03. Storm

Miguel entered the house through the side veranda, rainwater trailing behind him across the polished stone floor.

The plantation home breathed differently at night. Built into the Monteverde slope, it reflected the quiet wealth of the last century—solid hardwood beams darkened with age, thick plaster walls, and tall shuttered windows designed to welcome air and mist without surrendering warmth. The hallway ran long and symmetrical from the entrance, a narrow runner softening footsteps, framed botanical prints and sepia photographs tracing generations of land and stewardship.

Miguel shrugged out of his jacket as he moved down the hall.

“Señor Miguel,” Don Rafael said gently.

The butler stepped forward with unhurried grace, already reaching for the soaked jacket before Miguel could think to object. His expression held no reproach—only familiarity shaped by decades of service and care.

“The rain came in hard tonight,” Rafael observed, as though commenting on the weather rather than the state of the suit. “I’ll see that this is handled.”

Miguel handed it over without comment. He reached the mahogany console table and set his keys down with a soft clink.

“Where is Christopher?” he asked.

“At the Butterfly Garden,” Rafael replied. “The school arranged a special evening visit — something about the nocturnal species emerging after the rain. He was very excited.”

Miguel’s mouth softened, just slightly. “When will he return?”

“After dinner, señor.”

Thunder rolled low and close, the sound carrying through the house. Rafael inclined his head.

“I’ll have your meal brought in,” he said. “Something warm, given the night.”

Miguel nodded once and continued down the hall, the rhythm of the house settled him as it always did.

“I needed the drive,” he said.

Rafael sighed. “Of course you did.”

As if on cue, thunder rolled directly overhead, rattling the shutters. Rafael glanced toward the windows, then motioned down the hall.

“I’ll bring your meal to the dining room,” he said. “You’ll want something warm.”

Miguel followed, stripping off his tie as he went.

⸻

Dinner was laid out simply, but impeccably.

The dining room overlooked the valley, though tonight the view was swallowed by mist. A single pendant lamp cast warm light over the table. Rafael set down the dishes one by one—quiet, deliberate.

There was olla de carne, rich and aromatic, the broth slow-simmered with beef, corn, yuca, plantain, and root vegetables grown on the estate itself. Alongside it sat arroz blanco, perfectly steamed, and frijoles negros cooked with onion and sweet pepper. A small plate of plátanos maduros glistened with caramelized edges. Fresh tortillas, still warm, were wrapped in cloth.

For Miguel, there was also grilled corvina, finished with lime and herbs. Don Rafael poured a single glass of French Chablis, pale and chilled, its acidity clean against the richness of the fish. Wealth in Costa Rica did not announce itself loudly. It was expressed through quality, restraint, and time.

Miguel ate in silence, listening to the rain pound the roof, to the wind testing the eaves. His thoughts, however, were not on the food.

They returned—unbidden—to the woman on the roadside.

To the way she’d stood her ground despite exhaustion. To the quiet dignity in her voice.

To the name she’d given herself.

Bobby.

The storm intensified, rain slashing sideways now, thunder cracking so close it vibrated the glassware. Somewhere in town, beneath that same storm, she would be sitting alone—counting coins, measuring choices. For reasons he could not yet articulate, the idea unsettled him.

Miguel set his fork down abruptly, the clink against porcelain barely audible beneath the rain.

“And the search?” he asked. “For the chaperone.”

Don Rafael stood a respectful distance from the table, hands folded lightly in front of him. He did not answer immediately.

“It has not gone well, señor.”

Miguel exhaled slowly. “None of them?”

Rafael shook his head once. “Christopher tolerated the tutors for an hour at most. The last one tried to interest him in chess.”

Miguel’s mouth twitched. “He’s five.”

“Precisely,” Rafael said, gently. “The boy wants to run. To climb. To be loud. He also loves insects”. Rafael’s lips twitched. “The last muchacho did not appreciate finding a Hercules beetle inside his shirt pocket”.

Miguel leaned back in his chair smiling. “Way to go Chris! Pura Vida! He doesn’t need another father,” Miguel said. “Just a chaperone, someone young. Someone who can run with him. Kick a ball. Get dirty without complaint.”

Rafael nodded. “You have always believed boys learn best that way.”

“I grew up that way,” Miguel said. “On a field. A ball at my feet.” He paused. “Soccer taught me discipline before anything else did.”

“You were very good,” Rafael said, a note of quiet pride entering his voice.

Miguel waved it off. “I don’t need a professional. Just someone who can keep up. Someone who can play with him—rough and tumble, honest play. Teach him teamwork. Let him lose without breaking him.”

Rafael hesitated, then said carefully, “Christopher did not care for the last man at all.”

“What happened?”

“He asked too many questions,” Rafael replied. “Tried too hard to be liked. Christopher decided within minutes that he was not worth listening to.”

Miguel was silent for a moment.

“He’s stubborn,” he said finally.

Rafael smiled faintly. “He is your son.”

Miguel looked toward the window, where rain streaked down the glass in uneven lines. “Then keep looking,” he said. “Someone will be right. I don’t want him growing up surrounded only by adults who speak softly and expect him to sit still.”

“Yes, señor,” Rafael said. “We will continue.”

Thunder rolled low and close, as if in agreement.