I hadn’t thought of this. Angélica seemed to be a carbon copy of my father, but Catalina must have taken after her mother because she had olive skin and dark, Moorish eyes. People used to say I also looked like my mother, a big-boned, tall woman.

“In some ways,” I said. “She had black hair like you, but your sister’s nose. She was also very musical. She loved zarzuelas.”

“Did she play any instruments, like Angélica and I?”

“Her voice was her instrument.”

This might have been a stretch. If you asked Cristóbal or La Cordobesa they would’ve said my “instrument” needed some tuning.

Catalina smiled. “How lucky you must have been to be married to a woman like her. She sounds exceptional.”

I took a deep breath. My voice might crack if I spoke. I stood up.

“I should go,” I finally said. “It isn’t proper for me to be here.”

“Of course.”

“Good night, Doña Catalina.”

I walked away without giving her the chance to answer. My sister’s words had touched me deeply. No, Cristóbal hadn’t been lucky to have me—the opposite was true. I wasn’t the one who was buried in the depths of the ocean. And I couldn’t believe how disloyal I’d been this afternoon by spending all that time with another man and what was even worse, enjoying myself. If there was a God in the Heavens, He would certainly punish me for such a callous betrayal.

CHAPTER 18 - Catalina

CHAPTER 18

Catalina

Vinces, 1913

My mother’s fingers squeezed my ear painfully. “Have you gone mad, Catalina?”

Startled, I dropped the cigarette in my hand. I didn’t know what hurt more: my pride or my ear. I was already fifteen years old and yet my mother was treating me as though I were still a child.

“Pick it up!” she said, pointing at the cigarette I’d just dumped on the ground. I couldn’t believe she’d found my hiding spot behind the palo santo tree. My mother never left the house. How did she find her way out here?

“Let me go!” I said, trying to push her away, but she had a good grip of my ear.

“I said, pick it up.”

Twisting my body in an unnatural way, I picked up the cigarette. My mother dragged me toward the kitchen as if I were a sack of potatoes.

“How can you embarrass me like this?” she was saying. “Don’t you know you have a reputation around here? What if one of your father’s peones had seen you? You know that news travels faster than light in this town. What is wrong with you?”

Yes, what was wrong with me? I knew I had to be good, but I couldn’t stop myself from sinning.

“If it isn’t one thing, it’s another,” my mother said.