“Please, help yourself. My father had some novels there.” She pointed at the lower level of one of the bookshelves, which was nowhere near where I stood. “I have to tell you, though, my father was very particular about his things. He didn’t let me or anybody else touch them. He was organized to a fault and one of his last dying wishes was that his encyclopedia and his book collection remained intact. He would’ve been cross if he found you here.”

I headed for the bookshelf.

“Again, I apologize. This shall never happen again.” Now how could I manage to take the notebook with me with Angélica’s eyes scrutinizing my every move?

“Aha! The Count of Monte Cristo.” I slid the book from the shelf. “I’ve always wanted to read it.”

“You’re welcome to it.”

I refrained from turning toward my father’s desk as I crept to the door. Angélica waited for me by the threshold, her hand on the knob. As soon as I walked out, she shut the door.

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 17

Today I was going to prove my manhood to Don Martin.

I’d run into him in the morning after breakfast while taking a walk by the plantation. He’d disposed of his usual jacket and tie and had his shirt rolled up all the way to his elbows and long rubber boots over his pants.

“Want to come fishing?” he said.

“Right now?” I asked.

“It’s what Sundays are for.”

“Not church?” I said.

“This is my church,” he said, pointing at the vegetation around us.

I couldn’t say I disagreed. I accepted his invitation, mostly out of a desire to find out from him who was the mysterious woman dating Franco. I had a feeling that Martin knew a lot more than he let on about the foreman’s son.

I wished I’d declined the offer to go fishing, though.

When Martin handed me a tin box and told me to collect worms for bait with my bare hands, I thought I would retch.

I’d always been squeamish but it was apparent that “other men” didn’t feel this way. Martin had no qualms about digging into the soil by our feet and pulling out those wiggling creatures.

I stood in the middle of the field, paralyzed. Perhaps this was what Cristóbal had meant when he said we were city people. He was right about that. First, it had been the stubborn mare, then the snake, today worms. What tomorrow?

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he said.

I wanted to tell him that I couldn’t touch a worm even if he paid me, but two things stopped me: my pride and the fear of being discovered.