Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

6. Lena

Rico leans back on the chair and thankfully keeps those distracting tanned arms at his side.

He showed up this morning wearing a fresh variation of button-down shirt and cargo pants while holding breakfast salvation in a bag. I was struck by this un-grimy version of him—not that I thought he always walked around covered in chicken feathers.

Since then, I have also been struck by his quick mind and the ease that rolls off him—all very unnerving.

Rico imitates my previous shrug. “Well, I hope I’m of some help.” He gestures at my research. “I have to say, this is impressive work.”

I restack the binders to stay occupied. I neither want nor need compliments or recognition—besides the field-wide academic credibility I seek. Also, he seems to be on some kind of personal observation trend. Maybe we can move on once I manage a, “Thank you. Just doing my job.”

But, of course, Rico continues, “Those early transatlantic colonial migrations are especially difficult to track down. You really have to know what you’re doing to get as far as you did.”

No more binders to stack, so now what? I wave off his praise and look at him. “Genealogical research is what I love to do. I have sort of made it my whole life.”

Wait. That might open the door for getting personal again. I turn it back to him. “You obviously know your history. Navarro was so busy when he recommended you, I didn’t learn much of your background . . .”

He crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at me. “Trying to gauge how much I’ll contribute besides my driving?”

“More like trying to gauge if you are as qualified as you are punctual.”

He straightens and puts up his hands defensively. “ Oye , I showed up on time today!”

“Was it the absence of the chickens?”

“Actually, it was the presence of more than one hour’s notice”—I narrow my eyes at him—“plus I didn’t have to pick up my loincloth from the dry cleaners.”

I can’t help the strangled guffaw that comes out of me. I attempt to shut it down quickly, but now I also have to shake off the unbidden image of Rico in a loincloth. Inconveniently, with his couple of unbuttoned buttons and tight-rolled sleeves, it’s not much of a stretch. Basta. Stop it.

He openly grins—like my laugh was a particular victory.

But then he settles into actually answering my question. “I’m no professor. My career has been in finance, but I grew up surrounded with history thanks to my grandparents. Did an undergrad history minor in Caribbean studies and some certifications from genealogical institutes across the US. Even when boardrooms and line charts were my life, I kept up my research and have been involved in several symposiums, published a couple of articles, and so on. Now that I’m in Puerto Rico, I can be more boots-on-the-ground about the research.”

“Well, you certainly impressed Navarro.”

He flicks his hand in mock modesty, mischief in his bright eyes. “Also voted ‘Most Likely to Track Down a Tombstone’ by the Puerto Rican Hispanic Genealogical Society. And ‘Best Smile.’” He flashes a glowing example of his grin and puts up two fingers. “Two consecutive years and current title holder.”

“You must be so proud.”

His award-winning smile demonstrates how absurdly proud. “I’ve been gunning for ‘Eagle Eye Record-Indexer,’ but it’s a very contested category.”

“Maybe next year.”

“A boy can dream.”

I tamp down my own smile and sigh in mock indebtedness. “Thank you for pausing that dream while we work on this lowly project.”

He waves his hand. “Bah, no worries. I think this will teach me a thing or two. Dona Luz Toro has had a stronghold on that ‘Research Breakthrough of the Year’ bracket. I’m counting on you, profesora . I’ve seen your work so far but don’t know your background. Not sure how confident I should be that we can pull it off.” He leans back and crosses those arms, testing his shirt sleeves.

I scoff out, “Oh, do not worry, Senor Morales,“ as I point at my temple, mimicking his previous ridiculous gesture.

Rico smiles but circles his hand in a gesture of, ‘go on, I’m waiting.’

I lean back on my chair and match his laid-back stance as I start. “Well, I do have a website bio. But the main points would be: I had an amazing history teacher that inspired me and pushed me when I showed interest in genealogy. That led to my childhood heroes being historians and archivists like María Brana and Vicenta Cortés. Also to become the youngest member of the Hispanic Genealogical Association.”

“Aww, such a nerd.”

This man.

“I will ignore that, Mr. Best Smile.” He chuckles. I keep my word and continue. “I stayed close to home and attended Universidad de Salamanca , but then moved on to Universidad Complutense in Madrid until I completed my postgrad in history. I specialize in Medieval to eighteenth century Spanish nobility lines, working for a time at the Archivo Histórico Nacional and with respected historians, genealogists, archivists . . . I moved back to Salamanca and now teach and lecture mostly online, so I can focus on research. Many projects, conferences, symposiums, articles.”

“And now you’re here.” His assessing gaze cranks up the unease.

Another re-stack of the binders can’t hurt, but I do reply. “Yes, now I am here to find out what happened to Alonso De Guzmán Velasco and get answers for the Pimentels.”

And then I won’t be here.

Now that introductions are out of the way, I’m ready to have a plan in place.

Not just ready, I am anxious to have a plan. In fact, I wanted the plan in execution at this point.

I love genealogy. But research is not for the impatient, and my patience is spent. As used as I am to slow-going work, I’m not used to being this stuck with a project. Coming to Puerto Rico was not part of the plan, and I don’t even know where to start. My gaze tracks the bulky binders—so much work that will mean nothing if there is no breakthrough soon. I have waited years for an opportunity to prove myself, to gain lasting success, just to have it sail away like Alonso sailed off the Atlantic horizon.

Feeling fidgety, I stand and ask, “Do you want something to drink? There is only water in this refri .”

Rico studies me and takes a moment to reply. Can he sense my restlessness?

My eyes widen as I await a response, and eventually he replies, “No, thanks. I’m good.” I turn to get a glass for myself and then stand by the kitchen island. He thumbs through the binders again as he comments, “I’d be surprised if you didn’t have, like, a full, exhaustive timeline of where and how you want to restart the research trail.”

Staring past him and out the large windows, I sip from my water. This room faces the same bay most Spanish colonists sailed into when arriving at the island. Fortifications had barely begun, so none of these structures were here yet. But the blinding sun, shining waters and a sea breeze so warm it’s like a caress—those were all the same then. When La Concepción anchored here, where did Alonso go?

With a sigh, I turn my gaze back to Rico and admit, “Actually, I have very little idea of where to go from here. I have never hit a wall like this.” My hands go up in frustrated bewilderment. “There is no trace of him.”

Rico looks at me too thoughtfully. “Well, how about we do as my abuela does?” My brow furrows—though at this point I should be used to his conversational pivots. He continues, “We imagine the worst-case scenario. We know Alonso arrived in San Juan Bautista, but we don’t know how long he was here before he disappeared. Many colonists died after catching illness on the ship’s journey or maybe he came across some other misfortune.”

“That would be terribly anticlimactic.”

“You’d rather he immediately boarded another ship and joined the corsairs raiding the Caribbean Sea?”

I stare at him. I had not thought of that, implausible as it may be. This historian in a baseball cap—a forward-facing Yankees one today—just might be helpful.

“I want the facts. But that would make for a better story.”

I tap my chin as the familiar excitement for the thrill of the chase heightens. “If he sailed again on the high seas, we’d have a lot more trouble tracking down the evidence. But—maybe he took off to get out of his father’s grasp?”

The more I think about it, the more I feel a flicker of hope at having some direction. I nod decisively and declare, “I would check there first.”

Rico unsuccessfully suppresses a smirk.

My brow furrows. “What is it?”

He sighs, bracing himself. “If I were a braver man, I’d say there might be some wishful thinking involved in that research process choice . . .”

I put my cup down on the countertop and look straight at him. “Well, it is a good thing you are not—since that would also make you an incorrect man.”

Rico's hands go up in half-hearted defense. “You’re the boss, profesora .”

I narrow my eyes at him as my lips press together to suppress the rush of anticipation. My mind already mulls a mile a minute, and my fingers itch to jump to my laptop and look up this new angle. That flicker of hope fans into an ember.