“What did you study?” I said.

“Agronomy.”

“That makes sense.”

For a moment, the only sound was the gurgling of the brook.

“So, what happened to your father?” I finally said.

“He drowned.”

His bluntness disconcerted me. Involuntarily, I faced the water. I regretted asking, but he didn’t seem to mind the subject.

“He’d gotten drunk the night before and in the morning, he went for a swim. Some think that he got a cramp, but I think he was still drunk.”

“Did he”—I lowered my tone—“did he get drunk often?”

“No. That’s why he got so drunk this time. He couldn’t handle his alcohol.” He faced the pond, pensively. “I think it finally caught up with him.”

“What?”

“His mistakes.”

I wanted to know more, but I didn’t think Cristóbal would’ve asked. Besides, after the giggling fiasco, I didn’t want to call more attention to myself. Honestly, I was surprised Martin hadn’t realized I was a woman yet. He seemed like an observant man.

“Well, that’s all in the past. It doesn’t change anything,” he said with a hint of bitterness.

His fishing rod stiffened, then gave a small jerk. Martin stood up and pulled on the pole.

“It’s a big one.” He reeled and pulled the rod, exposing a bass that must have been at least six pounds.

As the fish wiggled, Martin removed the hook from its mouth, then inserted a needle with a long string through its mouth and gill, and tied it. He stuck the needle in the ground, letting the fish’s body remain inside the water stream. “To keep fresh,” he said. He didn’t talk about his father anymore and I didn’t dare ask. I had to strike a balance where I could earn his trust without overwhelming him with questions.

I had minimum luck with my own fishing, but at least I caught a couple of small bass. Then came the gory task of washing the fish and cutting them open to remove their insides. I marveled at Martin’s skill, his precision for cutting, his speed. His hands were large, masculine, his fingernails soiled. It was fascinating to watch.

How come women never did amusing things like this? Well, at least I never did. I was too busy working.

I stared at his profile. What would he say if he knew who I was? Would he flirt with me, or be cold and distant? He would probably not use the kind of language that freely flew from his mouth now that he thought I was a man.

For the first time, I missed my long mane. It had been Cristóbal’s weakness and I couldn’t help but wish Martin could see me as a woman, too. Wait, what was I doing? My husband had just died and here I was wondering what another man thought of me.