I’d heard that the city of Vinces was called Little Paris, but I had no idea how accurate the term was. The architecture was reminiscent of any European city with Baroque buildings in pastel colors. It even had a small version of the Eiffel Tower and a palace in turquoise with intricate white molding surrounding windows and balconies. There were shops with French names all around us: Le Chic Parisien, Bazaar Verdú, and people who walked around in the latest fashions I’d only seen in Madrid. My father must have felt right at home here.

“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, Doña 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.