Faith invites Consuela to Córdoba for the weekend, and Consuela hesitantly says yes. Faith is her only sister. She’s blood. Even though Consuela tends to walk away from interactions with her sister hurt and slightly bruised, Faith means well. Faith is on her team and that’s enough. Their parents are in Switzerland, in Neuchâtel, which is a bit of a commute. Consuela talks to her dad every Saturday morning. She used to take her first coffee and a cigarette and the phone; now, though, it’s just coffee and conversation. Last Saturday, he’d once again proclaimed that his nose was still in fine form-that he and his nose were still in demand across France. He’d even had a call from a winery in the Okanagan region of Canada that was producing award-winning pinots.

Consuela books passage and arrives in Córdoba by nine o’clock. Rob picks her up and seems genuinely pleased to see her. Consuela is always taken aback by his looks. He seems more psychologist-like than Faith, with his round wire-rimmed glasses and neat gray beard. Combine his appearance with soft, welcoming eyes, and Rob is definitely someone with whom Consuela could see herself talking. But he’s a city planner, not a shrink. Maybe she could still talk with him. Don’t need a degree to have a conversation.

But Rob and Consuela only chitchat as they zigzag through the labyrinth of side streets and alleyways. When Consuela walks through the doorway, Faith hands her a drink.

“We’re having a few people over for a late dinner. Do you want to change?”

“Hi to you, too. Sure, I’d love to get out of these clothes.” Consuela is always impressed by Faith’s composed appearance. It was warm and humid today, but she seems cool and unaffected. Consuela is dripping, feels oppressed by the humidity.

“Rob, can you take Connie’s things to the guest room?”

The house is a sprawling, one-level six-bedroom home with servant’s quarters out back. A central courtyard can be seen, and entered, from every room. A full-time gardener works solely on this inner-garden sanctuary.

In her room, Consuela unfastens her bra. She thinks about corsets. Can you even buy a corset these days? She changes into a fresh dress and picks flat but stylish shoes. She splashes water on her face, washes her armpits, dabs on an adequate amount of perfume, and heads down to the living room. Rob hands her another drink. Two other couples and one man, an architect named Marc, have already arrived and are chatting, with drinks in hand, in the living room.

Consuela downs her drink. It’s a goddamned setup. That’s just perfect. Faith is playing matchmaker. And Consuela, the pathetic, spinster nurse. The unwanted, unloved sister. She immediately wants another drink, begins to peer around the room for a source.

Rob notices her thirsty look, hands her a glass of champagne. Faith scowls at him, then half smiles. The other two couples both have links to psychiatry. The wives stay at home with the kids; the men play with the minds of their patients.

“Oh, Connie could have been a doctor,” Faith says, as part of her introduction. “She had better marks than me. Better study habits, too.”

“Well, it’s never too late to pick up a degree,” Rob says, possibly trying to diffuse any perceived criticism.

“That’s right. You have to want it, though,” Marc adds. It doesn’t come off as advice. It’s a flat statement of fact, like he’s been there, done that.

“Did you know that Marc is the one who designed our house?” Faith picks up the champagne bottle and goes around the circle, fills glasses, skips Consuela’s.

“I didn’t design the outer deck,” Marc says. “Which is perfect, by the way.”

Faith smiles her thanks. “It’s a nice night. Shall we take in the view?” Faith poses the question but they all understand it’s a gentle request. On the way out, Rob hands Consuela another glass of champagne.

“Thanks,” she says.

“I had no idea she was going to do this.”

“It’s all right.”

Marc meets them in the hallway. Rob brushes by toward the deck, which overlooks Córdoba, the Great Mosque in the distance, glowing soft orange.

“I hope you’ll forgive me pushing my way into this dinner party. I wanted to meet you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’ve seen pictures. Heard lots about you.”

“One syllable,” Consuela says, shaking her head. “I don’t date men with names that have only one syllable. My first marriage, one syllable. Not good.” She’s feeling the champagne. It seems the hallway is tilted slightly. Now it’s straight, oh, now it’s tilted.

“My name is Marcello,” he says. “I just wanted to meet you. I just came out of… I’m not sure I want to date anybody. Not sure about dating. This is just a dinner party, yes? If I have three syllables do I qualify for a simple conversation?”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry. Yes. This is just dinner. My sister… I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“It was my idea. You’re beautiful, by the way. Even more so when you’re apologetic.”

Just when you think you have it figured out, just when you’re sure of yourself, that’s when the rug gets pulled. She feels humbled and little. Consuela has to admit, he’s pretty good at this. Her walls are down and he’s standing in the front hallway. But now there are a lot of doors, and most are locked. Yes, yes, he’s a deep-voiced, lovely man. Shoulder-length dark hair and a kind face. He obviously likes her, but Consuela skims across the surface of him and thinks about Columbus. The magician, the spinner of tall tales, the enchanter.

Somewhere below is a horse-drawn carriage moving under the canopy of trees. Consuela can hear the steady rhythm of horse hooves hitting the street-a hollow sound that carries.

They sit down to dinner at a long table, staggered with cande-labras, fine china, gleaming silverware. An obscenely massive bouquet of white lilies and gerberas is at mid-table. They all sit west of the flowers, Faith at the head of the table, Rob beside her. Marcello is seated across from Consuela; Donna and Alf Rubinski across from Mary and Gordon Money.

I’m in hell, Consuela is thinking. This is a decent man. He’s bright and not an ass-wipe like my ex, but this is all irrelevant. She compares every man to Columbus -and they do not fare well. She’s head over heels in love with a man who’s locked in a mental asylum and who thinks he’s Christopher Columbus. She can’t shake him. She can’t stop thinking about him. His stories reverberate long after he’s done. His eyes and his voice haunt her on the days she is off work.

I’m screwed, she thinks. I can’t speak or act like I’m in love. Not here. Faith will go berserk. I have to pretend availability. Is this love? Is it love I feel for Columbus? My God, what’s the test for love? A long line of clichés come to mind, things like inability to sleep, to eat, and to focus. Anxiety attacks. Obsession. Fixations. Lust. Desire. Oh, she’s got desire all right.

“I don’t understand a thing about love,” Consuela says.

Everyone at the table stops mid-fork or mid-lifting of wineglasses and looks at her.

Fuck, did I just say that out loud? she thinks. Consuela looks around the table at the stopped people.

“This is the reason we have poetry, and art, and dance,” Marcello says. “The artists help us to understand this mystery, yes?”

“Could you be any more fucking romantic?”

“You don’t like the romance?”

“No, I like the romance just fine.” Faith is staring at her-no glaring-waiting for her to dismiss Marcello because she’s already in love. Faith is waiting to pounce on her because she’s in love with a patient, because she lied about dumping the patient.

Consuela turns to Marcello. She can’t see through all his earnestness, his attempt to save her, his effrontery of charm.

She lowers her voice, leans toward him. “I’m just not as grounded as I… I’m just not open to romance right now.”