The First Encounter
Sunday, 13 August 1780 Mother sucked a lace handkerchief to her face, concealing the contagious grin from my future family. Throwing the Limoges gilt cup at Miguel probably wasn’t the best idea, but the toss felt like the soft whites pushing through the crack of an eggshell that had boiled too long. I picked up the nearest thing and flung it at him. How I managed to hold in the ensuing urge to laugh was miraculous. The unbroken saucer, a reminder of the incident that disgraced the pristine parlor wall of Casa de la Colina, and the Lizarraga family name, was good for nothing more than a potted plant. The over-wound-pocket-watch throw that sent my fiancé’s eyebrows as high as mine the first time I jumped Artemia over the winter woodpile, sped past Miguel’s brow with a miss so narrow, his forehead could’ve easily been bloodied with a nick worthy of bragging about to drinking buddies as a dueling mishap, had there been the remotest possibility he’d be company to ei...