Two weeks after his trip, the La Moraleja mansion felt like an emotional wasteland.
Alejandro worked on autopilot, barely ate, slept little, dismissed the staff, and lived alone in a gilded tomb. Every room reminded him of Carmen: the kitchen where she cooked with love, the living room where they first truly talked, his bedroom where she had watched over him while he lied, shamelessly. One gray November morning, the doorbell rang. A courier delivered an express package from Galicia. The sender: Lucía López. Inside were a letter and a small object wrapped in tissue. The letter, handwritten, said Carmen was returning something that was his and had something to tell him—if he had truly changed.
If he wished to talk, she would be at the Sabatini Gardens the next day at 3:00 p.m., at the place where they first met. Alejandro unwrapped the object and froze: the small silver crucifix his mother had given him at sixteen, the only item he valued sentimentally. He must have lost it during the week of pretence; Carmen had found it. But she claimed they had first met in the Sabatini Gardens. He didn’t remember meeting her there before she worked for him. The next day, he arrived an hour early, too anxious to wait.
At 3:00 sharp, she appeared in a simple beige coat, hair loose for the first time since he’d known her, thinner than before. They stood apart, measuring each other. Carmen smiled sadly and began. It had been three years earlier. Newly arrived from Galicia, her Spanish halting, she had been looking for work.
