Las Dos Marias

Chapter 10: The Sermon

Trinidad felt a twinge of disappointment when she realized Isabela had already gone to the hills. The mysterious woman had left before dawn, just as expected. Still, Trinidad wished she had stayed for breakfast—just to steal another glance.

She blamed her restlessness on a sleepless night, tangled in sheets and relentless thoughts replaying their brief moment in the guest room. She couldn't shake the memory of the brush of skin, the heat in Isabela's eyes, and the way their lips had nearly touched. No matter how hard she tried, the moment stuck with her, leaving her uneasy at the breakfast table.

"What's bothering you, hija?" her grandmother asked, noticing her demeanor.

"I just wonder if she's safe... if she's home by now," Trinidad replied softly, her voice nearly drowned by the sound of clinking silverware. She glanced at her grandmother, who looked surprisingly vibrant after Isabela's treatment the night before.

"Don't worry about that young healer," Doña Alma said. "She's used to such travels."

Across the table, Don Arnulfo rustled his newspaper as he lazily worked a piece of tobacco. Meanwhile, her mother, sat beside him, wearing one of her new silk dresses she just recently purchased.

"Darling," Doña Esperanza said, "finish your breakfast. After church, we'll go for a fitting for that dress you'll wear for your meeting with Don Miguel. Remember, he's coming by this afternoon."

Trinidad's frown deepened as her fingers traced the edge of her plate. "Do I really need to dress up for that man? And must I even see him? I'm not in the mood for visitors today."

A soft chuckle rumbled from Don Arnulfo as he folded his newspaper, holding his tobacco between his fingers. "It wouldn't do for you to turn Don Miguel away again, my dear. The poor man barely got a chance with you at the party. You will receive him right after church," he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. Trinidad opened her mouth to protest but realized it was pointless.

After breakfast, the family headed to the small chapel. As Alcalde Mayor, her father had the seat closest to the altar. Other prominent families sat nearby, while the poorer folks either filled the back or stood near the doorway.

The Mass began with Father Enrique standing tall before the congregation, his steady voice filling the room. Every now and then, as he intoned the Latin Mass, he would glance at the pew where the Buenavista family sat.

Trinidad was seated between her father and mother. Don Arnulfo wore his usual stern expression, while Doña Esperanza sat still beside her. Doña Alma, sitting next to Don Arnulfo, appeared deep in prayer.

"The times we live in," Father Enrique started, "are full of temptations, distractions that pull us from God's light and into darkness."

He stepped closer to the altar's edge, his tone taking on a warning note. "Remember the words from Leviticus: 'Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination.'"

The congregation fell into an inaudible murmur.

"This," Father Enrique continued, his voice now dropping to a near growl, "is not just a sin of the flesh. It's a rejection of God's divine order. A sin that goes against the sacred union between man and woman, ordained for life and family."

Trinidad's chest tightened, each word hitting her like a blow.

Did the friar know the desires of her heart?

She kept her face neutral, her eyes fixed on the stone floor, but inside, the weight of his words pressed hard on her. Worse, her father's approving nod as he absorbed the friar's sermon only deepened her unease.

"As you leave today," Father Enrique went on, his gaze sweeping the pews, "remember, sin comes in many forms—some subtle, some bold, but all equally dangerous. Stay vigilant and pray for strength, so that we may walk the righteous path and guide lost souls back to God's grace."

With that, Father Enrique bowed his head, leading the congregation into prayer. Before Trinidad knew it, the Mass had ended, but the weight in her chest only grew heavier.

As the congregation shuffled out, her mother's sharp whispers did little to soothe the tension. "That girl we took in," Doña Esperanza muttered. "Did you see how sinful she looked? Dressing like a man, acting like one. This is exactly why I didn't want her around."

Trinidad's pulse quickened, heat rising to her cheeks. Her mother's words stung more than the padre's sermon had.

"I forbid you from making friends with that mujer, Trinidad."

Clenching her hands, Trinidad turned to her mother, tears threatening to spill. "Mama, por favor, we just came from church," she whispered.

Doña Esperanza pursed her lips, casting a glance at her daughter. She said nothing more, but the judgment in her eyes was clear. Trinidad murmured an apology, then walked ahead of her family.

As the warm breeze brushed her face, the tension between mother and daughter lingered, as sharp and heavy as the padre's sermon still echoing in her ears.