Martin parked in front of the house and the two of them got out. After a moment, they turned around and stared at me. Like a fool, I’d been waiting for them to open the door for me—out of habit more than anything. I scrambled to open the door myself and got out.

The woman on the porch wore an ivory hat covering half of her face. Her silk gown in pearl tones was long, loose-fitted, and similar to the stylish dresses I’d seen so many times on the most affluent customers that came by my store. Perched on the woman’s shoulder was a white cockatoo with a lengthy tail, as if to leave no doubt that her monochromatic presentation was deliberate.

As I approached the steps, I recognized my father’s eyes in the woman’s face. Growing up, I’d memorized every detail of my father’s face through a portrait that sat on our chimney’s mantelpiece.

She had to be one of my sisters.

When the woman saw us, she stood to greet us. The cockatoo remained still except for a thick yellow feather that popped on top of its head.

“Doña Angélica.” Aquilino approached the young woman and kissed her hand.

She must have been a couple of years younger than me. Her body was slender, with a long, swanlike neck. There was elegance to every one of her moves, from the way she turned her head to examine us (me in particular) to the way her long fingers extended toward mine so I would kiss her hand once Aquilino had made the proper introductions. I couldn’t reconcile how someone who looked so fragile would live in a rural place like this. She belonged in Madrid or in Paris, not in the country.

My cheeks flushed as I kissed my sister’s hand. It felt so unnatural. The only hand I’d ever kissed had been the parish priest’s (and only because my mother had prompted me to do so). One of Angélica’s eyebrows lifted slightly as she examined my face more closely. I lowered my boater hat to cover as much of it as possible.

When Aquilino mentioned María Purificación’s tragic demise at sea, a frown creased Angélica’s brow.

“What a shame,” she said, shaking her head. “I was looking forward to meeting her.”

I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or just polite. Her expression revealed nothing more than discomfort, and given the strenuous heat, it might have been more of a reaction to the weather than to the sad news.