I lived in a state of jumpiness until Abílio had decided what repairs and changes he would one day make to the house, and then left. I saw him occasionally over those few days, but only across the yard or disappearing down the road. When I finally heard from Binta that he had left Madeira, the heaviness that had made breathing difficult lifted.
When the next letter came from Dona Beatriz a month later, talking of her life in the usual way, and asking the normal questions, I felt further relief.
And yet I knew that from now on I could never completely let my guard down. Not where Abílio Perez was concerned.
Bonifacio grew ever more vigilant in his prayers over Candelária. He also grew thinner, and his face took on the haunted look he had when he’d returned from the mountains in Curral das Freiras after Lent. It frightened me. I suspected his anxiety and lack of appetite were caused by waiting to hear from Rio de Janeiro.
I waited anxiously as well during this time. Whenever I was enjoying myself in some small, simple activity—sitting at the table in the kitchen talking to Nini or Binta after dinner, or playing a noisy game of tag with Candelária in the sitting room, or laughing with Cristiano over a game of dominoes on a Sunday—Bonifacio stared at me as if I were engaged in some wrongdoing.
As the winter passed and spring came, Tiago was apprenticed to a tanner in Funchal. Cristiano continued to help Raimundo with the horses and with repairs around the quinta, but missed his friend.
“Tiago is a bit older than you,” I told him. “But it’s almost time for you to begin an apprenticeship as well.”
He looked at me, very still.
“I’ve thought that you could learn the work of the adega, like Espirito and me.” I planned to speak to Espirito about this: by the time of this year’s upcoming harvest, Cristiano could be helpful in many small ways, running up and down the steps of the hot storage room, chalking the barrels with the year and rankings, and delivering messages as needed.
Something I didn’t recognize passed over his face. “I could work in the adega? I’ll … I’ll always be here?”
I understood then. “Yes. You’ll always be here. I told you that. You don’t have to worry about what you heard Bonifacio say last summer. You’re not leaving. Your home will always be with me, and with Candelária.”
He smiled then. “Can I tell Tiago about my apprenticeship tonight?”
“Just wait until I make sure it’s all right with Espirito. But I’m sure it will be,” I said, and he smiled at me then, and I realized I hadn’t seen his dimple for a while.
That evening, both children asleep, I asked Bonifacio when he expected to hear from Rio de Janeiro.
“It hasn’t been a full year since I wrote, not enough time for the issue to have been resolved and the letter of my acceptance to come back.”
I nodded, hoping my face was unreadable.
I looked forward, more and more, to time spent with Espirito when I took the children to visit Eduardo and Luzia. It had been a year and a half since Olívia’s death, and Espirito was the man he had once been, and now often laughed at something Cristiano or Candelária said. I had missed his laugh.
Espirito had welcomed the idea of Cristiano apprenticing, and so I took him with me to the wine lodge during my third harvest. As always, I was proud of his ability to learn quickly and to carry out duties with maturity. Some of those steamy late summer and early autumn days, Espirito and Cristiano and I would leave the adega and walk down Rua São Batista to the square. There we ate a meal at one of the wooden tables set up under the arching trees. We always politely asked Bonifacio if he would care to join us, and each time I held my breath, not wanting him to come, and was always relieved when he said no, he was too busy to waste time.
One afternoon, Espirito dropped his fork onto the stones at our feet, and as he bent to retrieve it, I saw a small birthmark on the back of his neck, under his tied-back hair. It was a burgundy stain small as the nail of my last finger, and shaped like a leaf, tapering on one end. In one sudden, unexpected instant, I wanted to kiss that tiny imperfection.
Our hands touched as we passed each other dishes—had they always? I began to wonder whether he let his fingers linger even a moment longer than necessary. Was I creating this phantom intimacy, or had he begun to look at me in a different way?
At the end of one long, hot day in the adega, I sent Cristiano home; I could see he was flagging. “Tell Binta I’ll be there soon to fetch Candelária,” I said. “I just want to finish the last weighing of this mosto with Espirito.”
When Espirito and I were done, I sank onto a bench in the courtyard and smiled at him. “That’s it for this year, then. It feels good, having it all done. It’s been another successful harvest.”
“Your third.”
I nodded. “The first when Candelária wasn’t yet two years old. She’ll be four on her next birthday.”
He sat beside me, close enough for our arms to touch if I allowed mine to move just slightly. I felt alive, full of energy in spite of working in the heat all day. I turned my head and looked at him, and he looked at me, and there was a knowingness in his eyes that made something leap inside me, an ache of possibility.
But then he stood. “You should get home. You must be hungry.”
I nodded.
“Cristiano shows promise,” he said. “He’s a hard worker.”
I licked my lips. “Could we have a glass of wine to celebrate this season’s last day in the adega?”
He looked at me a moment too long. “Luzia will have kept dinner for me. Shall I call you a cart?”
Embarrassed, I turned and started across the courtyard. “No. I’ll walk home.”
He called after me, “You’ve forgotten your pay packet.” He had given it to me when I arrived that morning, but I’d left it on the table of the blending room.
“I’ll come for it tomorrow,” I called over my shoulder, feeling somehow humiliated.
When I went to Kipling’s late the next afternoon, the door of the blending room was closed. I knocked, and at Espirito’s murmur I opened it and stood in the doorway. I was uneasy, as if I’d displeased him. All night I thought of how I must have been completely mistaken about the way he looked at me, and felt a fool.
He was sitting at the table, a wooden box in front of him. He had the air of someone waiting.
“I’ve come for my pay packet,” I said, approaching the table.
He stood. “I bought you something. I saw it in a shop, and I …” He gestured at the finely carved box. “Open it.”
“Oh,” I cried in pleasure as I lifted the lid on a beautiful set of dominoes, running my fingers over the rounded edges of the bone, the tiny indentations of the ebony pips. “So beautiful.” I smiled at him, concern about my behaviour yesterday disappearing in that instant. “Why did you do this?”
He smiled back. “You’ve worked hard this harvest.”
“I’m paid for it, like you.”
“Seeing it reminded me of playing dominoes with you in Curral das Freiras. It made me remember my relief in knowing my father was cared for, and that Cristiano was not so bereft.”
I sat down, my fingers still running over the tiles.
“Shall we play?” he asked, and when I nodded, he poured two glasses of wine. The clink of glass upon glass and the steady chirp of a bird in the courtyard were the only sounds. I thought of Bonifacio, still in the Counting House, and wondered what he would think should he find me here, drinking wine and playing dominoes with his brother.
But at this moment, I didn’t care what Bonifacio thought. I set the tiles on the table, face down, then reached across them with my glass and touched it, with just the tiniest tinkle, to Espirito’s, and took a sip. “A game of simple draw, to a score of one hundred,” I said, looking at the bone yard between us. “High doubles to start.” I turned over a tile: a double five, five ebony pips on either end.
He turned over the six-two.
“As it should be,” he said, and we slipped the two tiles back with the others and mixed them on the smooth surface of the mahogany table. “Ladies play first.”
I took another sip of my wine as we each picked our seven tiles and stood them up facing us. “The wine is full-bodied,” I said. “It will perhaps soothe your loss when I win this game.”
He laughed, his pupils widening just the slightest. “You’re quite sure of yourself, aren’t you, Diamantina?”
“About some things, Espirito. About dominoes, and about wine.” The thinning afternoon light from the open door shone on the smooth surface of the tiles. “And now, shall we begin?”
I smacked down a bone. At the sound, there was the old familiar rush of pleasure through my body. How I loved laying the first tile on the table; I had forgotten how much delight it brought me.
I watched Espirito’s fingers as he deliberated. My own fingers caressed the smooth, cool bone of my tiles.
He laid his four-three against mine. “Look out, Diamantina. I’m planning to win.”
“I may let you,” I said, and he looked up at me without smiling.
“Your turn,” he said.
We played the rest of the game in silence. There was a tension between us, as if the end of the game would signal the start of something else. The room grew dimmer; I was too warm, the setting too intimate suddenly, even though I’d often spent time in the blending room with Espirito. I had to concentrate on breathing slowly, evenly. I heard his boot move on the stone floor, and wanted to extend my own and touch his. Was there a sudden fragrance in the air? Outside, the bird’s rhythmic cry suddenly reached a fevered pitch, and then stopped.
I laid my last tile.
Espirito stared at me. “You’ve won, Diamantina.”
I looked from him to the tiles, unable to keep meeting his eyes, and then lifted two tiles and set them in the box, but my hands shook. Espirito put his hands onto mine, and I was forced to look back to his face.
“Why do you tremble?” he asked quietly.
I stood, overwhelmed at his touch, and pulled my hands from his, afraid of what I might say or do should we sit like this any longer. I quickly piled the rest of the tiles into the box and closed it. “I must go,” I said. “I’ve been gone too long.”
He stood as well. “Don’t forget your pay packet,” he said, going to a shelf and taking the bag of coins from it. He held it towards me, and I went to him as if drawn against my will, stepping so close that the back of his hand touched my bodice. I felt an immediate visceral reaction, and drew an audible breath.
I pressed closer, and he looked down at his hand against my breast, then back into my eyes. He didn’t move.
I held his gaze, and his lips parted. The heavy sweetness of the wine we’d drunk hovered in the space between our mouths. As I pressed even closer, the bag fell to the floor and opened, the réis pinging as they hit the stones. Espirito blinked as if suddenly awakened, and then there was the clatter of wheels in the courtyard, and a shout. He quickly left the blending room, left me standing with coins scattered around my feet, and full of desire.