“Right,” she replies in a distracted, almost absent tone. “But what you think isn’t what the magazine is going to decide. They want a different kind of drama.”
Julia lets out a brief sigh and places the last plate with a weary movement.
“I was just giving my opinion, Martina. You don’t need to turn this into an argument.”
Martina sets down the rest of the napkins and crosses her arms, a gesture she knows irritates Julia.
“I told you a long time ago: even though we work for the same company, I’d rather our projects didn’t overlap. I don’t want to mix things up and have people gossip.”
Julia looks up at the ceiling with that usual weariness she’s been showing around her lately.
“I’ll say it again, it was just a comment,” Julia defends herself. “You don’t have to take it as a personal attack every time I speak.”
Martina opens her mouth to reply, but Julia’s phone rings in her pocket. Julia’s expression changes in an instant.
“Didn’t you say you were going to take a couple of days off after the trip?” Martina asks.
Julia already has the phone pressed to her ear.
“Yeah, but this is important,” she mutters, and takes a few steps back toward the far end of the garden, turning her back on everyone.
Martina watches her go. She recognizes that quick, determined stride. Then she sees her gesturing with her free hand, even smiling, as if she were delighted by the interruption.
“That’s why this has stopped working,” Martina mutters to herself, her eyes fixed on her wife’s back.
“What has stopped working, honey?”
Her father’s deep, calm voice comes naturally from behind her, causing Martina to turn slowly.
Carlos Valcárcel appears with two small bottles of beer in each hand and hands one to his daughter with a calm smile on his lips.
“Here. It’s very cold, just the way you like it.”
Martina takes the bottle; the cold of the glass bites her skin and, for a second, reminds her of the touch of Rebeca’s fingers that night.
Carlos plops down in one of the wooden chairs and gestures toward the one next to him with his chin.
“Come on, sit down with me for a moment. Your mother won’t be ready with dinner for a while.” Martina obeys, and as she pops the cap, an invisible bird responds from high in the trees with a long, sweet trill. “Tell me what’s going on,” he asks bluntly, his eyes fixed on his daughter.
Martina takes a small sip, and the cold liquid slides down her throat. However, it doesn’t ease the knot that has been lodged in her chest for days.
“Did you know Rebeca was moving to Santander?” she asks, and her father notices a look of sadness on her face.
Carlos remains silent for a few seconds. He drinks slowly, letting the bitter taste of the beer linger on his tongue before answering.
“We’ve never lost touch with her family, sweetheart,” he replies shortly after. “Despite… everything that happened.”
Martina frowns.
“But I never imagined she’d end up living in the same building as you,” he adds with a half-smile. “Your mother found out from Marisol a couple of months ago that she was going tomove there. We thought it was better not to say anything. We didn’t want to make a fuss.”
“So you knew.”
Carlos shrugs, a gesture that has always meant “that’s just the way things are.”
“Well, you could have told me,” she murmurs, with a hint of reproach she can’t hide. “It would have saved me the surprise. And the… confusion.”
“According to Julia, it was quite a pleasant surprise,” he replies, and there’s a curious gleam in his eyes. “She mentioned it to me earlier in the kitchen. She even said she’d seen you looking very… lively.”
