The Real Garcia Chapter 06
For an instant, his composure cracked. His mouth tightened.
But then he straightened, his gaze stern. “Ms. Smith, I don’t know what grudge you hold against my family. But everyone knows my wife and I have been devoted to each other for fifty years.”
“Your wife?” I interrupted, pointing at the woman beside him. “Do you mean her, or the Garcia you left behind in that rural backwater?”
Silence.
His mouth twitched.
The woman shot up. “Nonsense! Who are you to make up such lies!”
I didn’t look at her. I pressed the remote again.
A faded photograph appeared on the screen. A young woman with two braids, standing under an old cottonwood tree. She looked a lot like me. The resemblance was striking.
I looked at Daniel Harrington. “Professor, do you remember this face?”
He stared at the screen. His Adam’s apple bobbed once.
“That’s just a young woman I knew during my time in the rural West. She had feelings for me, but I firmly rejected her. Don’t twist things with one photograph.”
“Is that so?” I smiled.
Another click. Yellowed letters appeared, key lines highlighted in red.
“Wait for me. I’ll come back for you when I’m settled.”
“Just a little longer. I’m close to getting your return permit.”
“You are the only one in my heart. I will give you and our child a home.”
One by one. Each signed in ink: Daniel Harrington.
No one spoke. The shutter clicks had stopped.
Finally, the screen showed a county register record. Name: Garcia. The photograph was the same young woman.
My grandmother. The real Garcia.
The live comments erupted.
“So THAT is the real Garcia? Then who’s the woman next to him?”
“The letters say it plainly. And he just said he ‘rejected’ her, Lying without batting an eye.”
“So the real Garcia was abandoned in the rural West. Who is this fake Garcia? This is insane.”
Daniel Harrington’s lips pressed into a thin line. He gripped the table. His fingertips were white. A bead of sweat
ran down his forehead.
“Unfortunately,” I said, “she never stopped waiting for you. But you ran away with this woman. You stole her name and her identity. You walked out of the farmland. One of you became a law professor. The other, a famous
artist. But the real Garcia, she was trapped in that forgotten backcountry, called a whore her whole life.”
I pointed at the woman. “She is not Garcia. She is the county commissioner’s daughter. Her name is Lily Jones.”
The woman’s face twisted. “Lies! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
I smiled. Another click.
A photograph appeared. Lily Jones, wearing sunglasses and a dark coat, standing before a small family cemetery. plot. A simple bunch of wildflowers lay on the largest headstone. The stone read: Jones Family Plot
Her face went white. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
The comments went wild. The viewer count skyrocketed.
“Lily Jones? So she stole someone’s identity?”
“The county commissioner’s daughter took a real person’s name and lived a charmed life for fifty years.”
“The real Garcia was called a whore. The fake Garcia became an artist. I’m shaking.”
“No wonder their son and daughter in law died young. Karma.”
Daniel Harrington’s forehead was slick with sweat. His starched collar was stained.
He did not speak. But all the color was gone from his face.
Then the door opened.
My mother walked in.
