“There he is.” Aquilino pointed ahead.
I could barely see through the fog in Cristóbal’s spectacles, but I recognized a car approaching us. I removed my spectacles and wiped them with the corner of my vest.
A man in his late twenties descended.
“Don Martin!” Aquilino raised his right arm to him.
I hastily put my glasses back on before the man could see my face up close. I’d expected my father’s plantation administrator to be much older, but this man seemed to be my age or maybe a little bit older. He was not handsome, at least not in the traditional sense. One of his eyelids drooped a little and his skin looked rough and uneven, as though the constant exposure to the sun had created layers upon layers of tanning that were now competing for supremacy on his face. But there was such a bright shine in his falcon eyes, I could only interpret it as aplomb.
“Good afternoon,” the man named Martin said in a husky voice. “I apologize for the delay. I meant to meet you at the port.”
Aquilino wiped the back of his neck with a handkerchief.
“Mr. Balboa, this is Don Armand’s administrator, Martin Sabater.”
Martin searched for something—or most likely, someone—behind my head. I extended my hand.
“Don Martin, meet Don Cristóbal de Balboa, Do?a Purificación’s husband,” Aquilino said.
Martin squared his brick shoulders and shook my hand, looking me straight in the eye. No one had ever shaken my hand so hard or looked at me so intently. As a woman, I was used to a soft kiss or a gentle squeeze of the hand. Men certainly didn’t hold a woman’s gaze for long, unless they were close or openly flirting. I made a conscious effort to tighten my grasp with equal force. The palm of his hand was a rock against my skin—maybe that was what the hands of all countrymen felt like. In comparison, Cristóbal had had the hands of a pianist: long and slender fingers, and as soft as a pair of velvet gloves.
I could feel my cheeks burning, uncertain of my disguise, but I held his gaze. I wouldn’t be the first one to look away. Something told me that the approval of this man was paramount. But after a quick assessment of my face, Martin finally let go of my hand, seemingly uninterested.
“Did Do?a Purificación stay at the port?” he asked.
“No.” Aquilino gestured toward the automobile. “I will explain in the car.”
The three of us entered a vehicle similar to Aquilino’s, but this was a touring car with two rows of shiny leather seats rather than one. The seat offered some relief to my sore backside after the stiff canoe ride.
We stopped by the deck, where Martin and Paco loaded our luggage. On our way to the hacienda, Aquilino told Martin that Do?a Purificación had perished on the ship. I tried to read something in Martin’s solemn expression, but it was impossible. He turned toward me and offered his condolences without asking any details of my “wife’s” passing. I couldn’t decide if this was a sign of discretion or indifference.
I remained as inconspicuous as possible. I didn’t want either one of them to examine my features too closely or ask me any questions. Like a mute, I listened to their sporadic chatting, which competed with the loud engine. They mentioned people I didn’t know, but I supposed would meet soon. Most of the conversation, however, pertained to the weather pattern in the last couple of days and how well the crops were doing. Martin turned to me and explained that they’d already started collecting the pods. I barely nodded, as though I had no interest in the subject, but in reality, I was eager to learn everything there was to know about the business.
At the end of the road hung a handwritten sign over a sturdy fence. Martin stopped the vehicle to open the gate. I couldn’t help but notice his assertive gait—the man radiated confidence. I lowered my head to read the sign through the windshield. Stunned, I read the name twice.
LA PURI.
My father had named his hacienda after me.
*
My father’s mansion, because that was the only way to describe such a luxurious construction, was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. It was a two-story manor with shutters and balconies all around, a solid structure painted with pristine detail in crimson, pink, and cream. Doric columns spread throughout the porch to support the second story. From the balconies hung ceramic pots with ferns and blue orchids. The porch floor was made out of the loveliest coral mosaic perfectly matching the walls. Under the shade sat a lady with a porcelain cup and a book in her hands.
Martin parked in front of the house and the two of them got out. After a moment, they turned around and stared at me. Like a fool, I’d been waiting for them to open the door for me—out of habit more than anything. I scrambled to open the door myself and got out.