted to befriend her and dress like her, but she picked me.
“Now, we have to decide on the flowers.”
Santa María, please make her stop. I quickened my pace as she continued weighing all the pros and cons of every flower in the region. What a relief it was to arrive home! I opened the front door and removed my hat, while Silvia’s incessant chatter buzzed behind me.
“Would you like some lemonade?” I interrupted.
Silvia barely dropped a yes between run-on sentences. “I do favor hyacinths over orchids, but orchids would create such a lovely contrast with your blue dress.”
Halfway through the foyer, I nearly lost my footing when I saw who was sitting on the parlor sofa.
I couldn’t believe he was back, after all these years. And he was more attractive than ever with those sideburns. He’d gained weight, too, he was no longer the lanky teenager I’d last seen.
Juan stood up while I froze, like a statue, in front of him.
“Hello,” he said as if he’d seen me a few hours ago. No kisses or hugs. “I’m waiting for your father.”
Silvia was still talking behind me, but her last thought died mid-sentence when she spotted Juan.
My Juan.
I felt oddly possessive of him when I saw the way Silvia curled a strand of hair around her fingers.
“Does he know you’re here?” I said, equally cold as him.
He eyed Silvia. Men often liked her. She wasn’t beautiful—not in the classical sense—but she had a way of swaying her hips when she walked and slightly touching men’s arms in conversation that simply drew them in, as if casting a spell.
“No. The cook—Rosita?—said he went horseback riding.”
I couldn’t believe it. He’d almost forgotten Rosita’s name even though she’d been around since the beginning of humanity. Had he forgotten my name, too?