“You’re the one who suggested that I write my novel during the trip.”

“Yes, but is that all you’re going to do, Cristóbal? Write your novel all day and all night? You barely eat, and when you do, it’s in haste. I’ve spent this entire trip by myself.”

He shrugged. “I can’t help it if I’m feeling inspired.”

“And I don’t inspire you? You haven’t touched me since before. . .”

A woman with a mink coat glanced at us.

Cristóbal coughed, his cheeks a deep red. “I don’t think this is the right place to talk about this.”

There were two couples nearby. I didn’t care what they heard. In fact, it might be better. Perhaps their presence would motivate Cristóbal to stay, at least to avoid a scandal. Besides, I was tired of always avoiding the subjects that made him uncomfortable. I resented that he never mentioned my last miscarriage—my third one so far—as if it had never happened, as if that baby had never existed.

“I’m already doing what you wanted. Am I not?” he said.

He had a point there. I’d been the one who insisted that we sell everything in Spain, including my beloved chocolate shop, and that he travel with me to Ecuador to claim my inheritance—whatever that patrimony entailed. I’d used every tactic in my arsenal: how much this war had devastated Europe, how our shop was losing money, and my last resource: how this trip would be the perfect opportunity for him to write that novel he’d been dreaming about his entire life. But instead of letting it go, I pushed him further.

“Yes, but you make it seem like I did it for my own benefit.” I couldn’t control the volume of my voice anymore. “I did it for us!”

“Why couldn’t you be happy with what we had? Why did you need more?”

“Are you serious? What did you want me to do with my inheritance? Give it away? Forgive me for looking out for our well-being. Forgive me for wanting to get us out of that tiny apartment and move to a splendid plantation in one of the top exporting countries in the world!”

“Oh, don’t even start with that. I know all about that plantation. You’ve talked about nothing else since we received that damned letter! You’re just like your father, crazed with ambition.”

“You never even knew my father. I barely remember him!”

“It’s what your mother said.”

I didn’t want to hear about my mother either. This trip had made me miss her even more—I thought about her every day.

“Look, Puri,” Cristóbal said, softening his voice. “I don’t want to argue with you. Not here. I promise I will be more available later, but now, be a good girl and let me get back to my novel.”