Emilia bit back an exclamation. Getting so many copies of Mr. Morillo’s book was a coup for Carmen, especially if they really were his latest work, which wouldn’t come out for another two months at least. She was dying to know how Carmen had managed it, but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of asking.
“I hope it’s not really the last one, as people are saying. I’d hate for Virgilio’s adventures to come to an end,” Rosa said.
“I doubt it’ll be the last,” Emilia said. “Mr. Morillo is likely to stretch the story on for ten more books just to capitalize on their popularity. At least that’s what Mr. Fernandez wrote last month in Blanco y Negro.”
Torres gave her a sharp glance. “Surely you don’t believe everything you read in that rag.”
“Do you not like Blanco y Negro, Mr. Torres?” Emilia asked him. “I thought all the literary people did.”
“Some do, but I can’t imagine why. Blanco y Negro has no intellectual weight. Its reviews border on the sensational.”
“And we all know how you feel about sensation,” Emilia said dryly.
Susana, sensing trouble even at a distance, gave Emilia a hard look. But it was Rosa who spoke next. “Mr. Torres, I read the piece you wrote for El Diario Nuevo some months ago in support of the suffrage movement, and I was hoping to ask your opinion on a matter I’ve heard discussed lately—do you think that stories like the one you were speaking of the other day are inherently harmful to the cause?”
Rosa, as well as Emilia, Ana Maria and Carmen, was a member of the local chapter of the Women’s Suffrage Alliance, of which Ana Maria had been president for at least two terms.
“I do,” Ana Maria said as she and Violeta came to a stop in front of the fountain. She was wearing a black lace shawl that Emilia knew, from hearing the story half a dozen times, had come from her Castilian grandmother. The Espinosas had Spanish blood just like every other person in the island but they often liked to point out just how recently they had still been spaniards. “How are literary women ever to be taken seriously if all they’re known for is lewd drivel?”
“I think a woman, even a literary one, ought to be any damn thing she pleases,” Emilia declared. “We won’t win the vote by being demure or by conforming to some ideal of respectability.”
“Neither will we by inciting public scandal,” Ana Maria snapped.
Emilia opened her mouth to reply but Carmen cut her off. “Must we have a debate?” she asked, glancing from Emilia to Ana Maria with a pained expression. “I can’t think of anything more boring than arguing about suffrage.”
Emilia frowned at her. Carmen was a member of the WSA, though not one of the more vocal ones. “I thought you supported the cause.”
“Not on a Sunday night,” Carmen said, exchanging an amused glance with Cristobal that made Emilia frown harder. By now, the stragglers had rejoined the rest of the group and they stood around the fountain in their finery like something out of a Bernardo painting.
“What we need is to play a game,” Miss Torres said. She was a handful of years younger than Emilia and had a way about her that suggested the same kind of quick intelligence Emilia saw in her brother’s eyes. She was certainly quick enough to realize someone needed to diffuse the tension before an argument could erupt. “Something to wake us all up— I feel quite dull after sitting through that tedious play.”
Susana, ever the peacemaker, seized the idea. “I heard of a splendid one just the other day. It’s called—”
“I know a better one,” Carmen interrupted. Susana looked hurt. Emilia was about to say something in defense of her sister, but Susana shook her head slightly and turned to hear what Carmen was saying.
“The blind man has his—or hers, as the case may be—eyes covered, and then she must find and correctly identify one other person by touch. If she’s right, that person becomes the blind man.”
“Aren’t we too old for that kind of thing?” Ana Maria said, frowning.
“It does sound a little wild,” Rosa said.
Torres’s sister was looking distinctly enthused by the idea. “It sounds like would be invigorating,” she said, and Susana agreed. “Just the thing to chase the cobwebs away.”
After a quick discussion, it was agreed that Emilia should be the blind man. Rosa folded a clean handkerchief and tied it around her eyes, then Carmen seized her shoulders and turned her around and around until she was reeling. She staggered in the cobblestoned space around the fountain, hearing their footsteps and laughter as they danced just beyond her grasp.
Irritation began to build in her chest as the minutes went by and she continued to stumble blindly. This could continue on forever if all they had to do was avoid her.
She could tell when she was close to the fountain because the sound of water running had grown noticeably louder. She was close to Mr. Torres as well. He must have been standing still, because she could feel the warmth of his body only a few paces away from her, and smell the faint scent of soap that clung to his clothes.
Emilia reached out to touch him at the same moment someone knocked into her from behind.
Her hand connected with his chest with more force than she’d meant to apply. And for the second time in as many days, Ruben Torres fell into the water with a splash.
Ruben was wet to the skin when he returned to his rooms, feet squelching inside his shoes. He had elected to walk rather than soak the seats of Luis’s motorcar, and though he had dripped a great deal on the way to the boarding house, his clothes were far from dry when he arrived.
Luis had volunteered to see Violeta to the hotel, with Miss Cruz and her sister along for propriety’s sake. Before they’d left, she had a chance to sidle up to him and ask, “When did you get to be such a pretentious ass?”
“Having standards doesn’t make me pretentious,” he’d said, blinking in surprise at the unexpected assault, “especially when it comes to literature.”
“May I remind you that not so long ago you were devouring stories about pirates and ghost-guarded treasure? You, my brother, have turned into a snob.”
Snob or not, Ruben was sure no one could argue The True Accounts were literature.
Ruben climbed up the outside staircase to the second floor and was searching his pockets for his keys when he heard a step behind him. He turned to see Manuel materialize out of the shadows.
“Been out for a swim?” Manuel asked. He leaned against the doorway, looking at Ruben with a raised eyebrow.
“Something like that,” Ruben replied.
He led the way to his rooms, waiting until he had stripped out of his wet things and had pulled on a pair of trousers before saying, “I wasn’t expecting you for another few days but I suppose escorting Violeta was as good an excuse as any to come. How are the numbers?”
“Steady enough, but the El Espectador’s are better.”
Ruben swore. El Espectador had come out weeks after he and Manuel had put out the first issue of Blanco y Negro and it had been steadily rising in popularity, despite the fact the pieces it published were copies of the ones that came out in Blanco y Negro. As far as Ruben could tell, its popularity was mostly due to the fact the longer articles were accompanied by gossip columns that were far more personal— not to mention merciless—than anything Ruben wrote.
As he rubbed a towel on his dripping hair, he realized Manuel was holding a bundle. “What have you got there?”
“Just the mail,” Manuel said, trying so hard to sound nonchalant that Ruben fixed him with a sharp look.
Dropping the towel, Ruben took the stack and began glancing through the envelopes. There were some letters from advertisers, submissions from his few contributors—none of whom were aware of his identity—and the usual enraged letters from writers who thought they’d been wronged in one review or another. Ruben laid those on the desk, intending to stuff them into the bottom drawer. He didn’t read them anymore, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw them away. Keeping his gaze on the envelopes, he asked Manuel
, “Anything promising?”
“There’s a tip,” Manuel said, and this time Ruben heard the undercurrent of excitement in his voice. “About the possible identity of a certain author.”
Ruben wasted a moment gaping at Manuel, then tore open the last envelope and scanned its contents. This wasn’t the first time a reader had sent in a tip regarding the identity of this particular writer— those came in every week, at least, and they were invariably wrong. Like the others, this one was anonymous, though the information it provided seemed rather more detailed than usual. It gave a name, as well as an address in the city, an apartment building not far from where Ruben used to live.
“Do you think she could be the one?” Manuel asked, lounging against the table.
“I can’t be sure until I’ve spoken to her. But this seems more legitimate than some of the others we’ve received.”
“Have you any other likely candidates?”
“Not really. I thought it could be the woman who wrote the piece on female education in last month’s Minerva—she used some similar turns of phrase and a word here or there that reminded me of the way the protagonist speaks—but she turned out to be Emilia Cruz, one of the girls who came to the theater tonight.” Thoughtfully, Ruben slapped the envelope against his thigh. He had dismissed the similarity when he’d realized Miss Emilia was the author but after the way she kept defending the stories… It wouldn’t be a bad idea to look into her, just in case. But that could wait until after he investigated this tip. “We’ve got some time before we put out the next issue. I’ll go into the city tomorrow and see if there’s any truth to this claim. And if there is…”
Ever since he’d begun to write about The True Accounts, subscriptions had climbed steadily and revenue from advertisers had grown accordingly, though the magazine still wasn’t quite profitable. After paying Manuel and covering publishing costs, precious little remained for Ruben to live on. Ruthless economy had allowed him to remain afloat as long as he had but despite all the measures he’d taken to keep to his strict budget, his savings were dwindling sadly.
And if his savings were gone, so was his autonomy. Having an income of his own gave him freedom from his father’s demands, for once in his life, and Ruben was prepared to do anything to stay independent, even if it meant exposing Miss Del Valle, whoever she was. Revealing her identity, especially if he managed to discover it before the editors of El Espectador, would sell enough copies of the magazine to keep him secure for a while longer.
It wasn’t the most honorable way to make a living but if he felt any qualms about it, he stifled them firmly and began to make plans for the following day.
Chapter 3
The next day was Monday, and while Emilia would ordinarily be facing a mountain or two of paperwork, today she was making her way to the train station. It hadn’t been easy to wrangle a day off from the elder Mr. Mendez’s draconian secretary, but over the five years Emilia had worked in the office, she had found the lady was partial to coconut squares and likely to acquiesce to the most outrageous requests when faced with their sweet aroma.
Emilia reached up to adjust a wayward strand of hair, smiling when she caught a glimpse of her new hat reflected in the baker’s window. She’d popped into Mrs. Diaz’s shop earlier that morning when she’d spotted the hat in the window as she walked by. It was straw, like the one she’d ruined, but it had a shorter, more fashionable brim, and was trimmed with a creamy silk ribbon that made her dark hair look more chestnut than brown. And, best of all, she hadn’t had to ask anybody for it.
There was something to be said about having control of one’s finances. Emilia strode down the street, thinking her next article for Minerva would be about the importance of achieving financial independence.
The idea of an having her own income had always appealed to her, but until the check came for her first story she had never known just how delightful it felt to be able to dispose of her funds however she liked, as her earnings from working as a typist had to go towards supporting the household. The royalties earned by her father’s books had slowed to a trickle and as he didn’t seem inclined to either continue writing or engage himself in any kind of employment, Emilia and Susana's salaries had been stretched thin. Now, though, with money from her stories coming in and no need to practice such strict economy…
She was still ruminating on her newfound freedom when she boarded the train that would take her into Ciudad Real, the island’s largest city. The compartment filled quickly, but she didn’t pay attention to the people settling into the seats around her until a voice at her side said, “I would have dispensed with my morning bath if I knew you’d be on this train.”
She looked up to see Ruben Torres looking down at her with an expression halfway between alarm and resignation.
“I don’t think our route takes us by any large bodies of water,” she answered after a surprised pause. “Or any small ones for that matter.”
“Just the same,” he said, “I think I’ll need some protection if I’m to take this seat.”
“I wouldn’t risk it, if I were you.”
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like I’ve got much of a choice. There aren’t any other free ones.”
The train, which had until then been rumbling underfoot, jolted to a start, making Mr. Torres lose his balance. He stumbled, and would have fallen on her if he hadn’t caught himself in time, one hand on the back of the seat and the other flat against the window, his face perilously close to hers. At this distance, she could see the tiny patch of stubble by his ear he’d missed while shaving, and the two freckles under his right eye. An unexpected warmth stole through Emilia.
He righted himself and sat down beside her, but not before she had caught a whiff of lavender-scented soap. His hair, still damp from his recent bath, curled at the neck, right where it brushed his collar. Emilia felt herself flushing slightly and turned to the window, pretending to be interested in the view of the town as it rolled past.
But there was no ignoring him. She could feel the warmth of his body all down her side, from her shoulder to her foot, even though they were separated by some ten centimeters. Trying to look as though she was glancing through the opposite window, she studied his profile. Except for the bookish sultan, all the men in her stories were rakes and scoundrels. There was nothing roguish about Ruben Torres. His hair was parted on the side and slicked back with pomade, his collar neatly pressed and his hat a sober black. He was nothing if not respectable.
Unremarkable, too, at least at first glance. He was of medium build, taller than her but not as tall and physically imposing as Luis. But his shoulders were pleasantly broad and Emilia was all too familiar with the sharp definition in his arms and the easy way he’d pulled the boat through the water. He turned to her then and caught her looking. His lips spread into a smile and he raised an eyebrow, saying, “Contemplating your next assault?”
Something inside her fluttered but she pushed the sensation aside. There was, after all, was no reason why she should feel so unsettled by his proximity. Trying to look as though she hadn’t been admiring his arms, which were hidden by the sleeves of a dark charcoal suit, she said, “Of course not. My dastardly plan is already in motion.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said, laughing.
“I see you’re quite recovered from your swim in the fountain.”
“And I see you’re quite unrepentant of your part in it. Do you make a habit of dunking men, Miss Cruz?” he asked, amusement lingering in his eyes.
“I try to do it at least once a week,” she answered gravely. “Especially in the summer. I find it helps keep tempers cool when arguments grow heated.”
“As with other pursuits, I find an argument that isn’t heated isn’t worth having at all.”
It sounded like something the rakish duke would say to Valeria during one of their exchanges. Emilia raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t get a chance to answer.
They handed their tickets to the conductor
as he went by, and Torres waited for him to cross into the next compartment before saying, “Come now, Miss Cruz, you can’t be shocked. Surely you’ve read far more salacious dialogue in those confounded stories you’re so fond of.”
“I’m a modern woman, Mr. Torres. I am not so easily shocked as you might think.”
“That sounds like a challenge,” he said, and there was something about the way he smiled that made her feel unbalanced.
The train gave a jolt and in the sudden movement, his arm brushed hers. Emilia felt a shiver run through her and quirked up an eyebrow to conceal it and any change of expression that may betray her. “I ought to rap your knuckles for your impertinence.”
“Would you really add corporal punishment to your long list of crimes against my person?”
“For what it’s worth, I really am sorry for dunking you. Twice,” she added a little guiltily.
“You’re forgiven,” Mr. Torres said, then gave her a sidelong look. “Just as long as you’re not planning on doing it again. You can’t keep drowning people just to win arguments, you know.”
“Why not?”
“Damned unpractical, for one thing. You’d have to be constantly on the lookout for fountains and lagoons and other bodies of water.”
“I’m not one to shy away from inconveniences,” she told him.
“No, you don’t seem the kind to do that.”
“Is that admiration I hear in your voice?” she teased.
“No, it’s fear,” he replied, but he was smiling. His light brown eyes softened when he smiled and crinkled at the corners. This made him look slightly less like a pompous bastard and more like a human being— a terrifying prospect, as it made Emilia feel like she could grow to like him, despite herself. Or, better yet, despite him.
It only took forty minutes for the train to speed through the sugar cane fields and the coconut groves that stretched between Arroyo Blanco and Ciudad Real. There was a rustle all around them as people gathered their belongings and prepared to descend. Torres helped Emilia down the steps—he had nice manners for a pompous bastard—and said, as they paused for a moment beside a pillar while the crowd wove around them, “Well, it looks like I’ve managed to survive the journey.”
A Summer for Scandal Page 4