The Queen of the Valley

Book 2: Puri’s Travels

by Lorena Hughes

Genres: Hispanic & Latino; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Amid Colombia’s unparalleled beauty, and the devastation of the 1925 Cali earthquake, the owner of a legendary hacienda vanishes, plunging three very different strangers into the dangerous secrets he left behind.
Driven and recklessly daring, Martin Sabater follows his lifelong dream of owning a cacao plantation in Valle del Cauca. But on the night of a spectacular gala, he disappears—and is never seen again. Now his hacienda is a budding Catholic hospital saving lives during an emerging
epidemic. And novice nun “Sor Puri” is there to uncover the truth behind Martin’s disappearance. But her real identity and her past with the heartbreakingly charismatic Martin—will put far more than her perilous search at risk.
A professional photographer, Lucas Ferreira is Martin’s best friend since boyhood.
He has his own reasons for helping the determined, alluring nun. But what this reserved man won’t reveal about his thwarted dreams and unrequited passion could prove key to the past—or a lethal trap.
Martin was head nurse Sor Camila’s only love—until an unfortunate mistake changed the course of her life forever. Now, Martin’s home is an unexpected chance for her, Lucas, and Puri to set the past right. But with their secrets unearthing explosive memories and wrenching lies, can
they survive the truth about Martin—and the consequences that will forever alter their destinies?

Release date: August 22, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

The night Martin Sabater disappeared had started with so much promise.

Tables draped with damask linen (embroidered by the sanctimonious Damas del Buen Vivir), centerpieces stuffed with purple orchids and carnations, china brought all the way from Cali, and enough aguardiente and rum to feed a battalion.

A band of musicians played bambucos in a patio filled with guests strategically positioned around a three-tier pond fountain. Barefoot brunettes in voluminous skirts moved their hips to the rhythm of the guitars while gaping gentlemen watched, their dolled-up wives elbowing them every few minutes. Despite the women’s silk and georgette gowns, fancy hairdos, and the pearls hanging from their necks, it was the humble dancers who garnered every man’s attention.

The “entertainment” had been Martin’s idea. He was the one who found our folkloric dances fascinating. We told him we should instead hire a string quartet or an opera singer, but he insisted that this kind of dance was an art form—whims of a foreigner, I suppose.

Months had gone into the planning and execution of a gala meant to save our old, beloved boarding school. From carefully selecting the list of hacendados, affluent caleños, and former students who might contribute with money and/or auction items for the cause, to the killing and roasting of five lechones and one calf to feed nearly a hundred hungry guests. No less important were the logistics of lodging and transportation and the recruitment of twelve waiters and four chefs to help Lula—the hacienda’s official cook—with main and side dishes.

They even had a professional photographer—me.

My one and only contribution to the noble cause.

The two organizers and hosts of the evening, Dr. Farid “El Turco” Mansur and Martin Sabater—the hacienda owner—had dusted off the silk lapels of their black tuxedos, shined their patent leather shoes, and charmed every female in the region during the entire evening. Or most of it, anyway.

At least, that was how it appeared to be.

Appearances, after all, mattered. In this world—in a world like ours—perception was everything, even if it wasn’t accurate or truthful. And the perception we wanted to convey was that we were lifelong friends doing our best to raise enough money to pay for scholarships and school repairs.

So, we found ourselves together after so many years: the doctor, the landowner, the photographer, and the nun. It had been long enough since we’d all been under the same roof. And maybe, just maybe, it might have been better never to cross paths again.

We did our best, of course, to feign normalcy. Though I could see the way Farid glared at Martin from time to time, his thick Middle Eastern eyebrows locked in a frown whenever Martin laughed with one of his guests.

Then there was Camila in her Siervas de Jesús ghostly habit. The rigors of her life choices reflected on her face. She was paler than ever, as if she hadn’t seen the light of day in months, and her face had thinned out. And yet, time had been kind to her. She was more beautiful now, at thirty-two, than she had been at seventeen. Her cheekbones were high, her gaze wiser. What a pity that someone so lovely, so smart, had confined herself to a life of prayer, fasts, and penances. It didn’t escape my notice, either, the way she avoided Martin. She tried so hard to ignore him, she produced the opposite effect.

But I didn’t have to pretend. I could hide myself behind my Kodak Folding Automatic Brownie and nobody questioned it. I was invisible. They only noticed me—for a few seconds—when the flashlamp in my hand went on.

I didn’t care if they didn’t see me or how they might perceive me—the least successful of the bunch. I had my own reasons for being here. And it had nothing to do with saving a school from bankruptcy. Neither was I here to socialize or reunite with old friends.

I wanted information.

And the person who could provide it was already here. I’d just taken his photograph.

His name was Iván Contreras and he had, up until a few years ago, owned this hacienda. He was also the only person in the world who knew where my mother was.

Martin held my arm, leaned over me, and spoke in a low voice.

“I found out something. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

I nodded, restraining the urge to inquire more. But he was right, this was no time to talk.

As it usually happens, the trigger to the looming tragedy of the evening had been a woman.

She was one of Martin’s lady friends. One I had never seen before. And I prided myself of knowing everybody in the region.

This woman was worldly—that was one way to describe her. The other way was fragile, reminiscent of a porcelain statue with a long, smooth neck and her bare back fully exposed through a low-cut pearl gown. She was shrouded in feathers and the soft waves of her bob covered her head like a cap.

I never caught her name, though I heard Martin introducing her to another friend of his, an emerald mine owner named Gerardo, a ginger who was apparently visiting from Boyacá but had a house in Cali as well.

The emerald miner was older than us, closer to forty than thirty, and had a thick mustache of the same length and width as his eyebrows that perfectly matched his copper hair. Martin spent a long time speaking to him. And occasionally winked at me as if reminding me that he hadn’t forgotten we had an important conversation pending.

That was one of Martin’s greatest qualities, what drew people toward him. He always made you feel as if you mattered.

Someone bumped into my tripod, dropping my camera on the vermilion tile floor.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Lucas,” the woman said, attempting to pick up the Brownie up with shaky hands. It was Farid’s wife, Amira—the Arab princess, as I secretly called her.

Amira had been Farid’s bride since childhood and had eventually married my friend. She was one of those women who knew exactly what to wear to enhance the modest curves of her body and how to bring up the best of her exotic features. Her fine upbringing in Bogotá showed as she was the only one in the crowded room who could compete in refinement and sophistication with Martin’s mysterious friend.

But Amira was the opposite of Martin’s friend in every way. Instead of the pale, nearly translucent skin and dainty nose of the woman in feathers, Amira had an unapologetic nose, olive skin, and obsidian eyes. She was wearing an aquamarine chiffon slip, beaded with embroidered leaves and silver sequin flowers.

“Is it broken?” she asked as I picked it up.

“It’s fine,” I said, hiding my annoyance to the best of my abilities. “But . . .”

Before I could finish my sentence, she tapped my shoulder and dashed away. Was she following someone?

I tested the shutter after her, and it seemed to be working.

Much later, I would piece together the events of the evening with those photos.

After the plates were empty, the auction had exceeded our expectations (thanks, no doubt, to the alcohol we generously served all night), and the foxtrot was in full swing, Martin’s lady friend took the stage. She brazenly removed the microphone from the singer’s hand and announced that Martin had recently purchased an Andalusian mare and he ought to show us his new acquisition.

Normally, the ramblings of an intoxicated woman would’ve had no effect on such a distinguished crowd, but being that the proposition came from such a beauty and everyone at the party was more or less swimming at her same level of inebriation—past the point of caring, that was—they all agreed with a cheer.

Martin reluctantly accepted and before he or anyone else at the gala could stop it, a group of six enthusiasts had climbed on Sabater’s horses—he on top of his shining new mare—and went on a ride around the cacao plantation in the middle of the night, the moon as their only guide.

Martin never came back.

Paco and I barely made it to the train in Buenaventura. In our hurry from the port to the train station, I’d hardly taken a peek at the town through the carriage window. All I had been able to determine was that the port of Buenaventura was no less malodorous or chaotic than the port of Guayaquil, where we’d come from.

A silvery plume of smoke gathered in the front of Ferrocarril del Pacífico, making some of us cough while we stood in a jumbled line. It was so crowded inside the train that we had to squeeze between passengers and piles of luggage to reach our car.

Our cabin was tiny, with umber leather seats across from each other and a nun sitting in one of them, hands on her lap. I greeted her, inhaling the smell of polished wood and stiff air inside. Almost effortlessly, my young assistant set my trunk in the back of the car. How did I live so many years without Paco? He’d been my salvation. With his long arms and slender frame, he could reach anywhere, quickly and efficiently. He was a calming presence in my life, more thoughtful than he’d first appeared. He always reserved his opinions about others, except when it came time to warn me about someone’s bad will. It didn’t cease to amaze me how someone so young, as evidenced by his smooth tan skin—the envy of any woman—could be so wise.

“Gracias, mi alma,” I told him.

“A la orden, Doña Puri,” he said.

The nun was dressed entirely in white, from her tunic to her scapular all the way to her long veil. Her only ornament was a round silver insignia over her scapular. She had that indefinable quality of some nuns who never seemed to age. Her skin was immaculate, her cheeks rosy, but she must have been in her mid-forties already, judging by the deep lines flanking her mouth and the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. And yet, her complexion looked radiant. Maybe this was one of the benefits of a life of serenity: eternal youth.

I smiled back at her and sat next to Paco.

“You’re Spanish?” she said, across from me.

I perceived the accent of a madrileña. It had been five years since I’d seen a compatriot of mine.

“Yes,” I said. “Andaluza.”

“Oh, beautiful land. I visited it when I was a cría. Whereabouts?”

“Sevilla.” My voice broke unintentionally. It was highly unlikely that I would ever go back to my homeland. “And you?”

“Madrid,” she said. “I’m Sor Alba Luz.”

“I’m Purificación—Puri,” I said. “And this is Paco.”

My assistant extended his hand, but changed his mind right away and tucked it under his thigh. How did one greet a nun?

“I went to Madrid twice,” I said.

“On vacation?”

“No. To renew my grandmother’s patent.”

“A patent? How interesting.”

“Yes, she was an inventor.”

Paco turned to me. I’d never told him this story. In all truth, he and I didn’t talk a lot; we had an unspoken understanding. He intuitively knew what I wanted and then, he did it.

A prolonged whistle signaled that the train was leaving the station.

“Inventor of what?” the nun asked.

I sat up straight, filled with family pride. “She invented a coffee and cacao bean roaster.”

“That’s extraordinary!” She clapped.

I clung to the armrest as the train started to move.

“The only problem was that her patent expired after five years because she didn’t have all the required paperwork—her cédula—but she never got around to procuring it. I tried to do it after her passing but it was a futile effort.”

“That’s unfortunate,” she said. “She sounds like an impressive lady.”

“She was,” I said.

“You know they have a chocolate factory in Medellín?”

“They do?” I was shocked. I was a pioneer in Vinces and had opened the first chocolate store in the area.

“Yes. I spent some time in Medellín last year,” the nun said. “With the Siervas de Jesús, a fellow congregation.”

Paco yawned. Of course he would. What twenty-one-year-old man would care about chocolate factories and nuns?

“Are you two family?” Sor Alba Luz asked.

“No.” I tapped Paco’s leg. “Paco is my guardian angel.”

He shook his head. “More the other way around. She gave me a job when I most needed one.”

“In Spain?” the nun asked.

“No,” I said. “In Ecuador. That’s where we live. I have a chocolate store there.”

“Fascinating,” she said.

Paco and I met when I first arrived to Ecuador in 1920 to collect my father’s inheritance. Back then, he was still in his late teens. He’d had a raft to transport people from one river to another, mostly to the different plantations in the area. When the cacao industry collapsed, his work became so sparse that I hired him to help me with my brand-new chocolate store, which I set up in Vinces to great success—that is, until Martin Sabater stopped sending me cacao beans.

The smell of charcoal and oily metal was giving me a headache. As if reading my mind, Paco stood to shut the window.

“What brings you to this area?” I asked the nun.

“My congregation sent me to help with a new hospital. I’m with the Siervas de María in Panamá.”

“Are you a nurse?”

“Not officially, but you could say that. Our charism consists of taking care of the ill so we have some nursing training.”

Paco sighed and leaned back, extending his long legs against the nun’s travel bag.

“Where exactly are you going?” I asked.

“It’s northeast of Cali, by a village called El Paraíso. They are opening a hospital in the area. I volunteered since I’ve worked at hospitals before.”

“Oh, that’s where we’re going, somewhere near El Paraíso, right?” I turned to Paco, who nodded distractedly, his eyes focused on the pastures outside the window. “We were trying to figure out how to get there from the train station.”

“You just have to rent a carriage in Cali. That’s what I’m going to do.”

It was getting harder to hear the nun’s melodious voice through the track noises. Outside, trees, hills, and livestock passed by in a blur. I squeezed the strap of my reticule.

“You all could come with me, if you’d like,” the nun said.

“You just read my mind! I was thinking about asking, but I didn’t want to inconvenience you.”

The nun waved a hand. “Oh, no, not at all. One doesn’t meet a compatriot in these lands every day.” She rested her hand on her stiff veil.

I wondered if it got hot underneath those mountains of fabric.

“So, Puri, what brings you to these lands?”

Paco lowered the rim of his straw hat and shut his eyes.

“I’m looking for a friend from Ecuador,” I said. “Perhaps you know him? His name is Martin Sabater. He has a cacao plantation near El Paraíso.”

“Oh, no, cariño. I’m afraid I don’t know anyone in the region. The Reverend Mother is from Valle del Cauca and she’s the one who told me exactly how to get here, but this is my first time down south.”

She fanned herself with her plump hand.

“But I don’t think you’ll have any trouble finding your friend,” she said. “El Paraíso is a small village, from what I hear, and everyone knows each other. At least, that’s what the Reverend Mother said.”

“I hope so,” I said, feeling Martin’s letter through the satin of my pouch bag.

Farid had a talent to infuriate me like no one else. Who exactly did he think he was? The Almighty? What he was doing was inconceivable, tyrannical. But when had he cared about anyone’s desires but his own? He was used to getting his way all the time.

Underneath my scapular, I dug my fingernails in the palms of my hands until they hurt. Sometimes I would leave deep indentions and if the provocation was too high, I might even draw some blood. But it was the only way to unleash the anger boiling inside my veins. I was expected to “curb my passions” at every provocation, to be a model of perfection. And it wouldn’t sit well for a nun to yell at her brother, the charitable Dr. Mansur, who was now inaugurating a much-needed hospital.

Who cared if the property belonged to Martin Sabater?

What did it matter if Farid’s methods to transfer the estate to his name were more than questionable? I’d yet to know all the details, but I couldn’t be too inquisitive or show too much interest. I just had to fill my role as head nurse and shut up.

Sporting a cream-colored suit, Farid stood out among the small crowd gathered in front of the hacienda’s front porch. My brother was much taller than the average Colombian, but it wasn’t just his size or his wide toquilla straw hat. He was imposing, with his wide shoulders and a gaze that could see right through your soul. His voice was deep and thunderous and he often used big words he’d learned in his college years in Bogotá.

Not a lot of people in the valley understood him, and so they simply nodded and acquiesced.

Just like Padre Carlos Benigno was doing at the moment. It didn’t matter that it was Sunday, his busiest day of the week. He had found the time to come here from the boarding school to give his blessing to Farid’s brand-new hospital. Padre José María would’ve never agreed.

“O heavenly Father, Almighty God, we humbly beseech Thee to bless and sanctify this hospital and the hands of those called to heal.” The priest then turned to my brother. “You are the presence of Christ to his people.”

Farid stood a bit taller. The priests at his former school had always adored him.

Such arrogance my brother has.

I pinched my palms deeper.

Why did I always think the worst of him? Medicine was his calling. It had been since we were children, since that infamous night when everything changed for us.

The priest continued to bless the sick, the nurses, and another doctor I’d just met. Then, Father Carlos Benigno thanked God and the community for making this all possible. The plan was to proceed with the inauguration ceremony outside and then go into the hacienda and bless every single room with his hyssop and bottle of holy water.

Mayor Guerrero stood by my brother as he cut the red ribbon to symbolize the inauguration of the hospital.

Behind me, the flash of Lucas’s camera went on.

Annoyed, I turned my eyes from my brother and faced the hacienda’s façade. It was six thirty and the sun was about to set. Rows of Baroque wood columns flanked the portico. Luscious ivies and bougainvillea branches clambered along the walls, giving the two-story structure the appearance of an enchanted castle.

I could see why Martin had fallen in love with this property.

It was now my brother’s turn to give his inaugural speech and thank the dignitaries in attendance. I couldn’t stomach it one more minute.

As my brother garnered all the attention, as usual, I discreetly distanced myself from the group and circled the hacienda toward the back. In the distance I could see the chicken coop, the servant’s quarters, and, a little farther down, the stables. A drop of water hit the tip of my nose. I looked up. Rain? In June? Fat clouds had gathered in the sky and the air felt thicker—an anomaly at this time of the year. The seasons in this region were clearly defined. It was either rainy or sunny, no in-betweens. And this was definitely not the season for rains.

I kept walking, but something stopped me.

The crackling of leaves behind me.

Someone was following me.

I turned around.

“What are you doing here?” I said. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking photographs?”

Lucas offered a shy smile, his camera hanging from his neck, his folded tripod in his hand.

“I have plenty of photos of Farid speaking. I don’t need to hear him, too.” He stood beside me. “I’d rather take photos of the place.” His gaze scanned the area. “Where were you going?”

I hesitated, then pointed at the cacaotales. “Just for a walk. I suffocate around too many people.”

One thing I’d learned with the Siervas was to appreciate solitude. I never thought I might, but so many years of silence and prayer had made crowds repellent to me.

“How are you going to deal with the hospital when it opens?” he said. “I know everybody in the region has been eager for the opening.”

I shrugged. “I can deal with patients.”

I just hated social engagements. Everyone always stared as if thinking, What a waste, too bad she couldn’t find a husband and had to become a nun.

If they only knew the entire story.

Lucas seemed distracted with something else. “Do you see that?” He pointed at the hacienda’s pitch roof.

I followed his finger toward the aquamarine plumage of a peacock perched between the terra-cotta tiles.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he said, unfolding his tripod.

The bird climbed toward the top of the roof, his cobalt neck elongated, his ornate turquoise feathers expanding widely.

Lucas looked around bright-eyed and spotted a wooden ladder resting by the chicken coop.

“You’ve never seen a peacock before?” I said.

“Not that high.”

He grabbed the ladder and, without taking his eyes off the bird, dragged it toward the servants’ quarters. The building was a smaller version of the hacienda with the same adobe walls and brick floors, but it was only one story and had a flat roof that extended over the porch. Before I could say anything, Lucas leaned the ladder against the wall.

“He seems agitated, wouldn’t you say?”

He didn’t wait for an answer and I didn’t bother offering one.

“So strange,” he said as a cool wind hit me. When he was halfway up the ladder, he turned to me.

“Hand me the tripod, will you?”

I did as was told. Nearby, the hens clucked as if a wolf had broken into the coop.

“You’re going to get your camera wet,” I said as the raindrops multiplied, but he didn’t listen. He was rapidly setting up the tripod on the edge of the roof and pointing to the building ahead. He leaned behind the camera.

“Divino,” he said, taking shot after shot.

“We should go inside,” I said, shielding the rain from my eyes with my hand.

“Just one more,” he said.

I rested my hand on the ladder. It seemed to be moving. I looked at it.

It was moving.

But how?

Under my feet, the ground trembled. A roar, like a sustained double bass note, echoed throughout the patio. The building was swaying like a hammock. An unmistakable shudder followed and all the windows vibrated in protest, as though someone had grabbed the globe and had shaken it like a maraca.

I took a step back, but the slab under my feet was moving as well.

“Lucas?”

His answer came in the form of a groan followed by an audible ruckus and a loud “¡Jueputa!”

Down came the tripod, and then Lucas himself.

He landed on his right side, but miraculously the camera was intact in his left hand.

I darted toward him over the unsteady ground. It didn’t escape my notice that the hacienda and chicken coop were also shaking.

There was much screaming nearby. The women were the loudest, but I could also hear my brother and the priest calling for the crowd to stay calm, while someone thought it necessary to yell “¡Terremoto!” as if we hadn’t noticed that we were in the midst of an earthquake.

Horses neighed from the stables and the roosters, not wanting to be left behind, did their part by crowing in unison. The relentless rain only added to the overall chaos.

“Are you all right?” I shouted, offering Lucas a hand. Through the pouring rain and the impending dusk, I could see that he was attempting to sit up but seemed unable to lift himself.

He tried to grab my hand. First with his right, but failed and switched to his left hand. Using my arm as leverage, he sat up and then stood.

“Carajo, my ankle!”

Another ruckus above us startled me.

Lucas shoved me away from the building a second before the cornice over our heads fell down. I watched the building in terror. Was the whole structure going to collapse?

“Mila! Mila!” Farid called out, using the pet name he’d used for me since we were little and he couldn’t pronounce my full name.

“Over here!” I said.

“We have to go to the open field where it’s safe,” Farid said. Then he turned to Lucas, who was flinching in pain. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Lucas said. “Let’s go.”

The ominous grumbling f. . .