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Cover by PainItCosts
In the end, it was the only thing that made sense to her.
Marta had no idea what possessed her when she walked into the little store front with the "For Sale" sign scrawled on a piece of paper in the window.
She'd been wandering, as was her habit these days - long walks with no purpose, aimless in both direction and intent. She’d seen more of Toledo in the last few months than she ever had in all her years of living here. As a de la Reina, one was not encouraged to wander the streets. But now, she didn’t care anymore. If she felt like doing something, she did it. There didn’t seem to be much point in worrying over appearances anymore.
And so, Marta walked. She walked through neighborhoods she’d never known existed, windy little streets with no discernable names, beckoning her with their twisty paths and afternoon shadows. She discovered side streets with tiny restaurants where she could indulge in a glass of wine, or two, where no one seemed to care who she was. And she found herself in small parks, circling paths lined with old oaks and wildflowers, watching children play tag in a field or lovers stealing a kiss behind a tree.
When she walked, she could forget. Or, at the very least, distract herself. She could push aside her father’s indifference toward her, and the loss of control over the company; her suffocating loneliness and the house in the mountains that waited like the spouse of a soldier gone to war, hope fading with each passing month; her husband’s betrayal that had nearly brought her to her knees and the knowledge that the love of her life was somewhere out in the world, alone, forced from her side because her instinct was to protect Marta at all costs.
But the distraction, it never lasted for long. The ghosts and the memories and the regrets and the helplessness were always there. In truth, Marta had gotten used to them - they floated along with her on the streets and into the cafés, just off her shoulder, her silent companions. On the bad days, their jagged reminders nipped at her heels like a stray dog. On the rare good days, well…there was an arm tucked through hers as she walked along the cobblestones.
But there was no one beside her that day and it was cold and the window of the little shop Marta came across was fogged up and she thought there might be a hot cup of coffee inside.
The little bell over the door announced her entrance, but when she stepped into the small space, there was no one behind the counter. Still, the warm smell of yeast and sugar that hit her immediately beckoned her in and she felt herself instantly relax. The smell of a bakery always had that effect on her. Especially since...
Marta shook her head.
"¿Hola?" she called.
"¡Un momentito!" a voice answered from somewhere in the back. A few seconds later, a kindly-looking old gentleman shuffled out, wiping flour off his apron, and smiled at her.
"Buenas tardes, señora. What can I get you?"
Marta smiled back genuinely, something about this man putting her instantly at ease.
"Buenas tardes. ¿Un café, por favor?"
He smiled again. "I just made a fresh pot. Have a seat," he said, indicating the small table in the corner. "I'll bring it right out."
When he placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of Marta moments later, he winked at her as he also set down a small plate.
"How about something sweet to go with it?"
Marta started to protest, "Oh, that's very kind, but -" and then stopped short. Sitting on the plate in front of her was a suizo, buttery golden, dusted with a little powdered sugar.
She simply looked up at the old man. "How did you -?" she whispered, dismayed at the prick of tears behind her eyes.
But the man didn't seem fazed by his customer's emotional reaction to a pastry. "You looked like you could use a treat. I hope you like suizos?"
Marta swallowed against the lump in her throat and nodded. "I love them," she answered softly.
"Bueno. Enjoy."
He started to slowly walk away when Marta stopped him, though she couldn't quite say why. "Espera, por favor." When he turned back toward her with a curious look, the sign in the window caught the corner of her eye. "I saw..." she had zero idea what she was saying, only that it was nice to be talking to someone who seemed kind and she grasped the first thing that she could think of. "I saw your sign in the window. Is this bakery really for sale?"
A look flitted across the old man's weathered face. "Ah, sí, señora. It is time for me to move on. My hands are getting too old for this life. And my daughter and her family live in Madrid. She wants me to live with them. I think she is worried about her aging father," he added with a little shrug.
Marta's chest tightened, an all-too-clear memory of Fina and Isidro thick as thieves huddled in the garden, laughing as they dug in the dirt together. She could imagine this man's daughter just wanting him close.
"I'm sure she loves you very much."
"Ah, sí, sí. And I her."
"But you don't want to leave here?" There was something Marta could see in the man's face, a wistful expression. She also could see glimpses of a history scattered around the small room, too, a life well-lived - a faded picture of a young couple, proudly standing in front of the storefront, another of them holding a small child in the same spot, a brief article from the newspaper, carefully cut and framed.
"There are memories here," he said softly. "My wife..." his eyes shifted from Marta's, over her shoulder, searching for something..."My wife and I built this little bakery from nothing. We raised our daughter here, taught her to bake as soon as she was big enough to hold a measuring cup. There was so much happiness here." He looked back to Marta. "But my wife has been gone for two years. And I think...I think it's time to close this chapter of my life. I love it here, but the sound of those who are missing is loud."
Marta nodded. She understood how loud silence could be. How it could press and press and press. "Lo entiendo."
The man cleared his throat. "Desculpa. You didn't come in here to listen to the sadness of an old man. I'll leave you be."
But Marta was shaking her head before he finished speaking. "No, por favor, you're not bothering me. In fact...would you like to join me? If you're not busy?"
The man chuckled a little and waved his hand around. "Señora, you're the only customer I've had in hours."
"Then, please, join me. I...I would love the company." As Marta said it, she found that that was absolutely true. This man had a gentleness about him that felt comforting, and Marta didn't feel the itch to get away from him immediately, like she did with most people these days.
When he was settled with a cup of his own coffee across from her, Marta extended her hand.
"Soy Marta."
The man smiled, took her hand, and gallantly kissed her knuckles.
"Encantado. Soy Alejandro."
Marta sipped her coffee. "This is wonderful," she said.
"Ah," Alejandro nodded. "My wife always insisted on a strong cup. We always argued about how much grounds to use." He shook his head in amusement. "But you know what? Ever since she left this earth, I make it just as strong as she liked."
Marta smiled. "We do those things for the ones we love, don't we?" She thought of the little things she did now, even though Fina was gone - hummed to the plants as she was watering them up at the mountain house, making sure the duvet was facing the right way on the bed, always having a little piece of chocolate after dinner. They were things Marta teased Fina about, and yet now...they were the things that she couldn't let go of.
Alejandro's hand fell warmly upon Marta's. "You've lost someone, too?"
Marta hesitated and then nodded. "Sí."
"The pain is always there. But so are the memories."
Marta nodded again and turned her hand over to squeeze Alejandro's.
"Tell me about your wife."
She bought the café from Alejandro.
In truth, she knew she would by the end of that first day, after they talked for almost the entire evening. Long after Marta was supposed to be at a board meeting and long after Alejandro flipped the sign to "cerrado," they sat, two people who perhaps just needed someone to listen. It was easy. And for the first time in months and months, Marta didn't feel like she was very close to either needing a drink or screaming until she lost her voice.
Marta visited almost every day for weeks after that. She and Alejandro would sometimes talk for hours, nursing cups of rich coffee, always a sweet pastry slid toward Marta. Every time, Marta offered a token protest but by the time she left, all that was left on the plate were a few crumbs.
Alejandro never pushed, never demanded. Instead, he told stories - stories about his wife, Lucía, and his daughter, Amelia. Stories of the lean years when they were just getting by with the bakery, and the more comfortable ones, when business was steady and they had loyal customers who became friends. He made Marta laugh when he told her the story of Amelia pulling over an entire bag of flour from the counter, covering herself in white powder head to toe, and he made Marta tear up when he told her how he and Lucía had danced in the kitchen the first day the bakery actually turned a profit.
And on the day Marta wasn't paying attention and Fina's name slipped out of her mouth and she froze, certain her new friend would toss her out immediately, Alejandro simply patted her hand and poured another cup of coffee.
"I may be old," he said in response to Marta's wide eyes, "But I am not oblivious. I knew there was something. You have spoken of your loss vaguely, but it is something that you push like Sisyphus - up and up the hill only for it to come rolling down on you again. Now I know the burden you're carrying. Not just a lost love, but one that you cannot even acknowledge to the world."
Marta looked at him, her hands still locked around her coffee cup. "You're not shocked. Or angry."
Alejandro shrugged. "There was a time I might have been. Perhaps not all that long ago. But believing you can change people, or even have the right to, is for the young. Now? I believe something different now. If love finds you, you should grab it, whatever it looks like. Who am I to tell people who to love or how to do it? I had my great love - and if anyone had told me loving Lucía was wrong, I would have likely shot them where they stood. Nothing would have stopped me from being with her. And so, I don't think it is my place to tell anyone that their way of loving is wrong."
Marta was crying before she knew it. Alejandro stood up, slowly shuffled behind the counter, and came back with a napkin that he handed to Marta.
"Ah, mi niña, I understand. We cry hardest for the ones lost to us. Tell me about Fina."
Alejandro was not surprised when Marta made an offer to buy the bakery.
He only nodded. "It would be my honor to leave it in your hands. You will take good care of it."
He spent weeks showing Marta around the kitchen. He meticulously outlined how everything worked, which oven was temperamental and needed a good whack on the left side to be reminded of its job, and shared where to buy the best ingredients. He wrote down every instruction with arthritic hands and repeatedly quizzed Marta on them until she was seeing Alejandro's tight scrawl in her sleep.
Marta met his daughter, Amelia, when she came from Madrid to help her father pack. She was quiet, but kind, and clearly loved her father. Marta caught her smiling several times as Alejandro drilled Marta about the workings of the cash register.
"Padre, doña Marta runs an entire store, I think she knows how a cash register works."
Alejandro scoffed. "Not this one. It's different."
Marta and Amelia shared a smile over Alejandro's bent head.
When it was time to say goodbye, Marta could not stop the tears, feeling that she was losing a friend she'd had for years instead of a few months.
"I am a phone call away should you need anything," he said, kissing her cheek.
"I don't know if I can do this," Marta whispered, suddenly afraid and wondering if she'd made a terrible and foolish mistake. What was she thinking, owning a bakery?
"Ah, ah, none of that," Alejandro chided, wiping at Marta's cheeks. He tapped his finger over Marta's heart. "Fina believed in you," he said quietly. "Be the woman she knew you could be. Be the light that she saw shining so brightly."
Marta's breath hitched and fresh tears tumbled out of her eyes, but she nodded.
"I'll try."
Alejandro hugged her. "That's all any of us can do."
When she told her family what she had done, the reactions were what she'd expected.
Andrés smiled proudly and hugged her. "You have always been the best of us, hermana. And now the best thing for you is to get away from all of this. Be free."
Digna was nothing but supportive. "Mi niña, I hope this helps you find some peace. I will be sure to be your first customer."
Marta's father hated it, which made Marta know for certain it was the right thing to do. Damían blustered about what it would look like for a de la Reina to be a common shop owner in town, and Marta had smiled sweetly and said, “Like any other person owning a business, I imagine.” He’d simply thrown his hands up and walked away, muttering something about being cursed with willful children.
Begoña loved the idea, but pointed out something that Marta had completely forgotten to think about. “It will need a proper name, I think,” she said, when she walked down to the store with Marta, looking up at the faded sign hanging crookedly above the door. “Perhaps something a little more stylish than ‘Pan y Pastelería?’”
Marta suddenly felt panicked again and she looked at Begoña with wide eyes. “Madre mía, I didn’t even think about that. I have no idea what to call it. What do I call it?”
Begoña reached out and squeezed her arm. “Tranquilla, Marta. This is something that is completely your own. Think about it, and name it something that means something to you. Something that will make you smile every time you see the sign.”
And it turned out, that was all the guidance she needed. There was no question what made her smile. She found Andrés and explained her idea and he began to sketch.
Two weeks later, Begoña looked up at the freshly-hung sign.
“Sol y Cielo?” she asked, turning toward Marta, but she smiled knowingly when she saw the expression on her face. “Fina?”
Marta nodded. “Fina.”
Begoña hugged her. “It’s perfect.”
Marta started out slowly.
She knew she couldn't fill a full bakery. Not yet. Alejandro had left her with quite a few of his recipes, but she knew it would take time to be comfortable enough with them to produce them on a regular basis. She could, however, start out by doing one thing really well. And there was one thing she knew how to make really well. Or, at least, one thing she wanted to make really well.
She spent weeks making batches of suizos. She tweaked the measurements here and there, experimented with baking times, made her friends and family try so different batches that she suspected they began avoiding visiting her in the shop. But her diligence paid off, and she at last had a product she was proud of.
On the day she finally flipped the sign on the door to “abierto,” true to her word, Digna was her first customer.
Marta nervously brought out a plate of suizos and a cup of coffee, and tried not to fidget as Digna took a bite. She then waited while she chewed and then calmly took a sip of coffee and then then patted the corner of her mouth with her napkin.
“¡Tía! ¡Dime!” she groaned at last when she realized her aunt was clearly teasing her.
Digna laughed. “Mi niña, es delicioso. De verdad. Good coffee, too. Strong.”
Marta beamed with pride, and made a mental to note to tell Alejandro in her next letter to him that his wife’s coffee was still delighting customers.
Digna smiled. “You look better than you have in a very long time, sobrina. You have more color in your cheeks.”
Marta shrugged a little self-consciously. “I think maybe I’ve found something that suits me.”
Digna nodded. “It shows.”
Her bakery wasn’t an overnight success, but Marta didn’t mind. At first, it was just family and friends. Digna appeared loyally, as did Begoña and Luz. Carmen and Claudia came on Friday afternoons after their shift and often brought some of the other girls from the dormitories. Her brothers and father came on Sunday mornings, though Marta suspected Andrés twisted Damián’s arm somehow. Still, she could tell that her father grudgingly enjoyed whatever she put in front of him. Marta was grateful to all of them, and understood it would take time to build a reputation for herself.
In the meantime, what she told Digna was true – she’d found something that suited her, the small dream she’d always had now a reality, and she allowed herself to fall into the rhythm of it.
Rising in the early hours of the morning to slip into her car and drive down nearly empty streets became something to look forward to – it felt, for a few moments, that the world was hers alone, that the day’s potential was making itself known to her and only her. When she unlocked the shop and slipped into the apron with her embroidered initials surrounded by blue flowers, she smiled each day at the memory of when it was gifted to her, tentative hands pulling the ties around her waist.
As the kitchen hummed to life and Marta organized her ingredients for the day and began combining them, slowly but surely, muscle memory began to form – how much flour the table needed, what the dough felt like when it was just right, what it looked like if it needed more time to rise. She developed a system of which pans should be where and when, depending on where they were in the process – ready to bake or just out of the oven or ready for the cooling rack. She began to love the order of it, the steadiness, the way she began to smooth out her process and make it her own.
She had started with the suizos, but when she felt comfortable with those, she began to incorporate other pastries. Alejandro had left her his recipes, for delicious treats like churros and buñuelos, and when she was ready, she tried her hand at them. Success did not come immediately. She cursed and then laughed when she burned the first churros, pulling out what looked like little charcoal logs, and called Alejandro asking what she’d done wrong.
“I followed the recipe to the letter.”
“Use the oven closer to the back door. The churros like that one better,” he’d chuckled. Of course, he was right. She burned a lot fewer after that.
And little by little, more people began showing up. She suspected that some came to gawk at what the de la Reina daughter was up to, so far from the family company’s doors, but when they discovered that what she had was worth returning for, word began getting around. Soon enough, Marta had a little band of regular customers, and she began to associate the tinkle of the doorbell with a certain warmth and an eagerness to exchange a few words with whoever had just walked in.
It had been so long since she’d actively sought the company of people, and something loosened a little in her chest.
The day she found Fina’s recipes, she sat on the garden swing and wept.
The trunk of Fina’s things had languished in the corner of their bedroom since shortly after she’d left. Carmen and Claudia had brought it to her, and not knowing what to do with it, she’d pushed it into the corner, and there it remained, untouched, since that day. Marta couldn’t even bear to look at it, and so she’d tossed a blanket over it and pretended it didn’t exist. Now it had been so long that it was almost something her eyes glossed over, like it was simply a piece of furniture that no one used. So, there it sat.
Until one day, coming home from the bakery, exhausted but feeling accomplished, her eyes landed squarely on the covered box in the corner. She sighed as she changed dresses and reluctantly walked over to the trunk, pulling at the blanket and dropping it to the floor. She stared and stared and tugged on a random strand of her hair, and then, at last, crouched down.
She had no idea why today was the day she could do this, but apparently it was. She undid the latch, and lifted the lid.
Fina’s scent hit her as soon as she did. She didn’t know how, after all this time, nearly two years now, but there it was. It hit her like a prize fighter, and she reeled back as the scent of citrus and summer enveloped her.
Marta whimpered and nearly slammed the lid shut again. How many times had that scent floated by her in the store, sometimes with a teasing wink or a quick brush of fingers against her wrist? How many times had that scent lingered faintly on warm skin as Marta nestled against it, feeling safe and loved?
How could something as ethereal as the scent of sun-kissed lemons nearly undo her?
For a moment her stomach rolled and her head felt dizzy. The room started to fade at the edges of her sight. But then she reminded herself that she was okay and took some steadying breathes.
This is just panic. And sadness. You have dealt with far worse. Breathe.
Moments later, her head cleared, and she finally looked in the trunk, still shaky but no longer in danger of passing out.
There were things that she expected – some clothes, a few novels, some photos of Fina’s parents and one of Fina with Carmen and Claudia smiling from ear to ear. There was the photography book Marta had gifted her, a few of the pages with the corners turned down. Marta picked up the book slowly, flipped to a marked page, and nearly cried right then when Fina’s handwriting leapt up at her from the margin, notes she’d made for herself based on things she’d tried. Fina’s happy smile flashed across Marta’s memory from when she’d gifted her the manual – how her face had lit up when she started talking about photography! Marta closed the book softly and put it aside, hating that Fina hadn’t even been given time to properly pack what she wanted, the things that might have given her comfort or solace.
Looking further, she found the scarf she’d given Fina in Madrid, and a little bundle of dried flowers that she remembered making for Fina down by the river, when they’d finally managed to arrange a picnic. Marta had gathered the flowers as a little silliness, trying to be gallant. She’d had no idea Fina had kept the bouquet.
She let her hands drift through other mementos – some jewelry, a few letters bundled together, a couple knickknacks that Fina had collected – until her eyes landed on a small, rectangular box she didn’t recognize.
When she flipped open the lid and saw what was inside, she quickly shut it again. In fact, she stood abruptly, closed the trunk, and walked away. Suddenly, it was all too much again, as sharp and poignant as the day Fina left, and Marta needed to go outside and breathe fresh air.
It took her two more days to open it back up and an hour more of sitting on the bed staring at the trunk, a lock of hair curled around her finger. When she finally gathered herself and got the box out, she poured a generous glass of wine, went out to the garden, and settled herself on the swing.
Some of the papers inside were quite old, yellowed at the edges, some were stained and nearly see-through in spots. Others were clearly newer, the ink on them sharper, the paper whiter.
Fina’s handwriting Marta recognized immediately – ingredients and instructions written in neat and tidy lines. Some notes scrawled to the side of the original directions. But as she ticked her finger through the box, there was other handwriting too. There were quite a few recipes written in a loopier hand, and Marta surmised those to be Fina’s mother’s – older, more classic pastries, some Marta hadn’t had since she was a child. There were also several recipes where the handwriting looked so very familiar to her, and it scratched at her brain until she realized it was Digna’s. She loved the image that blinked into existence, of Fina and Digna in the kitchen together, Fina as a little girl learning at her elbow, maybe Digna dotting Fina’s nose with flour to tease her, or sneaking her the spatula to lick.
But when Marta got to the back of the box and saw the last recipe, she froze. The writing on it was the most faded of all, but there was no mistaking the angle of the crossed t’s or the distinctive curl of the p’s and q’s. The handwriting belonged to Marta’s mother.
Marta pulled the paper out carefully. It was a recipe for turrón, a nougat dessert that her mother used to make every Christmas. She stared at the words before her – ingredients and measurements, baking temperature and precise instructions, and she was suddenly a child again, the smell of sugar and honey and toasted almonds permeating the family kitchen, impatiently waiting for her mother to cut her a square of the dessert before her brothers realized it was ready. She could hear her mother’s quiet laughter as she handed Marta a piece, winking at her like it was their little secret.
As the memory faded, Marta found herself crying, sadness and joy warring for space in her chest. Even after all these years, her mother’s absence was so poignant sometimes. And yet, what a beautiful treasure this was. Everything in this precious box, really. A collection of stories from all the women in Fina’s life – stories of love and family and traditions.
She wondered how Fina had come to possess her mother’s recipe. Or why she’d never shared it with Marta. Knowing Fina, she’d probably meant to surprise her with it somehow, perhaps gift her with the nougat during the holidays when she knew Marta missed her mother the most.
She swiped at her eyes, trying to stem the tears, but it was no use – the dam had been broken. Marta sat sobbing in the garden, surrounded by Fina’s flowers, holding the memories of all the important women in Fina’s life.
She clasped the box to her chest and for the first time in a long time, just let herself feel.
The only way Marta could think to honor what she’d found was to add Fina’s stories to the new one she’d started – move them from pen and paper to flour and water, butter and sugar. The oldest recipes, including her mother’s, she copied diligently and placed the originals back in the box. She would never forgive herself if she ripped or ruined the recipes of either of their mothers. The ones Fina had written, she tacked up carefully in the shop’s kitchen. She worried briefly whether it would make her sad, but she found seeing Fina’s handwriting every day brought her a certain comfort.
When she closed the shop in the late afternoons, she practiced. Her first attempts at Crema Catalana were abysmal – the custard came out lumpy time and again. But she made batch after batch and she let out a yell of delight the first time it came out silky smooth. After that, flan didn’t seem that daunting to try. Both soon appeared on her menu, and seemed to be well-received. Julia, in particular, requested the Crema Catalana every time she came to the shop.
Her niece seemed particularly enamored of Marta’s new career, and would often wake up on Saturday mornings and beg Marta to take her with her, promising with all her might not to get in the way. As if Marta could ever refuse. On those days, Marta would let Julia pick the menu from the box, and along with the Crema Catalana, they would make mantecados with lemon and cinnamon and polvorones covered in powdered sugar. Their attempts weren’t always successful, but there was plenty of laughter, and Marta often thought of Alejandro on those mornings, teaching his daughter his art in the same space, and it made her happy that this kitchen was teaching another generation yet again. Hours later, when her customers arrived, they seemed tickled that a young person was there claiming she was the one who baked everything, and they always made sure to tell Julia how wonderful everything looked.
So bit by bit, Marta added to both her repertoire and clientele, and her life took on a very different cadence than the one she’d previously known. Simpler. Not to say that the life of a pastry shop owner was easy, quite the contrary, but the weariness she felt at the end of the day now was a satisfactory one – she wasn’t stressed by shipping deadlines and employee infighting and whatever nonsense that was now Broussard’s problem at the office. Rather, she was tired from an honest day’s work, from kneading dough and the routine of moving pans in and out of the ovens and sharing a bit of sweetness with her community.
A sort of peace settled over Marta. It wasn’t a peace where all was as it should be – it never could be when a part of her was somewhere out in the world – but it was a peace and a life that Marta could live with. She had found something that fulfilled her, that gave her a purpose. It occupied the space that had floundered and wandered for months and months, all the time she had been spent searching.
Here, at least, in the company of humming ovens and baking sheets, heirloom recipes and flour and sugar, and the comforting scents of yeast and vanilla and melted chocolate, she had found a measure of quietude for herself.
It was Luz and Begoña who were brave enough to broach the subject Marta avoided at all costs.
Marta caught their shared glance before Begoña asked, “Have you ever thought about…meeting someone else, Marta?”
She had closed the shop half an hour ago, and her two friends were visiting, coffee and pastries on the table, Begoña’s toddler playing with some of Marta’s cookie cutters on the floor beside them.
Marta stopped with her coffee halfway to her mouth and her eyebrows rose, but she wasn’t totally surprised at the question.
“How long have you been wanting to ask me that?”
Begoña and Luz exchanged another glance and they both looked sheepish. Luz finally spoke. “We argued about which one of us should ask.”
“I lost,” Begoña said dryly, sighing.
“Don’t be angry with us,” Luz added. “We just…worry about you.”
Marta put her cup back down. “I’m not angry, pero…no puedo,” she said quietly. “I just…can’t.”
Luz reached out and placed her hand over Marta’s. “Marta…Fina’s been going a long time.”
Marta’s gut twisted, just like it did every time she thought of Fina. “But she’s out there somewhere,” she whispered. “She’s out there, alone, and she doesn’t know –” Marta stopped as her voice hitched, somehow already dangerously close to tears. She looked at her friends. “I couldn’t find her. I tried so hard when I learned what…Pelayo did,” she spit out her ex-husband’s name like a poisoned apple, “And I just couldn’t find her.”
Begoña cleared her throat. “Maybe she doesn’t want to be found,” she suggested.
Marta shook her head vehemently. “She doesn’t know that I’m looking! La conozco. She disappeared to rid herself of Pelayo’s control. Fina…she is fiercely independent. And I have no doubt that getting away from anyone reporting back to Pelayo was very intentional. He might have forced her away, but she would have soon found a way to take back control of her life.”
When the truth had finally come to light – Pelayo’s lies and deception and manipulation – Marta had nearly shattered. Grief and anger had almost torn her apart. Discovering that the love of her life had been forced from her side by someone that she’d trusted, in order to create some sort of delusional marriage and further his political aspirations, had thrown Marta into a spiral down which she fell so far, she barely recognized herself. She spent months and months hiring the best detectives, following every lead. She’d even flown to Buenos Aires, spent weeks combing the streets, checking boarding houses, hoping against hope that one day, Fina would simply appear on the street in front of her, and Marta could fall to her knees in front of her and beg her forgiveness for being such a fool.
But every lead led to dead ends and every woman on the streets of Buenos Aires turned into someone else when Marta got close. She’d returned home, exhausted and broken, and the only thing that kept her sane after that was when she walked for hours.
“Marta, none of that was your fault. Pelayo turned out to be an awful person, devoid of empathy and compassion,” Luz said.
Marta scoffed. “I should have known, Luz. That first morning, when I found Fina gone, I should have known that was something was wrong. For Fina to leave? I should have known it wasn’t her decision. Not after…not after everything we’d promised each other. Not after the future we’d planned together. And instead, I believed…him.”
“You can’t keep blaming yourself,” Begoña said, looking at her earnestly. “It won’t do any good.”
Marta looked her sister-in-law in the eyes, her chest tightening. “We were supposed to have forever.”
Begoña’s eyes filled with tears. “Lo sé. No es justo. And it never will be. But perhaps it’s time to try and move on.”
Marta shook her head. “I can’t. No lo sé, maybe I will feel differently someday. But right now? I would only compare another person to her. It would not be fair. And there is no comparison. Once you have had the love of your life, how do you improve on that?”
Luz and Begoña looked at each other, and Luz took Begoña’s hand and squeezed. “We understand. But Marta, if you ever change your mind, we could introduce you to some people.”
Marta smiled at them. “Gracias, de verdad. It…it means a lot to me that you worry about me like that. But for now, I have enough – good friends, family, and a business that I genuinely love.”
Luz nodded, looking around at the room that Marta had transformed into a cozy space. “You’ve done an incredible job here. I think…well, I think Fina would be so proud of you if she could see this.”
Marta sighed quietly. “She always told me that I was an example to other women – of making a mark in a world dominated by men.”
“Tenía razón,” Luz responded. “It’s no small feat to be a business owner as a woman.”
Marta frowned. “Lo sé, pero I can’t pretend that it’s not due, in part, to being a de la Reina, and having the financial means to do it.”
Begoña shook her head. “No, don’t do that. In these times, I think we need to celebrate all women’s accomplishments. When one of us succeeds, it is a success for all of us. Because what you’ve done here, Marta, will perhaps inspire another woman, to start her own business, and that seems like a beautiful thing to me.”
“Very true,” Luz agreed. “Be that example Fina believed you to be. I can’t think of a better way to honor her belief.”
Marta teared up again. “I am so very lucky to have such friends.”
“We just want you to be happy, Marta,” Luz said, Begoña nodding in agreement, “In every way.”
Marta nodded back in thanks and sipped her coffee. She knew her friends meant well and she appreciated their care, but she knew in her bones that there was a piece of her now that was simply locked away, shut up tight. And there was only one person on this earth who held the key.
It was several months later when Marta first caught sight of a flash of yellow outside the storefront window.
She was sliding a tray of fresh suizos into the display case when it caught her eye. It was a vibrant shock of yellow, just across the street, and perhaps it was because of the gray day, but it was startling enough that Marta’s eyes flicked up just in time to see the back of a skirt disappearing to the right of the window frame.
Pretty, she thought, and turned back to the kitchen as another timer went off.
The second time it happened, several days later, Marta straightened and frowned. It was the same yellow, this time on the bench across the street, almost outside of Marta’s line of sight in the store. The only reason she saw it was because she was clearing the front table and happened to glance out toward the corner of the window. But there it was, the same canary yellow skirt. As she followed the skirt up, she could see that it belonged to what looked like a brunette, but that’s all the information she could ascertain as the woman’s face was hidden behind an open book.
Something ticked at the corner of Marta’s brain then, but it disappeared just as quickly. She had churros baking and it was a daily race between her and the oven as to whether she could get them out before they burned. It was a contest she hadn’t lost in weeks, and she hurried toward the back.
The third time, Marta dropped a plate of pestiños. Because this time, she caught sight of the woman’s figure as she passed by, and the figure was…familiar. More than familiar. She all but leapt over the fallen pastries in an effort to get to the window, but it was getting dark out and whatever she thought she saw was lost in the growing shadows.
The more she thought about it, the more she knew it was just her mind playing tricks on her – the hopeful part that she mostly kept tucked away at this point, but that sometimes still made itself known. She sometimes hated that there was still a part of her that believed somehow, someday, she might get the chance to right all the wrongs, to tell the woman she loved, the woman she would always love, how very sorry she was for being such a fool, for not seeing what was going on immediately, even though that chance was slipping further and further away every day. And yet…she also loved that same part of herself, that held onto the idea that their love was so pure that it would still triumph in the end. Hope really was an inherent human quality, and Marta could not bring herself to quash it entirely in herself.
When Marta saw the same color for a fourth time, however, it no longer felt like a coincidence, or her mind playing tricks. Once or twice? Maybe. But this many times? No. Something about this particular yellow continuously flitting by her little shop felt…intentional.
This time it was the closest of all, passing directly in front of the window when she saw it, and with it, the blur of a profile, one that she would know anywhere. She dropped the coffee cup she was holding, barely hearing it shatter, and she sprinted out the door and to the left. But by the time she was standing on the sidewalk, heart hammering in her chest, there was no one there, the sidewalk empty except for an older couple walking slowly toward her, looking at her curiously. She ignored them, searching up and down the street, desperately willing what she imagined to be true, but after a few seconds, she shook her head at herself.
“It couldn’t be,” she muttered. “Stop being foolish. How many women own yellow skirts in this city? Let alone the world? And how many dishes do you intend on breaking seeing things that aren’t there?”
She walked back into the shop to find the broom.
That night, she dreamed of Fina. She hadn’t in such a long time. But that night, she dreamt of the day she’d taken Fina to their house for the first time – the warm sun on their backs as they peered into their house, making plans, Fina already laying out the garden, and Marta willing to agree to anything Fina wanted as long as she could continue to be as happy as she was in that moment. For that day was the day that everything seemed possible – a small house where they could live their love freely, a handful of trusted friends who supported them, and a fierce love to sustain them for years to come. As Marta spun Fina through their yard, her yellow skirt twirled and twirled, bright and cheerful in the sunlight, and Fina’s sweet laugh filled the fresh spring air.
Two days later, when Marta heard the doorbell ring at the end of the day, she sighed, annoyed that she’d forgotten to flip the sign again and lock the door. Often in the afternoons, some kids would hang around the front door, hoping Marta might slip them a little treat that didn’t sell that day. It was probably one of them curious if today was a lucky day.
“Lo siento, but I don’t have anything today! The store is closed!” she called from the pantry where she was returning ingredients. When there was no good-natured groan in reply, or any reply at all, Marta frowned and then poked her head out of the pantry. She couldn’t see anyone, but could hear the shuffle of someone’s feet on the tile. “Hola?” she called again. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow!”
A second ticked by and then two, three, with no response, and Marta, her senses now on high alert, was about to grab her heaviest rolling pin, when one word froze her to the spot where she stood.
“Marta.”
The voice was soft, but clear. It was a voice she would know on any continent in any language in any lifetime. And it was coming from the front of her store.
But it…couldn’t be. Because the owner of that voice was gone. Lost. Tucked only in Marta’s dreams and stubborn hope.
Except.
Marta’s vision hazed and her stomach clenched and she desperately needed for the room to stop spinning.
Marta, it’s not…her. You misheard. You’re tired. This is your mind playing tricks on you. Just go out there and check. It’s likely just someone who sounds a little like her.
Except.
She knew that voice.
She put every bit of energy she had into willing herself to move, to walk forward, because, at least if she could see, she could prove that she was hallucinating what she’d just heard. Because that was the only explanation that made any sense.
At last, she got one foot to slide forward on the floor. And then the other. Three more halting steps and she was at the door to the front of the shop, certain that she would confirm what she knew to be true – that whoever was in the store was not who she thought it was.
But what she saw when she got to the door all but drove her to her knees, and she had to grab the door frame. Because there, standing in front of the pastry case, like some sort of incarnation from her dreams, was Fina Valero.
Her hair was shorter and styled differently, her clothes more modern, but in every way that mattered, Marta’s wife was standing in front of her. After years of thinking she’d never get the chance to see her again, the mahogany brown eyes she knew so well were wide and locked on Marta, a myriad of emotions in their depths.
Marta, still gripping the doorframe, opened and closed her mouth several times before she could form even a single word.
“Fina?” she finally whispered, not even sure she said it out loud.
But she evidently did because Fina nodded slowly, eyes still not leaving Marta’s.
“Soy yo.”
At those two words, Marta’s hand flew to cover her mouth. She wasn’t sure if she was going to cry or be sick, but confusion and shock were hammering madly in her chest, and a thousand questions were flashing through her mind. But she had no idea what to say, what to ask, and so she said the first thing that came to her that didn’t sound completely incoherent.
“Where have you been?”
Fina nodded as if, of all the possible questions Marta could have asked, that was the normal thing to ask first. But despite her outward calm, her voice trembled when she spoke. “Buenos Aires…at first. Then Mexico for a bit. I’ve been in Paris for the last year.”
Paris.
She’d been so close.
Marta sagged against the doorframe, dizzy. “Fina…no entiendo. How are you…what are you…” and then, as she caught sight of Fina’s skirt under her light coat, realization hit. “It was you.”
Fina’s eyebrows lifted. “¿Qué?”
“The yellow,” Marta said, pointing. “All the times…it was you.”
“What do you mean?”
But Marta ignored the question and took a step forward, this time her hands landing on the counter for support. “How long have you been in Toledo?” she whispered.
Fina’s eyes dropped. “Marta –”
But Marta just repeated herself. “How. Long?”
Fina’s answer was barely audible. “A few weeks.”
A sob abruptly tore from Marta’s throat and she looked at Fina in utter disbelief. “And you’re just now coming to me? When you’ve been here for weeks? That was you I kept seeing, wasn’t it! I thought I was going crazy, Fina!”
“I didn’t know that you –”
“How could you?!” The vehemence of Marta’s response surprised even her. “Why wouldn’t you come to me? Why wouldn’t you tell me that you were safe? Alive?”
“Marta, por favor –”
“¿Por qué?”
Fina’s voice rose. “Porque tenía miedo!”
Marta’s mouth fell open in confusion, her breathing shortening as she struggled with Fina’s confession. “Scared of what? Of me?”
Fina shook her head, but didn’t answer, her mouth trembling, tears tracking down her cheeks.
Marta gripped the counter harder, needing to know. “Then, what? Scared of what, Fina?!”
Fina shook her head harder, squeezed her eyes shut, and blurted, “Scared you had someone else! Scared you moved on! I needed to know before I could tell you I was here!”
Marta reeled back, stunned. For several long moments, there was absolute stillness. And then, not knowing what else to do, Marta moved. She stepped around the counter, closer to Fina, and when Fina heard her, her eyes opened again – her pain and fear as clear as day.
Marta held open her hands. “Did you really think I would?” she asked, her voice quiet again. “Did you really think I could?”
Fina’s breath hitched as she answered. “It’s been a long time, Marta. A small part of me hoped that you’d found a way to be happy again, even if…even if it was with someone else.”
Marta wanted to be hurt that Fina could even imagine such a scenario, but at times, she had hoped the same thing for Fina – that she was happy somewhere, with someone, even if it wasn’t with Marta.
Marta shook her head slowly. “There is no one else. I couldn’t bring myself to…” she trailed off. “There is no one else,” she repeated.
Again, they lapsed into silence, eyes searching, until Fina spoke again, her shoulders rising slightly.
“Marta, I don’t even know where to begin.”
Marta tilted her head. “Neither do I.”
“There is so much to say.”
“Sí.”
“So much to tell you.”
“Sí.”
Fina nodded and licked her lips nervously. “I think…before anything else, you need to know something, Marta, something I should have told you so long ago.” Fina took a deep breath. “Pelayo –”
Marta held out a hand to stop her. “Lo sé,” she interrupted. “I know everything.”
Fina’s expression was one of shock. “You do? How?”
“It’s a long story. But I know everything he did to you. To us. But, Fina…he’s gone. Te lo prometo.”
“Where?”
Marta shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Fina…” Marta took another step forward. She wanted to reach out, but couldn’t. Not yet. She clenched her hand instead. “I tried to find you for so long.”
“You did?” Fina voice was quiet shock.
“Sí, I tried every way I could think of. I hired people. I even…went to Argentina. But I failed. I failed you and I failed us and…” suddenly every feeling and fear that Marta had tried to manage over the years flooded her body and as she sobbed through her words, guilt and shame flushed her face. “I’m so sorry for not realizing who Pelayo was and that you left because he forced you to and I’m so sorry I couldn’t find you and tell you it was safe to come back and I don’t know how to ask for your forgiveness and –”
“–Para, para, para. Marta, para,” Fina interrupted, her tone incredulous. “Ask for my forgiveness? Estás loca? You think you need to ask for my forgiveness? When I’m the one who left? Who abandoned everything we had? Who left you wondering what had happened?”
Marta swiped at her eyes, which did little to stem the tears. “Fina, don’t. You did it to protect me. I know that.”
Fina’s fingers twitched. “I should have fought him harder. You don’t know how long I hated myself. How much I still do.”
Something in the weary way she said the words broke Marta’s heart. There had been so much suffering for them both.
“No, Fina. Please don’t,” Marta said. “Please don’t hate yourself. I…don’t want you to keep punishing yourself.”
Fina at last took a step toward Marta, and now they were an arm’s length apart. Her eyes held Marta’s and it looked like she was just on the verge of saying something, but then her gaze shifted behind her. Marta could see her taking in the shop, the kitchen, the two small tables tucked in the corner. A small smile briefly curled at her mouth.
“You finally did it. Opened your own pastelería.”
Marta frowned a little at the shift in the conversation, but she answered all the same. “Ahhh…sí. I did. I wandered in here one day and the previous owner…he became a friend. He wanted to retire, and buying the shop from him was the only thing that made sense to me after…well, after everything.”
“I knew it was you when I saw the name. Even before I saw you.”
It was Marta’s turn to offer a small smile. “Sí. Begoña told me to pick something that brought me joy. And there is nothing in my life that has brought me greater happiness.”
Fina’s eyes filled with tears and she blinked quickly several times, finally looking away from Marta and up at the menu Marta had written on the chalk board that morning. Her eyes widened a bit. “When do you learn to make turrón?”
Fina’s surprise nearly made Marta laugh, clearly not quite believing in Marta’s skills as a baker.
“I found your recipes.”
Fina’s eyes instantly returned to Marta’s, accompanied by a sharp intake of air. “You did?”
“Sí.”
“And your mother’s recipe,” Fina said softly.
Marta nodded. “Sí. And I…I wanted to honor it somehow. Not just that one, but all of them. They were important to you. It seemed a shame for them to just…sit in a box. So, I practiced until they were good enough to offer customers.”
Fina gave her a tentative, but genuine, smile. “Marta…I am so incredibly proud of you. This is…what you wanted.”
Marta felt warmth bloom in her chest. How long had it been since Fina had last said those words to her? Emotion rose in her throat and she cleared it quickly.
“¿Y tú? What have you…been doing all this time?”
Fina shrugged. “Photography. It turns out, there is steady work in taking pictures for papers and magazines. I learned as I went. And in my free time…I photographed what truly mattered to me – all the things I found beautiful about every-day life.”
“You don’t know how happy that makes me, Fina. That you had something you were passionate about.”
“Marta?” Fina’s hand briefly reached out, and then stopped and dropped back down.
“¿Sí?” Marta watched as Fina drew in a long breath.
“I want you to know…I have never photographed anything as beautiful as you. Nothing has even come close. Ever.”
A tremor shuddered through Marta at Fina’s words. After all this time, how could Fina nearly undo her with such a simple statement? How could she still make Marta feel as if she was the only person to ever look at her and find her enough exactly as she was? It couldn’t still be the same after years apart, could it?
“Fina…how can you say that? You’ve seen so much more of the world.”
“I can say it because it’s true.”
“Fina…”
For several long moments, the air felt charged, and Marta found herself holding her breath, though she wasn’t quite sure why. So much sat in the space between them. They were close enough now, they could have reached out and touched each other at any time, and yet…each seemed hesitant.
But then Fina spoke.
“Marta, I need to say something. And I thought I could wait, I thought we could talk first. Take things slow. But I can’t. I can’t be patient and I can’t stand not knowing. I just need to know. Now. Whatever the outcome may be.”
Marta suddenly wished she had something to hold onto again, the tone of Fina’s voice suggesting that whatever was said next would decide the course of both their futures.
“Dime,” Marta said as she began to tremble.
Fina licked her lips and nodded and then looked into Marta’s eyes exactly how Marta remembered – honestly and clearly. Marta knew whatever she said would be direct and true.
And then her words rose into the space between them, tremulous and hopeful.
“I…I want to come home.”
The words were simple, but they untethered Marta completely. How was she to respond to such a statement? What was Fina saying? That she wanted to stay in Toledo? Or was it...something more? Was she saying the thing that Marta dared not believe?
Marta opened her palms toward Fina and chose the safest answer. “Toledo will always be your home.”
Fina stepped closer to Marta and when she raised her hand this time, Marta could see it was shaking. She reached forward and placed her hand over Marta’s heart and finally, finally they were touching. Tentative, but solid.
“No,” Fina whispered, her palm warm against Marta. “I mean…I want to come home.”
This time the words curled their way into Marta’s heart, and she knew at that moment that somehow, some way, this time, Fate would be on their side.
Marta’s own hand was shaking, too, when she lifted it and covered Fina’s. She pressed their joined hands harder to her chest and slid her fingers to intertwine with hers. Tears were running unchecked down her cheeks as she leaned forward and tilted her forehead against Fina’s. She breathed her in ever so slowly – bravery and lemons and hope.
“Oh, Fina, amor…don’t you know?” she whispered back, and then said the truest words she’d ever spoked.
“You never left.”
EL FIN
