Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

24. Rico

“I mean, it’s possible, no?”

She slowly nods, still processing with a faraway gaze. The chunky sweater she wears in defense of the aggressive air-conditioning slips off her shoulder before she absentmindedly hugs it to her chest. “Yes—of course—possible. Judging by the resistance to aristocratic life we inferred from the letters and how quick he was to jump on the opportunity to head west . . .”

“Maybe—maybe he wanted to disappear,” I throw out.

“Alonso De Guzmán became Diego Silva?”

I shrug. “Could be.”

“But, ay , how would we even prove that?”

“We keep digging into Diego and explore this possibility.”

Lena widens her eyes and sits straighter in the chair to turn back to her laptop. “Eh—exploring possibilities, yes.”

I settle back toward my screen, when I feel her soft hand on my forearm. The air conditioning has nothing on my instant body temperature spike from the contact as I stare at her hand. When my eyes meet hers, she says, “Even if this angle does not work out, this was such good thinking, Federico. Thank you.”

Words of affirmation are not just a love language right now. They are the mother tongue, an ancient dialect that blows warm fuzzies into my whole being.

Plus using my first name? Only Abuela at her most menacing calls me that when it’s a full-name situation. My name voiced in Lena’s throatier tone and accent—it’s an electrifying caress. I must somehow play it cool, though.

“I know, right? Not bad for a gravestone hunter.”

Lena chuckles. “Not bad at all.”

My rogue hand has no choice but to rest itself on hers, wanting to hold its place on my branded arm a little longer. It’s only the hum of a condenser fan and two lingering smiles now—my grin turning increasingly besotted as a moment passes between us.

But then Lena takes a deep breath, gives a decided nod, and squares her shoulders. “ Bueno . Diego Silva. Let’s see where he leads.”

With this new direction, the companionable, focused silence resumes.

Only—we’re sitting closer than is productive. After she leaned over and overflowed my validation tank, Lena did not retreat the same distance. No complaining or retreating from this side, either. I can feel both her fuzzy sweater and her warmth with every small shift. Basically, this is the best group project ever.

Beyond how this closeness affects me—and even after years of work colleagues, group assignments, presentations, all of it—I’ve never felt this kind of multi-level camaraderie. Being more than matched in drive, smarts, skill, and, yes, even heart. Working and navigating a project beside someone who pushes you to be better without even trying. It’s all new.

And why can’t I simply enjoy it? Why do I have to pick apart the how? How can there be this tangible connection between two people who want such different things? What kind of mental exercise would let me enjoy the moment, a feeling, a heart-stretch, knowing it will end? There has to be a self-help book for that—not that I’d read it.

We press on, searching files upon files of digitized archive entries. Diego Silva as our new target. Thankfully, Don Benny pulled through with so many resources to dig into.

After about an hour of ledger rummaging, Lena gasps and says, “He got married.”

“Wha—what?” I dart my eyes to her screen. And right there, on a parish marriage entry, is a glaringly distinctive single last name.

Lena traces along the entry lines and reads, “January 1541—Diego Silva married to Caridad Jimenez Dávila.”

She turns to me with a matching this-is-crazy, hanging jaw.

We read through the entry, and I comment, “Okay, there is so much here to talk about. If this were Alonso, he married less than a year after he arrived in San Juan? This would be like—what? Six months after he got here to the West?”

“Right! And look, Federico. Look what it says under their racial designations.”

I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the name thing. But I scan through the cursive lettering to find what she points out. “Eh, so Diego was white—no surprise. And his bride . . . a mulata ?” I nod in admiration. “Okaaay, Senor Silva.”

“He married a mixed-race woman,” Lena slowly reiterates with growing astonishment.

“Yep. Looks like Diego discovered the irresistibly potent Puerto Rican blend of races.” I gesture at myself and shrug. “We’re like scientifically considered the perfect genetic mix, you know?”

Her head must still be spinning from these discoveries because my statement—true as it may be—would have earned me an eye-roll for sure. But Lena doesn’t react, only continues intensely re-reading this information windfall.

She finally says, “If this were Alonso, it would mean this Spanish aristocrat legitimately married the daughter of an enslaved person.”

“Definitely a big deal. It would track with him being able to break all ties and do what he wanted.”

Lena takes a moment of overwhelmed nodding and then points out, “Agh, did you see this? His occupation is listed as ‘property owner.’”

“Well, someone had a productive year. It even says he’s from Sevilla! Are you kidding me? And Caridad, ‘a laborer’ from San Germán. Are your researchy senses tingling, too? This is such a find, Lena.”

She looks at me, eyes ecstatic and palms on her cheeks as she whispers, “Diego and Caridad.”

“There has to be more on them. Let’s get Don Benny in on this.”

“Oh, but I should have known. ‘Diego’ means ‘supplanter,’ you know?”

Lena and I share a look. We both know it’s unlikely Alonso chose the name because of its meaning—no matter how fitting Don Benny finds it. But all I have the heart to say is, “Yeah, it was his great-grandfather’s name. We haven’t confirmed Diego is Alonso, though.”

Yesterday was a long research day—in work hours and in emotionally draining proximity torture with Lena. So, after ending it with such an exciting find, we grabbed something quick to eat and called it a day.

When I called Don Benny and caught him up, he said he had a resource we’ve yet to check out.

So today we’re at Casa Aurelio Tió, a neoclassical Creole house-museum in the San Germán historical district. We sit at the second-level Spanish-tiled dining room near the arched double doors that lead to the iron-railed balcony, letting in a much-needed breeze.

And I have a very good feeling about today.

With even more eagerness than usual, Don Benny says, “Well, we’re lucky Don Aurelio was such a devoted historian and reputed researcher of colonial events in the western district.”

Lena smiles and doesn’t mask her anticipation. “It is an honor to be in his home. Hopefully, there is some mention of Diego Silva in his prolific works.”

Don Benny lets out a long sigh as he opens to a tabbed section in one of Tió’s published history volumes. “ Ay , I also feel like I should’ve known when you told me about Silva’s marriage. But I did not put it together until I reviewed some of Don Aurelio’s findings.” He shakes his head and tsks. “The Silva Jimenez family—of course!”

“The Silva Jimenez family? Were Diego and Caridad well known?” Lena asks.

“They are well known, my friend,“ Don Benny replies, rubbing his hands together. “But I’m getting ahead of myself.”

He gestures for us to follow along as he reads from the small type on yellowed pages. Lena and I lean forward, quickly scanning and finding the name we’re looking for. “Early settlers on the Guanajibo River’s rich basin, like Diego Silva, took advantage of many factors. They used the remnants of the gold rush and showed vision by investing in the burgeoning agriculture industry. The transition to latifundios, or estates, now being of individual ownership and not the Spanish Crown’s was to their benefit.”

I have to blurt out, “Will you look at our guy? I mean—our maybe-our-guy ? Diego having his self-made man moment. Agh, love it.”

Lena chuckles but waves me off, shushing me so Don Benny can continue reading. “Silva’s innovative colonial property on the Santa Marta hills was one of the first established, even before corsair attacks forced the village to relocate to that higher ground. Hacienda Mi Tesoro, founded in 1542 by the Silva Jimenez family, remains one of the largest, most long-standing, family-owned, functioning landholdings in the area.”

“‘Remains’? His hacienda is still standing?!” Lena asks.

“Yes! Oh, but this is why I said to myself, ‘Benny, how could you not put together Silva and Hacienda Mi Tesoro?’” He chuckles and shakes his head.

I grab my phone and search up any current info on the property. “So, it’s still there, but no longer for industry?”

“That’s right. Oh, but it’s even better, my friend. It’s been almost a century since Tió’s publication. Since then, the property was acquired by a conservation trust. It’s now preserved as a natural resource and cultural heritage.” A little overwhelmed, Don Benny sighs out, “It’s a beautiful thing.”

Lena sags back in her chair and gestures at the text. “ Don Benny, you are the best. Thank you.”

“Bah. My friends, this is what makes me happy.”

Eyes shining, Lena sighs. “ Hacienda Mi Tesoro . We must see Diego’s treasure then.”