His voice had grown serious, and Eva sensed the same mystery she had felt at other times. But this was a time for truth. “What do you mean, Roberto?” she prodded gently.
He hesitated, a look of pain on his face, as he began. “My mother. She and my father met when he was in the States on business. He fell in love with her and she was deeply attracted to him, even though she was engaged to marry someone else. They had an affair. My father wanted to marry her, but she refused. Soon after he returned to Brazil, she discovered she was pregnant. So she postponed her marriage, came down here to give birth to the baby, and then returned to the States alone to marry her fiancé.” Here he paused, and Eva understood the resentfulness he had felt as a child toward his mother.
“Didn’t she visit you?” she asked in disbelief, finding it unimaginable that a mother could abandon a child thus.
“Not at first. My father had sole custody of me. By the time I was eight she could no longer keep the distance. Part of her was in me and it tore her apart not to know me. She was pulled in two directions at once, between me and her husband, and the suffering grew and grew until she realized that she didn’t have to choose between us. They arranged to have me spend vacations with her. It was only when I saw her and lived with her that I could understand why she hadn’t married my father. She was a totally different kind of person than he was and lived a completely different kind of life. She was deeply in love with her husband.” His brief story completed, he turned to Eva.
“You see, Eva, I didn’t want history to repeat itself. My father lived in torment without the woman he loved and seeing my face, a tangible reminder of all he might have had, made it no easier. He and I always had a very tentative relationship for that reason,” he explained sadly. “I fought with myself against falling in love with you. Yet, I felt too much for you to risk hurting us both, as my parents did, by having an affair. I knew that I had to make you love me, really love me, but I didn’t seem to know how. As well as I manage my business affairs, I was totally unable to manage you. It tore me apart!” He lowered his head, seemingly embarrassed by the confession he was about to make.
“I became jealous of everything you did. I was jealous of Tom when he joked with you, Jacques when he charmed you, even Paulo when he took you under his wing. I was jealous of poor Stuart. I believed at one point that you would mourn him forever; how could I compete with a ghost? And I was jealous of your camera, which you caress so lovingly!”
They laughed in harmony with one another. “Even though you’re both dark and handsome, I’ll take your body over my camera’s any day!” Eva teased, both arms around him hugging his chest as they sat. “No wonder you were such an ogre at times!”
He countered with mock anger, “It was all your fault. You and your stubbornness … insisting on coming along to tempt me, fighting to enter the mine when I knew it wasn’t safe … you drove me to distraction and I couldn’t do anything about it.” He grinned down at her in his endearing fashion.
But Eva was not so carried away as to forget the insecurities plaguing her. Roberto caught the flicker of doubt that entered her gaze. “What is it, Eva? Everything on the table, now!” he ordered.
“Roberto, I don’t know if I am good for you. I failed miserably once before. That’s what haunts me, not Stu. What if you get tired of me? I’m not a jet setter. I can’t compete with the kind of girls you’ve been used to. What about them, Roberto? I’ve been sick with jealousy since I awoke and found you gone yesterday. I imagined you in some other woman’s arms and it devastated me. You’re a handsome man. Women flock to you. Won’t they always tempt you?” she asked timidly.
“Eva, do you remember the stewardess you saw me with at the Belo airport that first day? We went out for a drink, but I couldn’t see her face for the image of you branded on my mind. I can’t look at anyone else now, at least not in the way you refer to. Besides, you just said it yourself. You can’t compete with the girls I’ve been used to. You are in a class by yourself. You don’t have to compete.” He paused to emphasize his point with a hug before continuing.
“As to where I was yesterday and this morning, I made a quick trip back to Belo to pay an urgent visit to a jeweler friend of mine.” His eyes sparkled as he reached mysteriously into his pocket. “He was very annoyed with me when I demanded he carve this on the spot, but he did it.” He had withdrawn a chain from which dangled an exquisitely cut stone, of a golden color Eva recognized immediately.
She gasped, “The topaz!” as he nodded in confirmation. The pendant was etched in the shape of a clenched fist with its thumb sticking up between the first and second fingers.
As Eva admiringly touched the crystal, Roberto explained, “It’s a figa, a Brazilian amulet meant to ward off evil spirits and to bring good luck, passion, and fertility. You must wear it always and never lose it, or all the evils that have been warded off will besiege you.”
“It’s magnificent, Roberto! How can I ever thank you?” she exclaimed, as he secured the clasp around her neck and let the amulet rest delicately on her chest.
“You can thank me by letting the figa do its work. It is meant to ward off envy and jealousy. You must forget what’s happened in the past. You are the woman I love, the woman I want to marry. You give meaning to my life. Will you marry me, Eva?” It was a proposal from the heart, and Eva’s eyes filled again with tears of joy.
Flinging herself onto his lap and thence into his arms, she looked straight at him and answered from the heart, “Yes, Roberto, I will marry you. I’ll follow you anywhere … if only you love me. That’s all I ask …” Her voice trailed off as her lips sought his in formal acceptance of his proposal.
The sun dress she had put on for her return trip had crept well up onto her thighs as she had moved closer to Roberto. Now, as they kissed, his hand caressed the skin of her thigh, moving up under her hem to skim her hips and stomach. The flames of passion had been lit within them both. Eva moaned as she sought to deepen the kiss, her hands fiercely exploring the strong sinewy shoulders that loomed above her. They were both breathless when Roberto finally withdrew his hand and pried her from him.
“You’re not making this any easier, sweetheart. We have plans to make, you know,” he chided her, kissing a patch of auburn curls as he did so. He continued, “How soon can we be married—observing all proprieties, that is? This union is too precious to be clouded in any way.”
Knowing exactly to what he referred, Eva imagined the reactions of those people—namely Stuart’s family and friends, whom she disliked so—when she announced that she would be remarrying. Would she have to cater to their wishes in the future as she had to in the past? She burst out in alarm, “I don’t care about proprieties, Roberto. We can’t wait any six months or a year. I don’t care what they say … they’ve already hurt me too much. I want you now, Roberto!” So desperate was her plea that he had to bury her head in his chest to avoid taking her there and then. As he stroked her hair, he spoke with conviction.
“This is what we’ll do. I want you to come with me to São Paulo from here. We can spend a week or so there. I’ll show you the sights, the best of which is the old mansion that is going to be your home.” At the subtle reference to old mansions, which he knew Eva loved, she tilted her head up to exchange a smile of mutual understanding with him. He wasn’t through with the itinerary, though.
“Then we’ll fly with Paul back to Boston. You’d enjoy seeing his campus and I’d like you to meet my mother.” He tightened his grip on her, a tender assurance of his support.
“I’d really like that. Will she like me?” she wondered aloud.
“She’ll have to … a fellow American! Seriously, she’ll love you. You’re like her in many ways. And she’s never had a daughter-in-law before!” He tickled her gently into easy laughter.
But Eva was becoming impatient. “Then what, Roberto? I haven’t heard anything about a wedding yet. Are you getting cold feet already?”
“Patience, sweetheart! A
fter Boston, we’ll return here, to Terra Vermelho, for a very private little marriage ceremony. We really should wait longer, but I don’t think there would be enough cold water for the both of us. At any rate, we can wait for a reasonable amount of time before announcing the marriage in the States, so people will merely think you’re on an extended rest cure. How does it sound?” His eyes opened wide in anticipation of her reaction.
Eva bubbled with excitement, though she teased him. “I don’t know … several weeks is an awfully long time. I’m not sure I can restrain myself that long,” she added, biting his ear playfully.
“You little minx,” Roberto’s voice came low and huskily, as he bodily lifted her and laid her on the bed. As he lowered himself over her, she raised her hands to his silver-winged sideburns, tracing their descent down his cheek.
“I’ve wanted to do that so many times,” she whispered, her fingers now tracing the outline of his mouth in adoration.
“What I’ve wanted to do so many times would be improper just yet …” he growled mischievously.
Eva whispered then, for his ears alone, “Are you going to tell someone?”
His dark eyes studied hers for a long moment, drinking in the love, the need, the sensuality she offered.
“Not I!” was his terse pledge, and then there were no more words, as Roberto declared his eternal love for Eva with the greatest reverence of all.
Read on for an excerpt from Barbara Delinsky’s upcoming book
SWEET SALT AIR
In hardcover in 2013 from St. Martin’s Press
Darkness was dense this far from town. There were no cars here, no streetlights, no welcoming homes, and whatever glow had been cast from Nicole’s place was gone. Trees rose on either side, sharing the narrow land flanking the road with strips of field, and beyond the trees was the rocky shore, lost now in the murk.
But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.
When the pavement at the edges of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn’t invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work had been done said the son was the same.
She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were in for the night, hence no screeching, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.
There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt—and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.
The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.
The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole had believed it, but that didn’t keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn’t be left behind.
Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive.
But Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn’t hurt.
Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, like the irreverent person she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn’t know.
Then, like a vision, Cecily’s house was at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plain, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.
Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to the gardens where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn’t see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn’t parse it. Tendrils of hair blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she pushed them back.
Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When the man paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.
Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.
Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long, straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a tee shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.
But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.
“You’re trespassin’,” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.
“What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.
His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. “What does it look like?”
“Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. “Is that so you won’t see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”
He stared at her for another minute. Then, holstering the hammer in his jeans, he climbed down the ladder, lifted a shutter, and, somewhat awkwardly given its bulk, climbed back up. The shutter was wide, clearly functional rather than decorative. Though he carried it one-handed, he stopped twice on the way up to shift his grip. At the top, he braced it against the ladder’s shelf while he adjusted his hands, then lined up hinges and pins.
He had one hinge attached but was having trouble with the second. She knew what this was about. She had worked with storm shutters. They were tricky to do alone.
Resting the shutter on the shelf again, he pulled the hammer from his waistband and adjusted the hinge with a few well-aimed hits. Then he tried the shutter again.
Watching him struggle, Charlotte remembered more about Leo Cole from her early days here. Not too bright, they said. Troubled. Stubborn. She had never known him personally; she was only there summers, and he ran with a different crowd. Actually, she corrected silently, he didn’t run with a crowd. A lone wolf, he did damage all on his own, and it was serious stuff. The stories included stealing cars, forging checks, and deflowering sweet young things.
Those last summers she was on Quinnipeague, he was in state prison, serving time for selling pot. Rumor had it that Cecily was the one who grew it, and Charlotte could believe it, what with medical marijuana use on the rise. The islanders always denied it, of course. They didn’t want the Feds threatening their cures.
Leo had been nabbed for selling g
rass on the mainland. Did he still grow it? She couldn’t smell it now, and she did know that smell.
Having returned the shutter to the shelf, he was readjusting the hinge.
“Want some help?” she called up.
He snorted.
“Four hands, and you’d have that right up,” she advised.
“Two hands’ll do.”
Charlotte looked past him toward the cupola. She didn’t see any bats yet, didn’t feel any ghosts. If Cecily’s spirit was floating around, it hadn’t cast a spell to keep Charlotte here. She remained because she was stubborn herself.
“I’ve done this before,” she said now.
“Uh-huh.”
“I have. I’ve built houses.”
“That so.” He didn’t believe her.
“Half a dozen in El Salvador after the big quake there, and at least as many when tornados decimated parts of Maryland. I know how storm shutters work.”
He continued to stare.
“All you need,” she said, freeing a hand to hold back the hair that fluttered loose again, “is someone to steady it while you fit the pins in the hinges.”
“Really. I didn’t know that.”
“Okay,” she granted. “So you did. But you could’ve had that hung and been down five minutes ago. Aren’t you cold?” She was appreciating every thick inch of her sweater, while his arms were ropy and bare.
“I’m a man.”
She waited for more. When nothing came, she said, “What does that have to do with it?”
“Men run hot.”
“Really.” Refusing to be baited, she returned her hand to her armpit, shifted to a more comfortable stance, and smiled. “Great. I’ll watch while you get that shutter hung. Maybe I can learn how you do it alone.”
Pictures of You Page 17