Encarnación had taken a tumble, the fall had killed her. They said Inés had not spoken for weeks after that.
Inés placed the flower she’d cut in a vase set next to the photograph, then she looked among the pile of dress patterns by her sewing machine, flipping through old issues of magazines until she came upon the picture of Errol Flynn she’d been looking for. She sat by the window and tapped a finger against the picture.
That new lodger, he did have a resemblance to Errol Flynn. Dashing and with the air of glamour. What was a man like that doing in Puerco Ahogado? Well-dressed men who looked like they could be in films were not exactly in abundance in their town. Why would a slick fellow like that be placing ads in the lonely hearts sections of magazines?
She grabbed the bill Cándido had given her and threw open the lid of a cigar box that had once belonged to her grandfather. It still smelled faintly of tobacco. She added the money to the modest pile of coins and bills she stored inside. Her hands strayed toward a letter that had been folded and refolded many times, and with careful fingers she held it up.
It was Salvador’s last letter, the one in which, three months after leaving Puerco Ahogado, he informed Inés that he’d met someone in the city and apologized profusely for having given her the wrong impression about the depth of his feelings toward her. She’d ripped to shreds his other letters and love notes, the paper trail of the yearlong relationship they’d maintained while he resided at the guesthouse, but she’d kept this one letter. Not out of sentimentality or romantic longing, but to remind herself that all men were dogs and none of them could be trusted.
The rain began to fall, that drizzle more like a delicate mist descending upon the rooftops, and she opened the window. She inhaled the fresh scent of damp earth and water and greenery. She closed her eyes for a minute, feeling weightless. Then she returned the letter to its place in the box and clapped the lid shut.
That Mr. Linares, he might have a lovely suit jacket and look like a movie star, but she was not going to trust him. Not one bit.
3
As soon as she wascertain that her niece had left the house, Perla went in search of Ulises. He opened the door with a grin on his face that made her think he’d been expecting her. She walked into the room slowly, her head held high, a calculated coolness in her eyes lest he think her a stupid schoolgirl who wanted to take a second look at her would-be sweetheart.
She’d invited him on a whim. She’d exchanged letters with other correspondents, letters that hadn’t amounted to anything. She’d written to stave off boredom, to subdue a restlessness that overtook her on melancholic evenings, to chase away loneliness. Now that this man was here, she wasn’t sure what to do with him.
Miss Perla Inclán had a pristinereputation, one she’d polished with great care. There had been men in her life. Nameless, faceless men she met when she went to the port of Veracruz—which in local parlance was simply referred to as “the port,” as if there could be no other port and no other shores—with the excuse of visiting her cousins. There had been Plutarco. But each of those dalliances was dangerous.
There was, of course, Cándido lurking around. He did not have a pretty face, but Cándido would offer her the position she’d always coveted, as a grande dame of Puerco Ahogado.
That is, if he ever made up his mind and proposed. A real proposal, not his talks sprinkled with legalese.
Ulises Linares was supposed to be a trinket to show off around town, a trinket to make Cándido see she had options and opportunities and that he should hurry and pick a ring. But now that she looked at Ulises in the flesh, Perla Inclán couldn’t help but wonder what might happen if she took this more seriously. She hadn’t realized he’d be this attractive. Pictures lied. She’d expected him to be potbellied, to be missing tufts of hair or even to have borrowed a photo from a friend.
But he looked exactly as he had in his snapshot, gray hair at the temples, with a lively, attractive face.
“Mr. Linares, I came to see if everything was satisfactory with your room. My niece can sometimes forget certain niceties. Do you have enough towels?” she asked, in a polite tone that she’d perfected through the many years she’d endured in servitude to her father, learning to choke down any nervous anguish and mask strong feelings.
“I do. But thank you for checking.”
Perla pressed a hand against the towels piled on a chair, then turned around to survey the space. The bed had been neatly made and the floor had been swept and mopped, as she’d instructed.
“Did Inés explain the particulars of the meals? I’m afraid I might have forgotten to mention that breakfast will be served in your room. We haveour supper at threep.m.in the dining room, and at sevenp.m.we serve coffee, naturally, but also chocolate and cookies. On Fridays we like to play cards.”
“Wonderful. I’m great at canasta. I’m magnificent at any game of chance.”
“Are you, then?” Perla said, and glanced at the toiletries he’d lined up on the vanity, next to the porcelain pitcher and the washbowl. The jar of soap, the shaving brush, the razor in a Bakelite carrying case.
It had been a long time since a man had stayed in this room, since Plutarco, and these masculine implements—the studs resting next to a collar, the carefully polished black oxfords tucked under a chair, the bottle of cologne—reminded Perla of her lonesomeness.
“Quite so. You must be careful around me.”
“You don’t play for money, do you? Men who gamble for money are distasteful,” she said, suddenly picturing dingy, smoky dens of ill repute. It was fine to play cards at home, in select company, but it would be quite another thing if he had a habit of playing poker and losing vast quantities of cash.
She was hungry for romance, but not for romance with a boorish man. She’d had that, she’d had anonymous lovers, men from the port. Rough men in coarse clothes. She’d had Plutarco, a married salesman who snored. No, she would not do that again, and she almost shuddered at the thought of repeating the tired choreography of the clandestine assignations of years past.
“I only play among friends.”
“I’m glad to hear this, Mr. Linares.”
“I want to thank you for the opportunity to vacation here in Puerco Ahogado. I’m sure I’ll have a delightful three weeks.”
“Two weeks,” she corrected him. “In your letter you said you could stay for two weeks.”
“I’m certain I said three.”