The Heart Has Its Reasons: A Novel

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9781451668339: The Heart Has Its Reasons: A Novel

Declared “a writer to watch” (Publishers Weekly, starred review), New York Times bestselling author María Dueñas pours heart and soul into this story of a woman who discovers the power of second chances.

A talented college professor in Madrid, Blanca Perea seems to have it all. But her world is suddenly shattered when her husband of twenty years leaves her for another woman. Questioning the life she once had and whether she truly knows herself, Blanca resolves to change her surroundings. She accepts what looks like a boring research grant in California involving an exiled Spanish writer who died decades ago. Anxious to leave her own troubled life behind, she is gradually drawn into his haunted world, with its poignant loves and unfulfilled ambitions.

But in delving into the past, Blanca finds herself simultaneously awakened to the present by Daniel Carter, a charismatic professor with crucial knowledge about the dead writer that he has never before revealed. Amid this web of passion, conflict, and hidden feelings, including her own, Blanca advances like an avid detective, refusing to quit, and ultimately discovers startling answers that resonate deeply in her own life.

Evocative, lyrical, and humorous, The Heart Has Its Reasons is a journey of the soul from the pangs of the past to the vibrant present. It is a story about the thrill of creating one’s life anew.

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About the Author:

María Dueñas holds a PhD in English philology. After two decades dedicated to academics, she broke onto the literary scene in 2009 with the publication of the New York Times bestselling novel The Time in Between, followed by The Heart Has Its Reasons in 2012. Both novels became international bestsellers and have been translated into thirty-five languages. The television adaptation of The Time in Between earned critical and international acclaim. The Vineyard is her third novel.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

 Chapter 1
 
Sometimes life comes crashing down, heavy and cold as a deadweight.
This is how I felt on opening the office door. It had all felt so cozy, so intimate, so mine. Before.
And yet to the naked eye there was no reason for apprehension; everything remained just as I had left it. Shelves crammed with books, bulletin board full of schedules and reminders. Folders, filing cabinets, old playbills, envelopes  addressed  to me. The calendar frozen two months back, July 1999. Everything stood intact in that space which for fourteen years had been my haven, where semester after semester I’d welcomed countless students lost in doubt or searching for something. The only thing that had changed were the props that supported me. Shattered.
Several minutes went by, perhaps even ten. Sufficient time, in any event, for me to come to a decision. My first order of business was to dial a telephone number. In reply I only got the icy courtesy of a voice mail. Hesitating whether or not to hang up, I decided to leave a message.
“Rosalia, it’s Blanca Perea. I have to get out of here, I need your help. I don’t know where I could go; it’s all the same to me. Somewhere I don’t know a soul and no one knows me. I realize it’s the worst tim- ing, with the semester about to begin, but call me as soon as you can, please.”

I felt better after leaving the message. I knew I could trust Rosalia Martin, both her understanding and her goodwill. We had known each other since our early days at the university, when I was a young professor with a meager temporary contract and she was responsible for running a recently established department of international relations. Although our friendship had diluted somewhat with the passing of time, I knew Rosalia’s mettle and was sure that my cry for help would be answered.
Only after the phone call could I muster enough energy to face my duties. My e-mail in-box opened like an overflowing dam of messages, and I dove into its current for a good while, answering some and dis- carding others that were outdated or of no import. Until the telephone interrupted me, and I answered with a curt “Yes . . . ?”
“What’s the matter with you, madwoman? Where do you want to go at this point? And what’s with all the rush?”
Rosalia’s impassioned voice brought back the memories of so many shared experiences. Hours on end sitting in front of the black-and-white screen of a prehistoric computer. Shared visits to foreign universities in search of exchange programs  and partnerships, double rooms in nondescript hotels, dawns spent waiting in empty airports. With the passage of time we’d gone our separate ways, but the traces of an old complicity remained alive, and that is why I told her everything. Without reservation, with brutal honesty.
In a couple of minutes  she knew all she needed to know. That Alberto had left me. That the assumed solidity of my marriage had vanished during the first days of summer; that my kids had already flown the nest; that I’d spent the last couple of months awkwardly trying to adjust to my new reality. And that now, facing the new semester, I lacked the stamina to stay afloat in the setting I’d lived comfortably in for years, simply latching onto my responsibilities and routines as if my life hadn’t undergone a swift sure gash like a knife through flesh.
With a dose of pragmatism equal to her body’s considerable size, 
Rosalia immediately absorbed the situation and realized that the last thing I needed was well-meaning  sugarcoated advice. So she did not delve into details or offer me her soft shoulder as solace. She only made a comment that, as I might have expected, bordered on bluntness.

“Well, I’m afraid it won’t be that easy for us, honey.” She spoke in the plural, immediately taking on the matter as something  we were in together. “The deadlines for interesting things passed months ago,” she added, “and the next fellowship application deadlines are still some months away. But the semester is just beginning, and I don’t know if we’ve received anything new in the last couple of weeks. Give me until the end of the day to see if I can come up with something.”
I spent the rest of the morning wandering around the university. I took care of pending paperwork, returned books to the library, and had coffee afterwards. Nothing sufficient to distract me while waiting for Rosalia’s call. I was overanxious and lacked confidence. At a quarter to two I rapped on her office door, which was ajar. Inside, serene as always, and with violet-tinted hair, Rosalia was busy at work.
“I was just about to call you,” she announced, without even giving me time to greet her. Pointing to the computer screen, she proceeded to reel off what she’d found. “Three things came in during the holidays. They’re  not that bad—more than I expected, to tell you the truth. Three universities and three different activities. Lithuania, Portugal, and the United States. California, specifically. None are cushy jobs, mind you, and they all promise to work your ass off without contribut- ing much to your curriculum vitae, but it’s better than nothing, right? Where would you like me to start?”
I shrugged, pursing my lips slightly to stifle a smile: this was my first glimpse of optimism in a long time. In the meantime, Rosalia adjusted her chewing-gum-green glasses and redirected her gaze to the computer, scrutinizing its contents.
“Lithuania, for instance. They’re looking for specialists in linguistic pedagogy for a new teacher training program. Two months. They have a European Union subsidy, which requires an international group. And this is in your line of work, right?”
Indeed it was. Applied linguistics, language pedagogy, curriculum design. I’d been treading that path for the last two decades of my life. But before succumbing to the first siren’s song, I chose to inquire a bit further.

“And Portugal?”
“University of Espirito Santo, in Sintra. Private, modern, loaded. They’ve  put together a master’s program in teaching Spanish  as a foreign language, and are looking for experts in methodology. The deadline is this Friday—in other words now. A twelve-week intensive course, with enough teaching hours to choke a horse. The salary isn’t too bad, so I imagine they must have loads of applications. But in your favor you have all those years of slogging away, and we’ve got a wonderful relationship with Espirito Santo, so it might not be too hard for us to get it.”
That offer seemed infinitely more tempting than the Lithuanian one. Sintra, with its forests and palaces, so close to Lisbon, and yet near to home. Rosalia’s voice brought me out of my reverie.
“And lastly, California,” she resumed, without ungluing her eyes from the screen. “I see this possibility as more iffy, but we can take a look at it, just in case. University of Santa Cecilia, north of San Francisco. The information we have is rather scant right now: the proposal has just come in and I haven’t had time to ask for more. At first glance, it seems like a grant financed by a private foundation, although the work will be carried out on campus. The endowment offered is nothing to write home about, but you’d be able to survive.”
“What does the work consist of, basically?”
“It has something to do with the compilation and classification of documents, and they’re looking for someone of Spanish nationality with a PhD in any area of the humanities.” Removing her glasses, she added: “Normally this type of grant goes to people with a lower professional standing than you, so you’d  certainly stand out from the rest when it comes to evaluating the candidates. And California, dear, is a real temptation, so, if you wish, I can try to get further information.”
“Sintra,” I insisted, refusing the third offer. Twelve weeks. Perhaps enough time for my wounds to stop stinging. Far enough away to distance me from my immediate reality, close enough for me to return frequently in the event that my situation  resolved itself suddenly and everything returned to normal. “Sintra sounds perfect,” I stated categorically.

Half an hour later I left Rosalia’s office, the electronic application sent. I had a thousand details in my head, a handful of papers in my hand, and the feeling that perhaps luck, in a haphazard fashion, had finally decided to take my side.
The rest of the day went by in a sort of limbo. I ate a grilled vegetable sandwich, without much appetite, in the faculty cafeteria and went on working distractedly all afternoon. At seven I attended the presentation of a new book by a colleague in the Ancient History Department. I tried to get away as soon as it was over, but afterwards a few colleagues dragged me with them in search of a cold beer and I didn’t have the strength to decline. It was close to ten when I finally reached home. In the semidarkness before I turned on the light I could see the answering machine blinking insistently in the far corner of the living room. Then I remembered that I’d turned my cell phone off when the presentation began and had forgotten to switch it back on.
The first message was from Pablo, my younger son. Charming, in- coherent, and vague, with loud music and laughter in the background. I had difficulty understanding his rushed words.
“Mother, it’s me, where the hell are you? . . . I’ve called your cell phone a bunch of times to tell you . . . I’m not coming back this week either, I’m staying at the beach, and . . . and . . . well, I’ll keep on trying you, okay?”
“Pablo,” I whispered, pausing the machine to search for his face amid the bookshelves.  There it was,  photographed a dozen times. Sometimes alone but almost always with his older brother, so alike the two of them. The eternal smiles, the black bangs covering the eyes. Rowdy sequences from their twenty-two and twenty-three years of life. Indians, pirates, and Flintstones in school plays, blowing out an ever-increasing number of candles on cakes. Summer camps, Christmas scenes. Fragments printed on Kodak paper, memory cutouts of a close-knit family that, as such, no longer existed.
With my son Pablo still lingering in my mind, I pressed the play button to listen to the next message.

“Uh . . . Blanca, it’s Alberto. You don’t answer your cell phone, I don’t know if you’re home. Uh . . . I’m calling you because . . . um . . . to tell you that . . . uh . . . Well, it’s better if I tell you afterwards, when I reach you. I’ll call you later. Goodbye, talk to you later. Bye.”
My husband’s blundering voice left me restless. Or rather, my ex- husband’s. I was clueless as to what he wanted to tell me, but from his tone I hardly expected good news. My first reaction was, as usual, to think that something must have happened to one of my kids. From the previous message I knew that Pablo was fine; I then quickly rescued the cell phone from my bag, switched it on, and called David.
“Are you okay?” I inquired impatiently  as soon as I heard his voice. “Yes, of course I’m okay. How about you?”
He sounded tense. Perhaps it was only a false perception  due to the phone connection. Perhaps not.
“Me, well, more or less . . . The thing is that Dad called and—”
“I know,” he interrupted me. “He just called me too. How did you take it?”
“How did I take what?”
“About the kid.”
“What kid?”
“The one he’s going to have with Eva.”
Without the power of thought or sight, impenetrable  as a marble mausoleum or a sidewalk curb, I remained suspended in a void for an indeterminate time. When I was again conscious of reality, I heard David’s voice screaming from the telephone, which had fallen on my lap. “I’m still here,” I finally answered. And without giving him more time to inquire any further, I ended the conversation. “Everything’s fine; I’ll call you later.”
I sat still on the sofa, gazing into nowhere while trying to digest the news that my husband  was going to have a kid with the woman he’d left me for barely two months ago. Alberto’s third kid: that third child he never wanted to have with me despite my long insistence. The one who would be born from a belly that wasn’t mine and in a house that was not our own. I felt anguish rising unchecked from my stomach, announcing waves  of nausea and distress.  With hurried staggering steps, bumping against the doorway to the hall, I managed to reach the bathroom. I flung myself over the toilet and, down on my knees, began vomiting.

I remained kneeling there for a long while, my forehead glued to the wall’s cold tiles as I tried to find a shred of coherence in the midst of the confusion. When I was finally able to stand up, I washed my hands slowly, deliberately, allowing the lathery water to run between my fingers. Then I brushed my teeth methodically, giving my brain time to work in a parallel manner, unhurriedly. Finally I returned to the living room with a clean mouth and hands, an empty stomach, a clear mind, and a numb heart. I found my cell phone on the carpet and dialed a number, but no one answered. Once more, I left my message on the answering machine.
“It’s Blanca again, Rosalia. Change of plans. I have to go farther away, longer, immediately. Please find out whatever you can about that California fellowship.”
Nine days later I landed at the San Francisco airport.
 

Chapter 2
 
The abrupt cessation of hammering brought me back to reality. I looked to see what time it was. Noon. Only then was I conscious of the number of hours I had spent rummaging through papers without the slightest idea what to do with them. I rose from the floor with difficulty, noticing that my joints were numb. While dusting  off my hands, I stood on tiptoe and peered out the small window close to the ceiling. The only thing I saw was a building under construction and the sturdy boots of a handful of workers bustling about with their lunch pails amid stacks of wooden planks. I felt a sharp pain in my stomach: a mixture of weakness, bewilderment, and hunger.
I had reached California the previous evening after three planes and countless hours of flight. After picking up my luggage and feeling momentarily disoriented, I spotted my name written in thick blue let- ters on a small piece of cardboard. It was held up by a robust woman with a lost look and of indeterminate age, thirty-seven, forty, forty- something, perhaps, with a vanilla-colored dress and a blunt haircut that ended at the jawline. I went up to her, but not even when I was standing in front of her did she seem to notice my presence.
“I’m Blanca Perea, I think you’re looking for me.”
I thought I was mistaken:  she was not looking for me. Not for me nor for anyone else. She simply remained static and absent, apart from the moving mass, immune to the terminal’s hectic bustle.

“Blanca Perea,” I repeated. “Professor Blanca Perea, from Spain.” She finally reacted, opening and closing her eyes quickly, as if she had just returned hastily from an astral voyage. Extending her hand, she shook mine with an abrupt jolt; then, without a word, she took off without waiting for me while I made an effort to follow, juggling two suitcases, a handbag, and a laptop bag da...

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