The Heart Has Its Reasons Read Online Free PDF

not students and middle-income families with tight budgets that had to stretch to the end of the month.
    With my arrival at Santa Cecilia, I’d left behind most of my old routines, including the large bimonthly shopping spree in a superstore with a deafening public-address system, discounts in the frozen sections, and three-for-two special offers. Like so many other things in my life, the shopping carts overflowing with part-skim milk and dozens of rolls of toilet paper had become a thing of the past.
    Closing time was nearing and the last clients were hurriedly making their purchases. The employees, dressed in long black aprons, seemed anxious to put an end to the day’s work. In the cheese section I decided, without much thought, to go for a chunk of Parmesan. Then I added a can of dried tomatoes in olive oil to my basket along with a bag of arugula before heading to the bakery section, figuring there wouldn’t be much choice left. Suddenly I felt a tap on my left shoulder, little more than a grazing of two fingers and a slight pressure. In the middle of my absurd dilemma—a small round loaf of bread with bits of olive or a baguette topped with sesame seeds—I looked up, and to my surprise there stood Rebecca Cullen.
    As we greeted each other, someone appeared behind her back. A tall, distinctive man with slightly long, grayish-blond hair and a beardthat contrasted with his tan skin. He was holding a bottle of wine, and the reading glasses perched on his nose suggested that he’d been scrutinizing its label just a couple of seconds earlier.
    â€œMy friend Daniel Carter, an old professor from our department” was all Rebecca volunteered.
    He offered me a large hand and I noticed he was wearing a sizable black digital watch on his right wrist, something I associated more with athletes than university types. I held my hand out and readied a greeting in English that I never uttered, a standard greeting I’d been repeating since my arrival: “How do you do, a pleasure meeting you.” But he took the lead. Surprisingly, disconcertingly, that athletic-looking American, almost juvenile despite his obvious maturity, took my hand in his while regarding me with blue eyes, and burst into flawless Spanish, throwing me completely off guard.
    â€œRebecca has spoken to me about your presence in Santa Cecilia, dear Blanca, of your mission to rescue the legacy of our old professor. I was looking forward to meeting you, as lovely ladies of regal Spanish lineage do not abound in these remote places.”
    I couldn’t help laughing at the stilted flair in his parody of an old-fashioned gallant scene, as well as the hidden warmth behind his spontaneity—not to mention the soothing sensation, after weeks of obscure seclusion, of hearing an accent so familiar and impeccable in someone so alien to my universe.
    â€œI’ve spent much of my life in your country,” he added, without letting go of my hand. “Great affections, wonderful Spanish friends, Andres Fontana among them. More than half a lifetime coming and going from here to there—great moments. What a place. I always go back—always.”
    We hardly had the chance to continue talking: the shutters were being pulled down and the lights turned off; they were expected for dinner someplace, while an empty apartment awaited me. As we headed toward the cashiers and then outside, I was able to learn only that he was a professor at the University of California at Santa Barbara who was enjoying a year’s sabbatical and that his friendship with Rebecca had temporarily brought him back to Santa Cecilia.
    â€œI’m still not sure how long I’ll be here,” he concluded while holding the door to let us through. “I’m finishing a book and it’s good for me to keep away from daily distractions. Turn-of-the-century Spanish prose; I’m sure you’re familiar with the whole crew. We’ll see how it