“She would be the first to tell you, ‘No hay dolor de que el alma no puede levantarse en tres días.’ There is no sorrow the soul can’t rise from in three days.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling and remembering how she would pronounce her sayings with the authority of a priest. “She would.”
“Then you will think seriously about this offer from Señor Rubio?” Margarita asked.
“I’ll consider it,” I said.
“That’s a smart girl,” Señora Paz said, patting my hand.
“I’m going to change my clothes and then go see Señor Diaz,” I said.
“We’ll wait for you to return, and then we’ll all go together to see Señora Rubio,” Margarita told me. “And we’ll let Pascual speak for himself.”
I couldn’t imagine Pascual saying such things to me in front of an audience of women. If he wanted me so much that he could overcome his great shyness, maybe it was meant to be.
I thanked them for all they had done and went to my house for what could be the next-to-last time. The next time, I would be going to get my things and whatever family possessions remained. After I changed my clothes, I went to see Señor Diaz. He was one of the most highly respected men in the village, having been a judge as well as a lawyer. Few decisions in the village were made without his input, even now. He had an office with a secretary and the most modern communications of anyone, even better than what Señor Lopez had on his large estate and soybean farm.
I had been to Señor Diaz’s office only once before, with my father when he went to get some important papers. Señor Diaz’s secretary was his sister-in-law. My mother always thought she was an arrogant woman who behaved as if she were the one, not Señor Diaz, who was giving advice. She wasn’t a gossip like Señora Paz and her sister, but she had her ways of letting people know she knew important things about them or their families. She held that knowledge like a sword over their heads.
Tall, with a long face that convinced my grandmother she had a horse in her ancestry, Señor Diaz’s sister-in-law had a way of pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows instead of saying hola. She spoke to people as if her words were jewels. Few people could make me feel as uncomfortable in their presence as she could.
She knew who I was, but she pretended she didn’t when I walked into the office.
“Yes?” she said.
“I’m Delia Yebarra. Señor Diaz knows I am coming to see him.”
She stared at me as though I should be telling her much more. Then she got up without saying another thing to me and went to the inner office door. She knocked but did not wait to hear Señor Diaz say to come in. She went in and closed the door behind her.
Not ten seconds later, she stepped out and returned to her desk as if I weren’t standing there. She shifted some papers and then looked at me.
“Well, go on in,” she said, as if I should have known to do so on my own. I thanked her, but she no longer looked at me or heard me.
“Hola, Delia,” Señor Diaz said, coming around his desk to greet me. He was a distinguished-looking man with a thin black mustache and a narrow face. He had dark brown eyes and black hair and was no more than five-feet-ten, but because of the proud and confident way he held himself, he looked to be taller. “I am sorry about your grandmother’s passing. The deaths of your parents are not yet distant enough of a memory.”
“Gracias, señor.”
“I’m afraid the money for your family’s house is not such a great amount, Delia. It’s not going to be enough to live on for long.”
“I understand, señor.”
“It’s more than most houses in the village would get. I’m proud to say I negotiated a fair sum.”
“Gracias, señor.”
He stared at me a moment, and I knew he had something more to say.
“I knew you would be back here soon, Delia. I was not surprised to hear from Señora Paz that you had returned and were at their casa.”
“Oh? Por qué, Señor Diaz?”
He stared a moment and then returned to his desk and picked up a manila envelope.
“When your grandmother died, I contacted your aunt in Palm Springs, California. She did not respond, but this morning, this came by special delivery for you,” he said, handing it to me.
I looked at the return address. It was Palm Springs, but the name above it was Edward Dallas, not Isabela.
“Gracias, Señor Diaz,” I said, not hiding the amazement in my voice.