She wondered if anyone realized the courage it had taken to come here. Was Angelina defiant? Was she terribly bitter? Her face, so forlorn, had filled her with compassion. She should never have come to Petaca ... her city friends meant so much to her.
Neither man spoke; it was not for them to comment. Manuel admired Lucienne for her love of Raul and her affection for Caterina, and he appreciated the hundreds of kindnesses she had shown him through the years. They had been friends since her girlhood. Her beauty filled him with pleasure. Noticing her black dress, he recalled her recent return from Europe, the hatboxes, suitcases full of gowns and high-heeled shoes ... things she had forgotten for her garden. Anyone who appreciated plants and flowers as much as she appreciated them had a place in his heart.
Raul found Lucienne by Caterina's grave, and her black clothes startled him. They shook hands, their eyes lowered; he could not bring himself to look at her; he had merely glimpsed her at the chapel service.
"I'm sorry you lost her, Raul," she said.
"A lovely girl," he said, as if he had memorized the words.
"Such a dear child. I loved her."
"She wants you to have Mona," he said.
"Mona, her little dog?" she asked, hoping that a few words, any words, might lessen his strain. Such a sad, dark face.
Palm fronds laddered the space behind her.
"You taught her to collect plants and butterflies."