“I’m fine.” She rested her hands on the fabric she was about to sew. “That just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“Why? Did you know Soledad’s son?”

She averted her gaze. “Of course, his father worked here for years. They lived by the creek.”

“Was he . . .” I dragged a chair in front of her and sat down. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“He used to be.”

“And what happened?” I was having palpitations, sweaty hands. Was Catalina the woman Franco had been in love with? The woman who’d asked him that perverse favor?

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I think I know what this is about,” I said, taking a gamble.

Her eyes widened.

“He was an admirer of yours, wasn’t he? I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you are a beautiful woman. I’m sure a lot of men would like to be with you.”

“You think”—she blushed again—“you think I’m beautiful?”

“Of course. I can’t believe you would even doubt it.”

She smiled coyly. “I will admit that Franco and I were close, but that was years ago, that was before, before . . .” She squeezed Angélica’s dress.

“The fire?”

“Even before that.”

I reached out for her hand. “Sometimes it’s better to talk about those things that upset us or give us grief. You may find that it relieves your soul.”

The moment her tears started trailing down her face, I knew she was ready to talk.

CHAPTER 30 - Catalina

CHAPTER 30

Catalina

Vinces, 1919

The paper trembled in my hands. Franco’s handwriting, still childlike, was unmistakable to me—his Ms looked more like crashed spider legs than letters—but I’d given up on his penmanship years ago.

“Meet me at the creek,” the note said, “I have something for you.”

Franco had been acting strange lately. For years, I’d cherished his companionship. There were not a lot of people our age in this area and those who lived nearby ignored us. We were the outcasts, the eccentric ones. My sister had already gotten married to Laurent and only talked to me during our rehearsals. Juan, or Martin as he liked to be called now, was always busy with my father, and after the Virgin pilgrimage, I never saw Elisa again.

The only friend I had was Franco. And yet, I couldn’t quite pinpoint what had changed in the last few weeks, but he seemed different now. He would constantly fidget with stones or wood sticks and would often start to say something only to stop mid-sentence.