Page 30 of The Hacienda
That was answer enough for him.
“Burn copal,” he said firmly. “Fill any room you stay in with smoke.”
“What does it do?”
“It purifies your surroundings.”
So itdidwork. If I was to defend myself tonight, I needed it. I didn’t want protection; I wanted tools with which to protect myself. “I don’t have any. Do you—”
He looked over my head, scanning the shelves that lined the back of the room. “We keep some in here, for when we run out of the imported kind Padre Guillermo and Padre Vicente prefer... Wait one moment.”
The room was so tight, the space between boxes and altar and abandoned pews so narrow. It was impossible not to touch; his hands were ginger, light as the brush of a wing as they guided me by the shoulders to one side so he could step behind me.
From her quiet place on the shelf, Our Lady of Dust and Secrecy met my eyes over the priest’s shoulder.
Heat flushed my cheeks. I was certain she saw it.
“Here.” Padre Andrés turned and pressed three large pieces of resin into my palm, his fingertips brushing my wrist. He drew his hand back quickly and cleared his throat. “I will pack some things and come to the property tomorrow after Mass,” he said, serious once more.
“Thank you so much,” I breathed, my fingers curling over the resin. “How could I ever repay you for your help?”
He dropped his gaze, eyelashes brushing his cheeks, suddenly shy once more. “Tending to lost souls is my vocation, Doña Beatriz.”
The tenderness in his voice stole something from my chest, leaving me vulnerable and imbalanced.
“Is it not also Padre Vicente’s? Yet he had no interest in helping me,” I said. My bitterness hung on the air like smoke. That was the tone Mamá scolded me for time and time again, the one that made Tía Fernanda call me ungrateful and sharp.
It didn’t faze Padre Andrés in the least. He shrugged, birdlike with those slim shoulders. A slow, knowing smile played at the corner of his mouth. “He lacks expertise with certain things.”
“But aren’t you less experienced than him?”
Padre Andrés raised his eyes and held my gaze.Not with this, my gut said. “Do you trust me, Doña Beatriz?”
I did. I felt it with a certainty as powerful as the sweep of a tide.
I nodded.
“Then I will see you tomorrow. I will arrive at the capilla around noon,” he said. “Buenas tardes, Doña Beatriz.”
I dipped my chin to him in goodbye, the formality of the gesture so at odds with the intimacy of our conversation, how we stood only a foot apart from each other in a dim room.
I swallowed the thought quickly and raised my head with all the dignity I could muster. “Buenas tardes, Padre.”
“Please,” he said as I moved to the door. “Andrés. JustAndrés.”
11
THE NEXT DAY, Isat on the front steps of the house, waiting for night to fall. A candle burned on my right, already lit despite the still-orange skies. At my other side, copal in a censer released a steady, curling plume of mauve smoke.
A book sat abandoned by my side. Since Papá died, reading had been my constant companion, my path to escape the confines of my life. Not so since arriving at San Isidro. Paranoia rendered me incapable of losing myself in words, especially in the hours near sunset. What if I were to become too caught up in reading and night fell without me noticing? Without being prepared? It was the same fear that woke me with a start from my siesta that afternoon. With no one to judge me, no one to care, I had taken to bringing a blanket into the sun-flooded back terrace and drowsing on the steps that led to the garden, blood warmed by sunshine and lulled by the presence of lit copal.
Sometimes, I thought longingly of my first nights at San Isidro, curledup next to Rodolfo’s heavy warmth. How soundly I slept with the certainty of someone’s weight on the other side of the bed, the steady rhythm of breathing.
I would not be alone in the house tonight either, but tonight would be different. Padre Andrés was due to arrive at sunset.
I had met him at the capilla around noon. Ana Luisa cast me a curious look when I asked her to prepare the small rooms that adjoined the chapel for a guest, but she asked no questions. Perhaps she should have. It might have prevented the look of surprise on her face when she saw Padre Andrés walking up the path to the capilla from the main gates of the hacienda, a maguey fiber bag slung over one shoulder, his long legs bringing him into the heart of the estate with an easy grace.
“Buenas tardes, Doña Beatriz. Señora,” he greeted Ana Luisa, formal and stiff.
