I would’ve rather he slapped me.

“I know it’s a lot of money, but I have my life’s savings, plus I think I may be able to get a loan from Banco Territorial or Banco Agrícola y Ganadero.”

I pictured the bug-eyed manager who had told me that the signature in the check was my father’s.

“You don’t have to answer right now,” he said. “I suppose Angélica or Catalina might want to buy your portion, too, but listen, nobody knows that plantation like I do. I worked with Don Armand for seven years and I love the land. Besides . . .”

He shook his head, setting his napkin on the table.

Was that why he’d been so nice to me all this time? Taking me out for drinks, teaching me how to fish, bringing me to this café. Because he had ambitions about owning the plantation, too? And here I thought he’d genuinely liked me. But he may have befriended me just to get his hands on my father’s plantation.

A more disturbing thought came to mind. If he’d had dreams of owning the plantation for some time, then it would’ve been convenient to him if I’d perished aboard the ship. It would be one less person he would have to deal with. If he was, in fact, the one who’d hired Franco, it would make sense that he didn’t sign the check with his own name. Without his signature, there would be no evidence that he’d hired Soledad’s son, no way to track the check back to Martin.

This man had been my father’s closest worker for almost a decade. He had plenty of time to learn my father’s signature. How disappointing it must have been for him not to inherit anything. Was this why he never answered my questions about Franco? But Martin’s possible involvement didn’t answer the question about the woman Franco had been in love with.

“I don’t know, Martin,” I said curtly. “I haven’t thought about what I’m going to do with the land yet.”

“You told Tomás Aquilino that you had no interest in staying in Vinces, that you hated the country and had only come here to please your wife.”

As soon as I heard the lawyer’s name, I knew where I’d seen the girl leaving Soledad’s house. She was Aquilino’s maid. Mayra? She’d served us that mouth-watering fish the day I arrived in Guayaquil. But what was she doing all the way here?

I stopped swirling my spoon inside the coffee.

“Cristóbal? Are you all right?”

“Yes. Let me think about it, Martin. I promise you will be the first one to know my decision.”

CHAPTER 24 - Catalina

CHAPTER 24

Catalina

Vinces, 1907