We sat on a patio facing the Vinces River and Martin told me this place had the best coffee in town, known as café arábigo. I couldn’t help but imagine myself selling truffles in a restaurant like this one, overlooking this spectacular river—I missed my chocolate shop so much, my Cordobesa, and most of all, Cristóbal. But my past seemed like it had belonged to someone else, especially because all those dear things were gone and would never be mine again. What I wasn’t counting on was missing the chocolate-making process so much. It had always been predictable, reliable, and gratifying. I looked forward to it every morning. It offered me a relaxation and ease that no other activity did (except when La Cordobesa burned my beans). I loved to see the beans transform into a liquid blend—it was almost magical. The memories made me remember why I’d come here in the first place. It wasn’t a need for revenge, it was a need to find the primary source of my passion.

“This coffee would go well with a piece of chocolate,” I said.

Martin took a sip. “I’ve always wanted to taste it, but nobody here knows how to make it.”

“So, in the meantime you chew cacao beans, like Ramona?”

He chuckled.

“The process is long, but not too complicated,” I said. “I learned from watching my wife.”

“And who taught her?”

“Her grandmother, Doña María Purificación García. She was the first one in the family to discover chocolate and she passed on her passion to her son-in-law, Don Armand.”

“I’d love to try it one day, if you say it’s so fantastic.”

“It is.”

“Well, I’m afraid we can’t offer you anything so exquisite. So, until chocolate reaches this humble region, you must settle for our simple humitas,” he said. “It’s the closest thing to heaven you’ll find here.”

“What are those?”

“Don’t ask me how to make them. All I know is that the dough is made out of corn and they wrap them in cornhusks and steam them. Oh, and I think they throw in some anís. Trust me, you’ll like them. I haven’t met a single person who hasn’t.”

Martin was right. Humitas were an unexpected delicacy—moist and fluffy and with a slight sweetness to them, but Martin said they also made them savory.

“These are delicious, Martin,” I said.

He barely smiled. He seemed preoccupied, not the usual easygoing man I’d come to know.

“I have a business proposition for you,” he said finally. “I trust this will stay between the two of us?”

Was he going to propose that we open a café like this one together?

“I know that you will soon inherit a portion of your wife’s land and I’d like to buy it from you.”