Her hair was up and her skirts were long, but she looked exactly like she had the last time he’d seen her, though she must be all of eighteen years old by now. They both had their mother’s dark eyes and thick eyebrows and their father’s straight nose, but Violeta’s features were stamped with an imperiousness that was all her own.
Mrs. Herrera, standing beside her, looked suspicious. “I wouldn’t have let her up, only she said she was your sister,” she said, in a tone that clearly indicated her disbelief.
“She is,” Ruben said. “Unfortunately.”
Violeta didn’t seem to be affronted by his tone, or by the expression on his face, which he was sure was a cross between panic and dismay. She gave him a placid smile and squeezed past him, Ruben registering with a start that she was almost as tall as he was. Mrs. Herrera looked about to protest. Ruben shut the door in her face, then turned to warily watch his sister as she went around the room, making no attempt to hide her curiosity.
There was no denying the room was shabby. The terra-cotta tiles were cracked, covered partly by a rug that had seen better days, and the furniture, which consisted of the scratched table, an ancient set of drawers and a wicker settee that had wayward strands of fiber poking out of its frame, didn’t do much to improve the room’s aspect. Heaven knew he and Violeta hadn’t grown up in luxurious surroundings, but Mrs. Herrera’s boarding house was a far cry from their comfortable home.
Standing just in front of the door, through which he could no longer hear Mrs. Herrera’s indignant squawks, Ruben tried to decide whether to kiss his sister or scold her, in the end settling for giving her a deeply disapproving look she didn’t see, as she was too busy examining his rooms to pay him any attention.
The door to the bedroom was half open. Violeta paused in the doorway and peered in but stopped short of barging inside and looking through his drawers. Then she headed to the window and gravely studied the overgrown lot next door. Mrs. Herrera’s two boys must have been playing in it—a burst of laughter, followed by what sounded like a rubber ball being bounced off the wall, drifted up through the peeling shutters.
When she was done with her inspection, she turned around and faced him. “So,” she said in a conversational tone, as if it had not been three years since their last conversation, “when are you coming home?”
To hear her, one would have thought he’d stepped out to the corner for a cup of coffee and had taken rather too long returning. “How did you find me here?” he demanded.
Violeta perched on a corner of the settee, which creaked in protest but did not, alas, break. “I wrote to Luis, though I needn’t have bothered—the papers write about you as much as they did when your book first came out. In any case, he told me you’d come to spent the summer with him. He agrees with me that this has gone on long enough,” she said, and he could hear the echo of their father’s voice her tone. “It’s time to make peace with Papa and come home. He misses you awfully, and so do we.”
Ruben turned a chair around to face her.
“You’re the darling of the literary magazines. Your articles and stories are lauded by all the critics. You’ve proven yourself, many times over. Isn’t that why you left? To show Papa you could be a writer?”
“That was one reason out of a hundred. Violeta—” Save for the truth, there was very little he could tell Violeta that would explain why he’d left as he had. Ruben swore under his breath and cursed his father for what had to be the hundredth time.
“I just don’t understand why you’d give up your comfortable life for—for this,” Violeta said, with an emphatic gesture that encompassed the shabby parlor, the frayed cuffs on his shirt, and even his untidy hair.
He fought the urge to run a hand through his hair and scowled. “I’m doing quite well for myself.”
“Are you?” Violeta lifted an eyebrow.
“I’m not starving,” Ruben said, and even to his ears he sounded defensive. He sighed. “And at any rate, I’d rather live like this than take his money and be forced to comply with his every command. There are a lot of advantages to being our father’s son but for every advantage there are ten drawbacks. You may not understand now but maybe someday you will and maybe then you’ll feel the same way I do.”
“He’s not well, you know,” she said quietly. “He won’t admit it, but he needs you.”
Ruben snorted.
“He’s always needed you. He feels terrible about whatever happened between the two of you and he’s willing to forgive you if you would just—”
“He’s willing to forgive me?” Ruben let out a short bark. It was clear his father hadn’t told Violeta the real reason why they’d fought—heaven knew what he’d told her to make her so determined to get him home. “I’m not the one who needs forgiving.”
“Mama is beside herself with worry. She thinks you’re starving in some hovel and frankly, I don’t think she’s wrong. And Papa--”
Ruben made no answer, but tugged down the jacket he’d flung over the back of his chair and began to struggle into it.
“Are you going somewhere?” Violeta asked.
“I’m taking you to the train station. Did you come here by yourself?”
“Mr. Vega escorted me,” she said. Manuel Vega was the co-editor and illustrator of Blanco y Negro, and the only person in the world who knew Ruben’s identity as its editor and main columnist. He’d stayed behind in the city to oversee the printing and distribution, and while they had some some business to go over, Ruben hadn’t expected him for another week at least—then again, Violeta had been very persuasive as a child, and Ruben could only imagine she was doubly so now that she had grown into such a pretty young woman.
His heart clenched inside his chest. His sister had grown up and he hadn’t been there to see it.
One thing, at least, hadn’t changed, and that was the stubborn tilt of her chin as she looked at him. “I’m not leaving. Not until you agree to come home.”
“You can’t stay here with me.”
“I don’t need to. I’ve got a room at the Hotel Central and I’m prepared to stay for however long it takes to convince you your place is at home with us, not—not here.”
Violeta’s voice was very firm, but underneath the determination and the disapproval Ruben could see the little girl who had clung to his waistcoat whenever he came home from university, his pockets stuffed with sweets. When he spoke, he made his voice very gentle. “I can’t be the man he wants me to be and he can’t accept the man I am. I tried it both ways and it didn’t work out. I made my choice and I mean to stand by it.”
Violeta started to argue, but was interrupted by the door as it swung open and Luis strode inside. Ruben swore under his breath.
“I’m sorry,” Luis said, checking himself as he caught sight of her. “I didn’t know you had company.”
“Surely you remember Violeta. She was just leaving.”
“No, I wasn’t. Not unless you were coming with me,” Violeta said, but there was no heat in her voice. She was looking up at Luis with interest. “How have you been, Luis?”
“Lonely. I’ve found myself sadly neglected these past few days and thought it would be prudent to come round to check that your brother hadn’t drowned in his ink pot.”
“Have you been playing the hermit?” Violeta asked Ruben. “He used to all the time when he was home, you know—shut himself up in his room for days, just scribbling away, and forget there was a world outside the one in his own head. He needs to be stirred up every once in a while—taken out and exercised.”
“That’s exactly why I came— to drag his sorry carcass to the theater. I don’t suppose you’d like to join us?”
Ruben glared at Luis, who gave him a bland, unassuming smile in return. Violeta watched their exchange through narrowed eyes. “As a matter of fact,” she told Luis, “I’d love to.”
“I wouldn’t,” Ruben said.
“But Miss Cruz will be there,” Luis said, then added, “Both the Misses Cruz.
”
“I can’t imagine why you’d think I care.”
“You’re sweet on her, I can tell,” Luis said, and Ruben damned him silently for his lack of discretion. He could almost see Violeta’s ears prick up in interest.
“My brother has a sweetheart, does he?” Violeta’s gaze sharpened and Ruben could tell she was wondering if Miss Emilia was the reason he was so reluctant to return.
“I do not,” he said, but his protest was drowned out by Luis saying, “You didn’t take your eyes off Emilia once after she knocked you off the boat.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ruben said irritably. “That wasn’t infatuation. It’s deuced hard to ignore a woman when she’s pitching you into a lagoon, so if I paid her any attention at all, it was because I was trying to keep her from drowning me, not because I had any amorous notions toward her.”
“The plot thickens,” Violeta said. “Murder in the high seas, a love affair… Why, it sounds more exciting than those stories everyone’s raving about.”
“Hardly,” Ruben said, sparing a second to thank the heavens his little sister didn’t appear to have read the blasted True Accounts. “The woman is dangerous and if it weren’t for Luis’s unhealthy attachment to the elder Miss Cruz, I would have never gone near her.”
“The elder Miss Cruz?” Violeta lifted an eyebrow in Luis’s direction.
“She’s perfect,” Luis said reverently. “Has the face of an angel and the temperament of one, too.”
“And she’s sister to Ruben’s near-murderess?”
“The homicidal impulse doesn’t seem to run in the family,” Ruben said dryly. He reached inside his jacket and buttoned his cuffs, then patted the pockets to see if his keys were still inside. “I was just about to take my sister back to the hotel. She has to catch a very early train tomorrow.”
“No, I don’t,” Violeta said, at the same moment Luis said, “But she can’t be leaving so soon.”
“Not until I convince my brother to accompany us to the play.” Violeta gave Luis a charming smile.
“I suppose you’ll never stop if I don’t agree,” Ruben said.
Violeta met Ruben’s eyes. “Never,” she said, steel in her voice.
His stomach clenched, but he heaved a noisy sigh, for Luis’s sake. “All right. I’ll go.” Casting his sister a narrow-eyed look, he added, “But don’t get any ideas about Miss Emilia. There will be no matchmaking going on tonight.”
“Not a bit,” Violeta promised, but there was a gleam in her eyes that made Ruben groan out loud.
Between his sister and Emilia Cruz, he would be lucky if he survived the evening unscathed.
Only three days had passed since Ana Maria Espinosa’s boating party but Susana, thanks to Luis’s influence, had already contrived to get invitations to every outing, dance and garden party taking place in Arroyo Blanco that summer, and had guilted Emilia into agreeing to accompany her to every single one. The latest outing had been Carmen Vidal’s idea— she had proposed attending the Sunday performance of Letters from Santiago, a dominican play that had toured Cuba and Puerto Rico before hopping across the Caribbean Sea to their island. As there was not much else to do, everyone had accepted with enthusiasm, despite the play’s abysmal reviews.
The evening was hotter than usual and the inside of the theater was stifling despite the slight breeze worked up by the ladies’ flapping fans. It was a relief to exit through the tall wooden doors and feel the fresh air, though it was warm.
Their group clustered outside the theater, exchanging pleasantries with the newcomers. Mr. Torres had, rather suddenly, it seemed, produced a sister—a pretty, friendly, dark-eyed girl who looked a great deal like him—and a friend, Mr. Vega, who excused himself as they left the theater and returned to the hotel where he was staying. Everyone else remained, chatting inconsequentially as the crowd around them began to disperse.
“Would that this night never end,” Luis said, quoting one of the lines from the play. As he had been looking at Susana while he said it, its delivery was far warmer than when the actor had said it to his stiff companion.
“It doesn’t have to,” Carmen answered with a coy smile, giving him a narrow-eyed look when she realized he wasn’t looking in her direction.
“You’re right. A walk around the park would be just the thing,” Luis replied, raising an eyebrow in Susana's direction. She hastened to agree. Emilia thought longingly of her comfortable bed and the slice of pineapple cake she had saved for that evening but bravely said a walk sounded lovely.
The park was at the very center of town. It was surrounded by the Casa Consistorial on one side, the church on the other, the Hotel Central on the third side and the bank and post office and a row of shops across from it. They began to make their way there, splitting into smaller groups as they walked. Mr. Torres walked with his sister, to whom Emilia had been introduced earlier, and he was looking distinctly harangued as she spoke to him in a low, serious tone.
Emilia, flanked by Rosa on one side and Ana Maria on the other, was telling them about one of the plays her father had taken Susana and her to when they were younger. It had been the first time they’d gone to the theater and they’d been giddy with the excitement of it, especially Emilia, who had found it impossible to sleep for three nights. “Of course, by the time we made it to the theater, I was so tired I feel asleep as soon as the curtain rose and didn’t wake until we were on our way home.”
Their laughter rang out and Susana, who was walking ahead beside Luis, turned her head to smile at Emilia. She looked so happy, and so pleased Emilia was behaving, Emilia couldn’t help but smile back.
The musicians that played in the evenings were still in the park’s bandstand and the soft strains of In My Lover’s Garden filled the air, underlaid by crickets and the sound of running water coming from the fountain. It was late enough that only two or three people remained listening to the music— a man with a napping dog and an elderly couple on a bench, who held hands and looked at each other as if they had only just met.
It was a night made for strolling arm in arm with a beau. Emilia perched on the rim of the fountain, feeling the deliciously cold droplets strike the back of her neck, and watched Luis and Susana stroll towards the bandstand, so close their arms brushed slightly as they walked.
It was almost the middle of July. Luis would only be in town for another four or five weeks. In that time, Emilia was determined to arrange as many encounters between him and Susana as she could manage, in hopes that he would finally settle the question, one way or another. Susana was bright about a lot of things but she really had to be helped along when it came to Luis Rojas. She had already waited more than eight years while he went to university and established himself in his uncle’s business in the city, and she was likely to wait eight more if Emilia didn’t intervene.
Ana Maria caught Miss Torres by the arm and began to talk animatedly and as Rosa joined their conversation, Mr. Torres took the opportunity to get away from his sister.
Keeping in mind what Susana had told her the day before, Emilia had spent the evening trying to give wide berth to him and Cristobal in order to avoid another argument. And she had upheld that resolution—for a full half hour, at least, until Torres caught her eye and came to sit beside her.
“It’s a nice night, isn’t it?” he asked, dipping his fingers into the water.
Emilia nodded. It was still uncomfortably warm, but the slight breeze that had risen earlier was perfumed with the scent of the night-blooming tuberoses that grew a few steps away. Casting about for a topic of conversation that wouldn’t lead to an argument, or to her screaming in abject desperation, she settled for saying, “Luis told us you’d hoped to have some time to write while you’re here. Are you working on your next book?”
It had been two years since his first, much-lauded, book had come out and the literary community was breathlessly awaiting the next one. Or perhaps less breathlessly now that so much time had passed and no book had come.
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“Not at the moment,” he said. “I’ve some projects that I need to devote time to, and the column, of course, keeps me very busy.”
“Not so busy you won’t be able to join the frolics, I hope,” Carmen put in, having wandered close enough to hear their conversation. The beaded bandeau on her hair sparkled in the moonlight, and so did her eyes as she looked down at Torres. Emilia wondered if she was thinking about setting her sights on him, now that it was clear Luis’s attentions lay elsewhere.
Torres stood up and offered Carmen his seat on the rim of the fountain. “Not if they turn out to be as exciting as the boating party,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back.
It was a dig, but a gentle one, and Emilia managed a good-natured laugh. Until she caught Cristobal’s eye. Her laughter faded, and she guided the conversation away from the boating party before she could rethink her decision of not striking him upside the head with an oar. There were no oars around, but there were plenty of branches that would do just as nicely. “There’s one frolic I think you’ll be interested in attending— we’re holding a book fair next month to raise funds for the public library’s adult literacy program.”
“Yes, Mrs. Rojas told me about it. I understand Ana Maria’s mother is organizing it?”
Rosa left Ana Maria and Violeta as they were joined by Cristobal and walked towards their group in time to hear Torres’s question. “She is, but almost everyone in town is contributing in some way,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in lending us a hand?”
Carmen laughed. “Surely Mr. Torres has better things to do than to waste his time on a little country fair.”
“Not at all,” Torres said. “I’d be happy to be involved in any way.”
“And this is hardly the country,” Emilia pointed out.
Carmen ignored her. “In that case, I could certainly use you at my booth, Mr. Torres,” she said. “A friend of mine is sending me fifty advanced copies of Mr. Morillo’s latest book. You know how popular he is— people will be lining up to buy it. I hardly think I’ll be able to control the crowd by myself.”
A Summer for Scandal Page 3