Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

26. Rico

“I let you go easy last night. But we’re going to talk about it.”

“Hm? Eh, talk about what?”

We drive up the Santa Marta hills toward Hacienda Mi Tesoro. For this possibly defining meeting, Lena is back to buttoned-up professor mode—severely smoothed-out bun and all. Her huge sunglasses hide her eyes but not her fidgety, nervous energy. I know she must have a lot on her mind, but I personally can’t have had such a soul-baring, almost-kiss moment and then say “ Buenos días” like the planet isn’t now spinning to the tune of What a Wonderful World.

The electric company had to decide that last night was the night for record-breaking outage recovery time. Where is some faulty infrastructure when you need it? They couldn’t give a guy five more minutes before cranking that power plant back up?

I’m still wondering if it was some sort of no-AC fever dream. Maybe a yearning-induced mirage? One moment I was lounging on the terrace in solitude, the next I was lounging on the terrace in solitude and darkness, and the next Lena burst through that gate. The rolled-out-of-bed look of her, messy bun and bare feet, had me thinking I might have dozed off on the deckchair and my forebrain had decided to REM-cycle-torture me.

But she was real. And then she was so close. Opening up. Saying nice things about me. Making my heart thrum and soar and declare, “We’re keeping this one!” This has gone way beyond you’re-extremely-attractive-and-competent and I-am-your-humble-servant to what-are-the-odds-you-adjust-your-life-plan-to-include-me. No big deal.

As we near the hacienda itself, tall palm trees and extensive manicured green lawns surrounded by crisp white paddock fencing show the long-standing care and pride for the property. The road turns into a smaller lane where we slowly ramble up to a gravel parking lot.

“We need to talk about how we . . .” I trail off to find the words.

“How we?”

Is she playing games? Evading? She must know by now I have no problem making it awkward.

“Oh, you think I won’t say it, Lena? How we almost kissed and probably could have powered a city block ourselves?” Some sort of alarmed snort comes out of her. “Or was it just me?”

I park the car, and she turns toward me, putting her sunglasses up and tilting her head. She regards me, sunlight bringing out the amber in her wide eyes. I can’t really read what’s behind her pressed-lips smile.

Shaking her head, she sighs. “Not just you, Federico.”

My shoulders sag in only minor relief because her demeanor isn’t completely as promising as her words. Rogue Hand seeks reassurance for us, so I reach for her.

Lena puts her other hand over mine and gives it a quick squeeze. “Can we talk about it afterwards?”

Am I literally the definition of ‘hopeless romantic’ right now? Emphasis on hope-less. Maybe crossing into ‘delusional romantic.’ Either way, I know I’m not fooling anyone with my terseness as I reply, “Okay, later. But we will.”

We are early, so not in a hurry as we wind up a narrow, paved walk that cuts through the expansive lawns and leads toward the plantation main house. Lena’s tote digs into my shoulder. Today it displays “Ancestor Appreciation Society.” Cute.

At the top of an incline, there is a copse of trees beside a small structure that must be used for storage. Signs and benches indicate it’s also a tour meeting place. Lena stops under the shade of a huge ceiba tree, gazing around the landscape.

With the imposing manor at our front, blinding sunlight and cloud-streaked sky blanket over acres of verdant valley on either side. To the left, saplings with support straps flap in the breeze and thick-trunked, elderly trees stand stoically, dotting the lawn that leads to the road. On the other side, the largest stretch of land continues down and beyond the river. Fields upon fields outrun our range of vision.

Arms crossed, Lena takes it all in, alternating each side of the property. She breathes in a gulp of balmy air and wistfully breathes out, “There is something different about this place.”

I’m preoccupied as I appraise the surroundings and don’t react until she softly nudges me with her elbow and asks, “Or is it just me?”

That gets my attention. “Um, definitely not just you.”

Lena smiles and gestures from the house to the riverscape below. “It is not hard to imagine why five hundred years ago Diego would name it ‘Mi Tesoro.’” My treasure .

I add, “Also, if he were Alonso, it’s not hard to imagine it being worth leaving everything behind to grow roots here.”

“Actually, even seeing this majestic estate, I do wonder. If it was Alonso—to tie himself to this place, come what may?”

I chuckle and shake my head.

“What?” Lena asks.

“Where I see roots, you see ‘tied down.’”

She opens her mouth but closes it again. With a shrug, she replies, “He would have really gone all in. It—it is a lot.”

I nod. “But look at this legacy and all the generations that have enjoyed it. It has more than stood the test of time.” I glance at the tree that shades us and gesture at the huge roots jutting out of the ground. “And look at this guy, rooted here for centuries; I doubt he’s complaining.”

Faraway screeching calls us to look up and see a hawk circling lazily. A strong breeze flaps our clothes against us. There really is something different about this place.

After a while, Lena muses, “I rarely get to experience this. Something so closely related to a research subject from centuries ago. To be able to place him in such a personal, literal setting he built is crazy to me.”

“Oh, I get it. It’s like, why I have geek-outs over parish ledgers. These aren’t just names. They were people who lived and—by the looks of this place—lived well.”

Lena nods and keeps her gaze more toward the river. After a moment, she gestures for us to continue toward the main house, so I join her on the walkway.

As we walk, she continues, “History and genealogy. I got into it so young. I think, in a way, I wanted something to feel tethered to.”

“Little Lena wanted connection.”

“Bueno, sí. But it has mostly been pedigrees and data. Actual roots?” She shakes her head, increasingly overwhelmed. We amble the rest of the way in silence.

Between the stunning scenery and the meeting anticipation, by the time we arrive in front of the mansion, I don’t know which one of us is more of a restless mess.

A young woman waits to greet us at the top of the striking outdoor central staircase. As we climb up, we take in the structure’s imposing shuttered arched windows. Balcony doors contrast with its blue wood siding.

“Not bad, Diego. Not bad at all,” I mutter as Lena smiles distractedly, looking around as if evidence of Alonso could be anywhere in this place.

We reach the house’s second level that has been converted into a gallery visitor area. The woman introduces herself as Amelia Ortiz, the historic unit administrator of the conservation trust that caretakes the property.

She gestures to the open space and says, “Welcome to Hacienda Mi Tesoro and to its distinguished main house, la Casona del Conde .”

“It is called ‘the Count’s Mansion’?” Lena asks, surprised.

Amelia nods in fun-fact excitement, short black curls bouncing, and points to the logo on her polo shirt that includes a graphic of the distinctive house. “Its founder, Diego Silva, was rumored to have been of Spanish noble descent. He famously resented the ‘count’ nickname, but for the manor, it stuck.”

Lena and I share wide-eyed glances. Was Alonso able to disappear from his family but not able to shake off his aristocratic telltales? Is this Casona del Conde part of the life he left everything to create?

We walk the perimeter of the pristinely painted room with polished wood floors, Amelia showing us their main exhibitions about the property and its history. Most interesting is how the original owners started a tradition of employing local community laborers and so, comparatively few enslaved people worked in the hacienda across the years.

I thank Amelia for showing us around, and she replies, “Of course! Our executive director asked me to welcome you while he finished a call. But we should be able to head to his office now.”

She leads us down the outdoor staircase as she explains that the first level has been converted into headquarters for the foundation and that they have big plans for expanding its use. Already it has a great mix of modern utilitarian office with its glass walls and metal desks while keeping aspects like the original brick and stucco walls exposed.

We follow her to a large corner office, also exposed by glass walls. The man inside—a lot younger than I expected—looks up and comes to greet us. Wearing cargo shorts and a polo shirt similar to Amelia’s, you would think he was ready to give a tour himself instead of doing executive director stuff. My kind of guy.

He shakes hands, cordial but unsmiling. “ Buenas. Fin Santos. Nice to meet you. Profesora Martín, Senor Morales, welcome to Mi Tesoro.”

There’s an odd lilt in his accent and, judging by his towering height, he must also be blessed with a diverse genetic pool. We thank him for meeting with us, and I have to say, “This project is so impressive. Ecological and historical conservation? I’m blown away.”

Lena nods in enthusiastic agreement. Santos replies, “Thank you. I’ve worked with other nonprofits, but this initiative is close to my heart.”

“It is a very special place,” Lena says, gazing out the windows to the rolling lawns and view of the river.

Santos smiles proudly—if briefly. “That it is. Now, Don Benny caught me up on what you might be looking for. I think you’ll be excited to see this.”

Amelia waves goodbye to head to her office, and we follow Santos down a narrow hallway and then down basement steps. It’s jarring to go from the light-filled office area and then enter what must have been a cellar of some sort. Santos flips on the lights.

Shelves holding catalogued artifacts and stacked with old, faded volumes line the cavernous walls. I glance over at Lena and, by the excited look in her eyes, she knows it too: this is a place with answers.

Santos explains, “The upstairs gallery exhibits our first phase of historical displays, but as you can see, we have so much more to work with. This estate was neglected for many years, but most family heirlooms and centuries of records were kept in this space and, by some miracle, surprisingly well preserved.”

Lena and I scan the meticulously appointed shelves. Santos gestures us over to a countertop-height table with a medium-sized archival box on it. He continues, “Since Diego Silva was the original owner and founder, we’ve, of course, paid special attention to whatever we could find related to him.”

The room is so quiet with its separate state-of-the-art climate control system, you can practically hear our salivary glands activating at the prospect of what we will discover.

Santos opens the box and gently slides it toward us. “You’re free to look through anything you’d like. Most of this has been scanned and indexed for our records. We can make any of it available to you.”

Lena carefully removes items from the box. “This is extraordinary. Thank you.”

“Of course. I hope something in there helps. It’s mostly letters and journals and some miscellaneous family items that would be concurrent with the mid-fifteen-hundreds and Silva.”

Lena and I stand side by side, silent and aghast as we open up a journal. After a moment, Santos says, “I’ll leave you to it. Take your time.”

We both mumble our thanks as he heads out, closing the door behind him. Stunned with anticipation, we eventually grab a stool across from each other and settle into the impressive stack of resources we have to look through, starting with scouring line by line of Diego Silva’s journal.

After a while I comment, “So he didn’t write daily, but Diego did keep these pretty up to date.”

Lena nods. “Yes, and such a mixture of subjects. Business, crops, community affairs, but also family worries, celebrating milestones. Look at this entry, Federico. Caridad had been sick. He was so worried.” The last couple of words come out strangled, and she clears her throat. “This was a true love match between them.”

She looks into the open box and does a double-take. “There is something still in here.”

I walk over to her side of the table to peer in. Lena carefully pulls out a small wooden box, its surface scuffed and faded. She places it on the table, and we both lean in to study the carving on the lid.

“It’s a family crest.” I gasp. “Look at the last name.”

“De Guzmán—Alonso’s family. This—this is Alonso’s family crest.”

“And under it, the family motto—um, your Latin has to be better than mine.”

Lena’s breath quickens as she reads, “ Flamma fidei manet .“ She considers for a second and translates, “The flame of faith remains.”

She looks into my eyes so intently. Flames. Faith. Remaining.

Stunned, I reiterate to let it settle in. “Diego Silva had in his possession a box with the De Guzmán family crest.”

Lena reverently traces her finger over the carving and opens the lid to find the most yellowed letter we’ve seen yet. Laying it open on the table, I angle even closer to distinguish the faded cursive.

I read, “Dated 1540. ‘My dearest Alonso’. . .”

Lena covers her mouth with one hand while her other’s trembling finger points to the letter signature.

“Signed: Mamá ,” she reads with a shaky whisper.

“His mother’s reply from when he arrived on the island. Alonso knew this would be the last letter from her. Treasured it all those years. As Diego.”

Lena chokes back a sob. “ Alonso . We found him.”

We glance at each other and hold matching euphoric gazes as we bask in the awe of this discovery.

We found him.

Now that we’ve confirmed this truly is Alonso De Guzmán as Diego Silva, we hungrily, wholeheartedly dive into the journal entries. To have this embarrassment of archival riches, after so much uncertainty on whether we’d ever find a trace of him, is a lot to take in. We have to revel in each word, in the life he lived, in who he became, in what he built.

Having experienced this impressive estate and solid home, I look around at all the archive evidence of his success—from what we can tell—true success. “Not bad for a count’s third son,” I muse in amazement. Clearing my throat at the knot forming there, I rasp out, “He really had it all in the end.”

Lena nods, eyes closed and lips pressed. She takes a shuddering breath as we reverently leaf through page after page of Diego Silva’s life.

Only a moment later, I come across some significant writing. “He writes about his love for the land in this one, Lena. About his sense of purpose.” I gulp back a wave of emotion as I finish reading the entry. “He—he explains why he named the hacienda ‘Mi Tesoro.’”

She leans into me, so near. “Because of the gold or ‘treasure’ he found to purchase it?”

I shake my head and read aloud from the entry, hoping Alonso’s resolute words provide steadiness to my shaky voice. “It is my soul’s truth that Almighty God sent the winds that delivered me to this island and directed my path to the West. Thanks be to His Divine Providence, I found my true path and home in my love, Caridad. He blessed me to obtain this land and children born of our love for which to cherish and cultivate it. Tis the love born in this heaven-on-earth that is my greatest treasure.”

Lena sniffs. “Oh, Alonso.”

All this time our missing wayward aristocrat had been landowner, husband, father, legacy-builder. He found purpose and love and disappeared into it.

The trembling in Lena’s fingers has spread to her entire body. Overwhelmed, she grabs at the table to steady herself. I shift toward her, arms open, thinking only to comfort her. Head down, she gives in. She’s in my arms, head against my chest for a few heavenly minutes. When she looks up at me, we lock mutually tear-brimmed eyes. Hope. Joy. Recognition .

Like the stroke of a match, the intended soothing embrace intensifies. Her arms wrap around my neck and mine cling around her waist, pressing us together as our lips find each other. My senses don’t know whether to cue a hallelujah chorus or send a distress signal. Or both.

Regardless of previous experience with her gentle, warm hands and jolting touches, there was no preparing for me kissing her and her kissing me. Lena’s hands trail down my back as mine come up to cradle her face. Dearest of faces to me. I pour into our kiss every ounce of yearning I’ve felt, knowing full well I’m sealing my fate. I’m ruined. Doomed to be unmoored without her anchor.

Now I’m trembling, but Lena’s knees buckle. Aware enough to not crush anything on the table, I lift her to sit on it, making sure I don’t miss any preciously devastating brush of lips. From above me, she grasps my arms, and I step further into her embrace with a low, soul-relieved moan.

Seconds or centuries pass as each kiss decimates, pulverizes the remains of my already-crumbled defenses. My hands at her sides on the table, chests heaving, I press our foreheads together to catch our breath. Never enough of her soft, orange-blossom nearness, I lower my face and nudge against the side of her neck. There’s moisture there. Tears? My hands go up to her face again, thumbs catching them.

“Lena, mi vida .” She won’t meet my eyes. “What is it?”

A fresh wave of tears. I hold her until she sighs deeply and wipes away her tears and whatever overwhelming emotions she’s battling. She gives me a watery smile as I lower her to the ground, but keep her in my arms.

“You ask what it is.” She sighs, pressing her forehead against my chin. “Too much, Federico.”

Too much? I get it. I’m surprised the lightbulbs didn’t flicker and pop. I can’t see any singe marks anywhere either. You’d think such profound, incinerating kisses would leave visible proof. I most definitely flickered and was set ablaze.

Her “too much” didn’t sound joyously singed, though. So, too much what?

I hold her and wait for elaboration. Lena stiffens in my arms. She steps back, so I let her go. Clearing her throat but not getting rid of all the shakiness, she says, “I will go find Santos and let him know what we found that will need to be sent over.”

And then she’s out the door.

Clinging onto the table, I will my heart to regulate from soaring to plummeting.

I wonder if there’s anything in Alonso’s journals about how to navigate, yet again, wishing someone would stay. I could use some centuries-old wisdom right about now.