“Who is being hurtful? What of my feelings? You could barely look at me when you thought you might have to reject me,” he teased me. “Apparently, we are both completely repulsive to each other.” Theo reached across the seat to ruffle my hair. “Ay, Luna!”

The beans were unloaded at the main factory in Oaxaca, where they began the process of becoming chocolate. “Let me give you a tour,” Theo said. He led me through the factory, which was bright and terribly modern-looking compared to my dark and timeless farm. (Yes, I had begun to think of it as my farm.) The beans we delivered would be cleaned today, Theo explained, then they’d spend the rest of the week being roasted, winnowed, milled, cocoa-pressed, refined, conched, tempered, and last, cured. There were rooms for each step. At the end of this, you were left with the round hockey puck–like disks of chocolate that were the signature creation of the Marquezes. At the end of the tour, Theo handed me one of the disks. “And now you have seen the entire life story of

Theobroma cacao from start to finish.”

“Theobroma?” I asked.

“I told you it was a family name,” Theo said. He went on to explain that he had been named for the genus of the cacao tree and that his was a Greek name given by a Swede who had been inspired by the Mayans and the French. “So you see, mine is a name from everywhere.”

“It’s a beautiful name…”

“If a bit feminine, didn’t you once say?”

“Where I’m from, once they found out about your name, they’d probably think you were a criminal,” I said without thinking.

“Yes … I have often wondered why a girl from a country where cacao cannot be grown and where the substance is banned would be so interested in its production as to stay with a family in Chiapas. How did you become interested in cacao, Anya?”

I blushed. I could feel we were beginning to tread on dangerous ground. “I’ve … Well, my father died, and chocolate was his favorite.”

“Yes, that makes sense.” Theo nodded. “ Sí, sí. But what will you do with all your knowledge once you go back to your home?”

Home? When would I go back home? It was nearly 80° and I could feel the chocolate growing soft in my hand. “Maybe get involved with the legalize-cacao movement? Or…” I wanted to tell him about me, but I couldn’t. “I haven’t decided yet, Theo.”

“Your heart drew you to Mexico, then. That is how it is sometimes. We do things without knowing entirely why, just because our heart tells us that we must.”

Theo could not have understood less how it was with me.

“Come, Anya, we need to get back to the house. The night after the harvest is done, my grandmothers always make mole. It takes all day, and it is a mucho big deal so we can’t be late.”

I asked him what mole was.

“You have never had mole? Now I feel very sorry for you. You are so deprived,” Theo said.

Mole was indeed a mucho big deal, and the farmers were invited to share the meal as were all the neighbors. Castillo even came home from the seminary. There must have been fifty people crowded around the Marquezes’ long dining room table. I was seated near Castillo and Luna as they were the only English speakers aside from Theo and his mother. After Castillo said grace, the feasting began.

It turned out that mole was basically a Mexican-style turkey stew. It was spicy and rich and pretty delicious. I had seconds and then thirds.

“You like,” Bisabuela said with her gap-toothed smile as she scooped out another portion for me. I nodded. “What’s in this?” I was imagining shocking my family by throwing it into my usual repertoire of macaroni and cheese.

“Secreto de familia,” she said, and then she said something else in Spanish that was beyond my still-limited comprehension.

Castillo explained, “She says that she would tell you what’s in it, but she can’t. She doesn’t believe in recipes and with mole, she especially doesn’t believe in recipes. It is different every time.”

“But,” I insisted, “there must be general parameters. I mean, what makes the sauce so rich?”

“The chocolate, of course! Didn’t you guess that’s why my grandmothers make it after the harvest?”

Turkey with chocolate sauce? I had certainly never heard of that. “You couldn’t serve this where I come from,” I told Castillo.

“That’s why I never want to go to America,” he told me, as he finished another portion. I laughed at him

“You have sauce on your face,” Castillo said.

“Oh!” I picked up my napkin and dabbed the corners of my mouth.

“Let me,” Castillo said as he grabbed my napkin and dipped it into his water glass. “It is a more serious business than you think.” He wiped my face roughly, like I was a little kid.

After dessert, which was tres leches, a sponge cake drenched in three kinds of cream, one of the farmers brought out his guitar and the guests began to dance. Theo danced with every girl that was there, including his sister, his mother, and both his grandmothers. I sat in a corner by myself, feeling heavy and satisfied and barely thinking of all the problems and the people I had left behind. And then the night was over. Luz, Theo’s mother, packed up the extra mole in takeaway containers so that everyone could have what she called “segunda cena,” or “second supper.”

After the guests had left, I started to move the chairs back into their places. “No, no, Anya,” Luz said to me as she patted me on the hand, “we do all this tomorrow.”

“I’m not good at putting things off,” I said.

“You must, though. Come into the kitchen. Mi madre makes chocolate for the family.” By chocolate, she meant the drink I had been served my first morning so I was eager to go into the kitchen to see if I could figure out what was in it. Theo, Luna, and Castillo were already seated around the kitchen table; Bisabuela must have gone to bed. The counters were piled high with pots and pans and dishes and cooking detritus. On the counter nearest Abuela sat the remains of a chili pepper, an orange peel, a plastic bear half-filled with honey, and what looked like the crushed petals of a red rose.

“No, no, no,” Abuela said upon seeing me, just before she covered them

“I won’t look,” I promised.

Then, as often happened, Abuela said something I couldn’t understand in Spanish though I did catch my name. (As she pronounced it, Ahhn-juh.) A second later, Theo stormed out.

“Theo,” Luz yelled. “Come back, bebé! Abuela was only joking!” Luz turned to her mother. “Mama, you shouldn’t tease him like that!”

“What?” I asked. “What just happened?”

“No es nada, Anya. Grandma had a little fun at Theo’s expense,” Luna explained. “I heard my name,” I insisted.

Castillo sighed. “Abuela said that Anya can have the recipe when she becomes a member of the family.”

I looked at Abuela. She shrugged, as if to say What can I do? Then she began furiously whisking whatever was in the pot.

I told them that I’d go talk to him.

I went out to the living room. He wasn’t there, so I took a flashlight and went outside to the orchard, which was Theo’s favorite place. Though it was dark, I knew he would be there and he was, machete in hand, checking his beloved cacao trees for signs of mold.

“Theo,” I called.

“Just because the season is mainly over, you can never stop watching the crops, Anya. Hold that flashlight over here, would you?”

I redirected my beam toward him.

“Look here. Monilia. Unbelievable!” Theo hacked away at the baby pod. The incision was not clean. Had it been my cut, Theo would have done it again.

“Here,” I said, taking the machete from him. “Let me.” I swung the machete. “Not bad,” Theo admitted.

“Theo—” I began, but he interrupted.

“Listen, Anya, they are wrong. I don’t love you.” He paused. “I just hate them.” I asked him who he meant.