Chapter 5

Sebastian’s head would explode any second now. He brought his fingers to his temple and pressed it hard, as if he could squeeze away the pain. He would never drink again. Especially not in that filthy place where they only served puros and canelazos. In the end, it hadn’t been worth it. He hadn’t been able to forget, like he’d intended to in the first place. The pain was still there. And this pain was far worse than any migraine. This pain you couldn’t fix with an aspirin or any herbal tea Juanita prepared.

He felt his shirt’s front pocket for his Lucky Strikes. Maldición! He’d forgotten them. He would have to stop by El Turco’s store and get a new box.

He paced around the foyer. Claudia was taking a long time to come down. Maybe she was talking to that girl, the one who opened the door. The one he couldn’t place. He’d seen her face before, and that wild hair of hers, but where? His head throbbed again. He would remember—eventually. Just not now. Not while his brain attempted to break open from his skull.

The noise of heels against the guayacan floor became louder and Claudia’s petite figure appeared on the staircase. Her lovely eyes shone—those bewitching eyes that reminded him of the ocean he loved so much.

He met her at the bottom of the stairs and his lips sought hers, but she moved her face so the only thing his mouth found was her cheek.

“What a nice surprise, Sebastian,” she said. “You should have told me you were coming so I would have changed into something more suitable.”

“You don’t need to change. You’re perfect they way you are.” His fingers rested on her elbow as he led her toward the living room.

“Can I bring you something to drink?”

“Not now, thank you.”

They sat by each other on one of the couches.

“How is your mother?” she asked.

He shrugged. The subject of his mother was not one he wished to think about right now. It would only worsen his headache.

“The poor thing,” she continued, “she didn’t look well at the funeral. I’ve been praying every day that our Lord would help her come to terms with her loss.”

She’d come to terms all right. Just not the way Claudia had been praying for.

“Since you’re mentioning my mother,” he said, “she thinks we should reschedule the Pedida de Mano for this Saturday. Do you think your father would be fine with that?”

Claudia appeared to be fighting a smile. “I don’t know, Sebastian. Your father’s passing is so recent.”

“Yes. But this is what he would have wanted.”

“Whatever you’d like is fine by me.”

He caressed her cheek. Claudia, his eternal bride, the angel who’d been waiting for him to propose for the last four years. How could he, with all his imperfections, have lucked out with such a perfect woman? How could he ever doubt that she would be anything but the best wife a man could want? She was always so compliant, so ready to please him. Never a scorn, never a disagreement. Best of all, she was the complete opposite of his mother.

“Sebastian? Did you hear me?”

He moved toward her. He needed to feel close to another human being now that the only person he’d counted on had died. He held her face between his hands and kissed her. She welcomed the kiss for a moment, but as he pulled closer, her body tensed. With his tongue he attempted to break the barrier of her lips, but she tightened them and pulled her head back. She pushed his chest with her hand.

“Sebastian,” she whispered. “Your father just died. How could you even think about …”

He moved away from her, rubbing his temple with his hand.

“You’re right, you’re right. I apologize.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the living room doorway. “Anyone could have walked in.”

He sat back. He needed to control these urges with Claudia. She was a decent woman and his future wife, not one of the girls at the Zona Roja.

And yet, sometimes Claudia could be so passionate, but when he least expected it, she would stop him and remind him there were rules of conduct to follow. Oh, when was that aspirin going to start working?

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m fine.” He needed a smoke. Badly. “Who’s the girl who opened the door?”

Claudia rested her hands on her lap. “Do you remember María Teresa Santos?”

“I think my mother has mentioned her.”

“Well, Liliana is her daughter. She’s staying with us for a few weeks.”

He recalled the name from one of his mother’s idiotic conversations. “That’s right. They live somewhere in the Coast.”

“Manabí.”

He’d never been to Manabí. So where had he seen her then?

“She seems … a little different,” he said.

She raised her voice. “Different? How?”

“I don’t know. The way she carries herself, the way she dresses.”

“Yes, she’s different,” she said. “But you know how monas are. People from the Coast don’t value the same things we do. Traditions, family, you know.” She rubbed her palms on her skirt. “Morals.”

“I’ve never thought of them as immoral people, just more blunt and outgoing than us.”

“Oh, she is immoral.” She bit her lower lip.

“How come?”

“Why are you so interested in her now?”

“I don’t know.” He set his arm on the sofa’s backrest. “Curiosity, I guess.”

“You want to know the real reason why she’s here? Well, I’ll tell you why.” She talked faster than usual. He’d never seen her this animated before. “Her mother sent her here to keep her away from her married lover.” She covered her mouth with her hand, as if this gesture would take her words back.

“Señor Sebastian! I didn’t know you were here. I would have brought you a slice of flan,” Trinidad said from the threshold.

Claudia placed her hand on her chest. “Trinidad, you need to make your presence known in a less strident way. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry, Niña,” the maid said. “But you know your mother’s rules.”

“Yes. You don’t need to remind me.” Claudia walked past her. “I’ll go get the flan.”

Trinidad stood behind the couch, like she did every time Sebastian visited his future wife, not that Claudia herself would ever let him do anything more than hold her hand for five seconds.

The headache continued after Sebastian left Claudia’s house, and the heat was only making it worse. He stopped by El Turco’s store on his way to the newspaper, but Turco himself told him they were out of Lucky Strikes. His supplier hadn’t brought him any this week. He offered him another brand, for free, but Sebastian declined. It had to be his Luckys, his precious American cigarettes, nothing else would do. He loosened his tie a notch. The thought of spending the entire day without a smoke made his head hurt more, but he had to go to work. He’d been avoiding his responsibilities for too long already.

On his way downtown, he fought an obstacle course of condolences. Being a public figure in a town like San Isidro wasn’t always easy. Not that he had ever wanted the notoriety that came with having a father who’d owned the town’s only newspaper. In fact, he hated it. He despised having to get drunk in isolated dumps so nobody would see him, or lock himself in his room for hours.

He stopped in front of the ugliest building in town, and his father’s second home. His first, really. El Heraldo de San Isidro sat across from the Iglesia de Santo Domingo in the heart of downtown. The five-story building had been built forty years ago by Sebastian’s grandfather. Back then, it had been a proud display of modern architecture with its electric elevator, high ceilings, glass windows, and decorative cast iron in the façade—the greatest source of pride for the Rivas family.

Not for Sebastian. He’d always thought it was out of place in a colonial town. It didn’t match any other buildings around it and was unnecessarily flamboyant. Growing up, he’d been embarrassed to be associated with such a pompous construction. Ironically, now he had to spend eight hours a day locked inside those cold walls and persistent moldy odor.

He walked into the building and waved at the guard at the desk. He didn’t stop—he didn’t need any more condolences—and climbed the stairs, already missing his old crowded office and the loud noise of the press humming in his ears for hours on end. He never took the elevator, even though his father’s office was on the fifth floor. But he wouldn’t have taken it even if it was on the tenth, fifteenth, or twentieth floor of a skyscraper. It was only a matter of time before someone got stuck inside that trembling contraption. He’d made that mistake before, back when he was a little boy, but it wouldn’t happen again.

Breathing hard, he reached the fifth floor. Pamela Torres sat at her desk. Pleasant, gentle, a lady if ever there was one, she’d been his father’s secretary for as long as he could remember. She stood up as he approached her desk and waddled on wide hips toward him. Sebastian had always thought Pamela’s body belonged to two different women. Her torso was petite, her breasts unnoticeable, and her arms, two bones scarcely covered with skin. Her lower body, on the other hand, held probably seventy percent of her weight. Her legs were thick, her derriere stuck out like a duck’s tail, and her hips stretched horizontally in a way that caused creases in any skirt she wore.

Pamela offered a warm hug. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Her voice broke. “Your father will be missed.”

Sebastian believed her words. He had seen the way she adoringly stared at his father over the years.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Sebastian. Things have been very … different around here lately.”

A male voice behind him interrupted the hug.

“Sebastian! I’m sorry, Señor Rivas, what are you doing here so soon?”

Sebastian greeted Cesar Villamizar, his father’s right-hand man.

Cesar was a small, quiet man with black-frame glasses and a trim beard. He had worn a white shirt and suspenders since Sebastian first visited the newspaper back when he was five or six years old. Cesar had been his father’s most loyal employee. Originally a reporter, he’d morphed into several different positions within the organization—as often happened in small newspapers—including photographer, and most recently managing editor.

“Don’t call me Señor. I’m Sebastian, like always.”

“But you’re the owner now.”

Sebastian didn’t want to be reminded of that. “Newspaper Owner” was not a title he was looking forward to. As production manager all he had to do was make sure the printing press worked well, the ink didn’t bleed, and the paper didn’t get stuck. He didn’t want to have to worry about stories, salaries, and advertisers.

Cesar stretched his suspenders with his thumbs. “Sebastian, I wanted to apologize for not attending your father’s funeral, but I had to go to Guayaquil for … personal reasons.”

“I understand, Cesar. You don’t need to apologize.”

When Sebastian glanced at Pamela, her smile had faded. He headed to his father’s office, followed by Cesar. A blend of scents including leather couches, cigarettes, and bleach gave Sebastian a sudden vision of his father. He could picture him sitting behind his desk with his arms stretched behind his head, displaying the confident smile people in town, especially women, found so charming. How different from the Ignacio Rivas of the last three months, when that damn cancer had consumed him. Sebastian reached the cherrywood desk and rubbed the surface. He waited until Cesar closed the office door before speaking.

“I need to know in what state my father left the company.”

Cesar’s smile dissipated. “You mean the bookkeeping?”

“Yes.”

“Well, your father said I would be in charge of the finances after he … passed.”

Sebastian sat behind his father’s desk. “Cesar, I’m sure my father had a good reason to tell you that, but I’d rather keep you in your current position. You’ve done such a wonderful job for us.” He rested his palms on the sides of the leather chair. “I’ll take care of that tedious stuff.”

Frowning, Cesar walked toward a file cabinet in the corner of the room and removed a pile of leather-bound folders. He placed the stack in front of Sebastian.

Sebastian exhaled. This looked like hours of work.

“Do you have any Luckys?”

“I don’t smoke, Sebastian.”

His head throbbed again.