then, everything, had been to make good on what his father had lost. Heâd put himself through college, got up early, left work late, married the right woman and said the right things to the right people. And it had worked. Heâd done even better than heâd dreamt as a kid who counted the spots on the wall to block out his motherâs whimpers. Heâd made more money than his father could have imagined; he had power and influence and people lining up for meetings with him.
Yet in this moment he saw that it added up to nothing. It was as if he meant nothing to anybody.
In all his long life since his fatherâs disappearance, heâd never looked into anybodyâs soul and never let anyone look into his. God knows, Carole had tried, and heâd let her come close in those early years of dancing and holding hands. Bill slumped with the magnitude of his failure. The biggest thing his father had stripped him of was not wealth or social position; it was the ability to love.
He started to rummage through his motherâs box again to distract himself. There wasnât much left, and there was no signof the hatpin. Then, a small bulge in an inside pocket, an envelope. He unfolded the thick stiff paper.
Aguasecas
4th May 1950
Esteemed Mr Bixton,
I so happy you feel so strong and sad about my dear husband George die. Becouse his own children in Boston wanted nothing with him. I very much like you come to my Ranch. Really I swear for my mother that there are no mystery of his death as you thinks. George was very very sickened and the poor man die leaving his dreams of building railways between our two great great countries. You as his great friend may take up the point as he left. I hope you coming at the end of the month.
Vaya con dios,
Lilia de Las Flores
Billâs hands shook. He looked around for something to count. Nothing stayed still. He wiped his eyes but it didnât help â all he could see was his mother sitting by the dirty window of the apartment with a travelling blanket over her knee, looking at the red bricks of the wall of the neighbouring apartment block four feet away.
Tears leaked from his eyes. His father had promised heâd be back. The betrayal exploded in him. It wouldnât stop rising and suddenly it was there, in his throat, like lava â boiling and frothing. He jammed his hand against his mouth but it didnât stop the shaking. He felt his mother was there in the attic with him, against the wall, soft and sodden. Only it wasnât her, itwas his reflection in a mirror. He, too, could sit staring at the walls in his den for the rest of his life if he didnât do something.
In a flash Bill saw that before he died he had to know why his father had left them. He must go down to Aguasecas and find out what had happened to his father. It didnât make sense that he had left everything: the wife and son he loved, the power and the prestige, for an unknown Mexican woman.
FIVE
Andrés and I lay on our bed that night taking in the slow rise of the moon. Full and pregnant, it shimmered silk over the water.
We absently caressed each otherâs skin, listening to the swish of the waves on to the shore below. They were the earthâs pulse, and the breeze through the open doors came to us from the four corners of the world. Every cell inside me was round and fat with contentment.
I should have known better.
Andrés brushed over the serrated skin on my right wrist and looked up at me, one eyebrow raised. I shrugged my shoulders, smiled and snuggled into him to distract him. I didnât want to have to explain what had happened on my run that morning that had led to the scratching attack. He traced the contours of my hipbones with his tongue. I relaxed again as he started making circles with his finger on my flat stomach.
âYou see that moon?â he asked, cutting too loudly through the silence.
âMmm,â I murmured.
He stretched