Page 26 of Prisoner of War
Minnie shook her head. “But it’s charming.”
“It’s bad enough we look alike,” Téra shot back, thrusting out her bottom lip.
“Actually, I think you look more like Duardo than Trini or Pía.”
“Jesús Maria,” Duardo whispered, alarming her.
Téra’s face darkened. She put her hands on her hips and vented a long stream of loud, fast Spanish at Duardo, her gaze flickering toward Minnie. Clearly, she was as pissed as a bee in a bottle. Minnie drew in an unsteady breath as Téra yelled. There were words Minnie recognized, enough for her to gain a tiny hint about what Téra was saying.
“Téra!”Isabela cried, dismayed.
Duardo spoke coldly. “Téra, Minnie is a guest in my house.”
“Fine, then I’ll leave.” Téra turned and strode from the room.
“What have I done?” Minnie said to Duardo.
“You spoke the truth, that is all. Do not worry about it. Come and eat.”
Dinner, after that, was a strained affair. The food was delicious and Isabela was a charming woman. However, Cristián seemed caughtup in his own thoughts, while Pía could not and Trini did not seem to want to keep up a conversation. Téra’s absence was louder than a shout to Minnie. Her appetite evaporated.
Only Duardo’s presence next to her kept her seated.
He spoke with his mother, bringing her up to date with his life. They spoke in English for Minnie’s benefit and the conversation was an unexpected one for mother andson. It seemed that Duardo was more than the nominal male head of the family. Although Isabela ran the household while he was away, between the two of them they weighed up the more important decisions—everything from the scheduling of Cristián’s university fee payments to replacing the solar hot water system on the roof. The others weighed in with observations and answered questions, but Duardo hadthe last word on what that decision would be.
When the meal ended, Duardo picked up Minnie’s bags. He led her up four winding sets of steps to a landing that had to be up near the roof. He pushed a door aside and let her enter first.
The room beyond was a bedroom in the attic, but the walls were plastered and whitewashed and big dormer windows punched through each roof slope, bringing in lotsof daylight. A big bed, covered in a patchwork quilt, was tucked under the eaves.
“It is warm up here,” Duardo explained. “No one else likes to climb the stairs all the time.”
“This is your room?”
“Yes.” He put her bags on the floor at the foot of the bed. “And yours, if you please, for tonight.”
She tried to smile and failed. “Sure,” she said.
He lifted her chin. “Tell me what troubles you.”
“Téra doesn’t like me because I’m American. The others...she guides them.”
“Why do you say Téra hates you?”
“It’s what she said. Something about me being American. And what was it about China?”
Duardo’s lips twitched. “She called you a china doll.” He shrugged. “I think that is you, too. A delicate china doll.”
“I thought you knew me better than that.”
“I only meant the appearance. Not inhere.” He touched her temple. “Or here.” And his fingertips rested against the upper slope of her breast.
She tried to ignore the sensation of having his fingers right there and concentrate on making her point. “Téra doesn’t like Americans.”
“Téra does not like being like me. We are the same, Téra and I. It causes...”
“Friction?”
“Yes. Rubbing together. Sparks. When I am away, she can be justherself. She can be strong, a leader. When I am home, she gets...bumped?”
