The man straightened. His eyes were rheumy and red, and in spite of his carefully pressed, if outdated, coat and trousers, he smelled of wine. But he still had a strange dignity as he held out a small white envelope. “Please, señora.”
“Don’t take it,” Garcia warned, but she ignored him. She took the envelope.
“Bless you,” the elderly man whispered. “She doesn’t have long. I couldn’t let her life end like this.”
“What are you talking about?” Hana said, alarmed. “Who are you?”
“I’m Dr. Mendoza from Etxetarri, to the north.” He slowly looked at Antonio. “I delivered you when you were born.”
Antonio’s jaw dropped. It would have been hilarious to see him so surprised, if Hana hadn’t felt the same shock.
The doctor’s rheumy eyes fell as his shoulders sagged. He whispered, “Then I took you south to Andalusia, and left you in a basket.”
Hana caught her breath. No one knew that story—no one. Glancing at her husband, she waited for him to say something, anything. When he did not move, she said anxiously to the man, “Please, come inside.” What did the charity ball matter, compared to this? “We have so many questions...”
Shaking his head, he looked back at Antonio. “Your mother is dying. You must go to her—”
“Get off my property,” Antonio said grimly. “Now.”
“Antonio!” Hana cried, scandalized.
&n
bsp; “Read the letter,” the man pleaded. “Before it’s too late.”
Turning, he shuffled away, his gait uneven.
“My apologies, señor,” the gate guard said to Antonio, hanging his head.
“You should have called the police immediately,” Garcia reprimanded him, then turned to Hana. “Señora, give me the envelope.”
“Why?” she said, still watching the elderly man disappear down the street.
“I’ll dispose of it. Have it tested for anthrax, poisons, blackmail attempts, then thrown away.”
“How can you be so suspicious and rude?” Her eyes snapped to her husband. “And you!”
Antonio didn’t even look at her. Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked through the gate toward the palacio.
Still gripping the letter, she hurried after him.
Inside the courtyard, a steady stream of caterers and florists carried canapés and flower arrangements into the elegant, nineteenth-century palace, constructed of limestone in the classical style. It was difficult to keep up with his stride, so she increased her pace as much as a heavily pregnant woman could. It was almost as if Antonio didn’t want her to catch up.
Inside the palacio’s grand foyer, with its soaring ceiling and dazzling chandelier, she saw Manuelita, the housekeeper, directing traffic. “You’re back!” the older woman said, beaming at her. Hana and Manuelita had been friends for years, since she’d only been a secretary. The woman was almost like a mother to her, or at the very least an aunt. “There are some questions about the music—”
“I’m sorry, it will have to wait,” Hana called, hurrying after Antonio, who was already disappearing down the long hall, past the antique suit of armor, toward the stained glass window. When she finally caught up with him in the study, she was panting for breath.
“Antonio!” she said accusingly.
Plantation shutters blocked the sunlight, leaving her husband’s face in shadow as he looked up calmly from his dark wood desk. “Yes?”
“This letter!” Holding it out anxiously, she went to the desk. The room was masculine and dark, with bookshelves and leather furniture. A fire crackled in the fireplace. “Don’t you want to rip it open?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Not particularly.”
“Are you kidding?” She looked down at the envelope. Antonio’s name was written on it in spidery, uncertain handwriting. “But you’ve wanted to know about your past all your life!”
“Maybe once I did. Now I really don’t care.” Tenting his fingers on the desk, he curled his lip. “And the man hardly seemed credible. I smelled alcohol on him from ten feet away.”