Querida Gabriella:
Las Ceibas is a three-hundred-year-old home named after the ceibas—the weeping willows—that are planted by the river that crosses the garden in front of the house.
According to the legend, the trees were planted in honor of an Indian princess, Atuni, who lived in the area. The entire valley is peppered with Indian burial sites, and they say Las Ceibas was built near or on top of one. That’s where the story comes from. The land was granted to the Montoya family by the Spanish crown. That’s where the word hacienda comes from, you see? From the hacendado period of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.
The Montoyas claimed the land and built it up, even though the Indians fought them on it. It was sacred Indian land and shouldn’t be touched.
But the Montoyas wanted the home along the river. They compromised. The house is built apart from the burial ground, although it’s hard to say what is what any longer. The grounds have shifted during the centuries.
What everyone swears is true is that Gerardo Montoya fell in love with an Indian girl—Araceli—the daughter of one of the caciques of the region.
She was baptized with a Spanish name, which means “altar from the sky.”
Of course, it was doomed. They were split by religion—the baptism was really a front—language and ethnicity. He had stolen her people’s land. But she. She loved him.
You can imagine. She’d never seen anyone like him. Tall—because even though the Spaniards of the day were tiny, they were still taller than the Indians—and bearded and what was most remarkable of all, he had green eyes.
And she was supposed to be sublime and graceful and, on top of that, a healer, widely respected even by the other tribes.
It is said that both went against their parents’ wishes, meeting clandestinely at the waterfall that still lies within the hacienda’s boundaries. She even cast a spell upon her father, so he wouldn’t realize she went missing for hours on end.
But, of course, he found out, because people are envious of others’ happiness, and they made sure he knew.
One evening, as Araceli went to meet her lover, she was intercepted by her father and his men. Would they have killed her because of her dishonor?
It’s hard to say. But Araceli panicked. She ran along the river’s edge, and in looking back, tripped on a rock perched high on a cliff and fell to the water and to her death.
Gerardo planted the willows in her honor, and now, the trees weep for Araceli every time her spirit passes from the waterfall down to the river that runs in front of the house.
They say Gerardo never married, and the Montoya name died with him. The hacienda was transferred to another Spanish noble, and through the years its lineage was lost.
But the story of Araceli and Gerardo has remained in local lore.
Those who stay overnight at the house swear that some evenings, you can truly hear the willows weep.
The house is now owned by a friend of mine. A friend from long, long ago, Juan José Solano. His family bought the hacienda a century ago.
They call him Jota Jota, which is JJ in Spanish. Isn’t that funny?
Actually, it isn’t. People are their names. If they’re not, they become them. Like Araceli.
Frivolous people invariably have frivolous names.
But only a few, a very brave few, Gabriella, ever change their names.
I told you what your name meant, didn’t I? A strong woman, close to God.
I hope, Gabriella, that you never change your name.
I hope, Gabriella, that you grow up to become your name.
I, on the other hand, am an Helena, named after my grandmother and totally unfit for my name. Helenas are gorgeous creatures; impassive, elegant, proper, in command.
I am none of those things. I’m askew, the antithesis of Helena. Surely someone must have seen that from the moment I was born with this Medusa hair.
But Juan José must have been born a Juan José. Dignified, aristocratic, traditional. Chivalrous, even.
How could they have reduced him to a banal JJ?
Maybe a real Helena would have looked for a JJ. A yin to her yang.
But because I wasn’t a real Helena, I always looked for a Juan José. But I never knew he was there, until now.