The Forever Tree

by Rosanne Bittner

  Will saw her standing alone, and he quickly walked over and took her hand. “Por favor, carina mia. Don’t let Hugo Bolivar spoil the first big social event you have attended in years.” He whisked her onto the dance floor. “You deserve to have a good time tonight. You have given every spare minute of your time to Valioso since the day he was born. Tonight I want all your attention.”

  He whirled her about the floor, and Santana kept her eyes only on her husband. I wish that I could tell you the truth, my love, she thought, just to get rid of this guilt I feel at deceiving you. But there are so many reasons you must never know, to protect your good name, and to protect our little Valioso.

  “Wouldn’t these women here just faint away if you danced the fandango for everyone?” Will teased. “The men can’t take their eyes off you, you know, and you being here with me tonight, still as beautiful as the day I married you, is my ultimate victory over Bolivar. Did you see how he looked at you? He’s sick with envy.”

  Santana could not meet Will’s eyes then. “I wish he had not come. It makes me nervous when the two of you are in the same room together.”

  “Bolivar is the one who should be nervous. You just relax and enjoy yourself.”

  The dance ended, and Will led Santana to where Harold Maddigan now stood with his wife talking to two other couples. Harold’s ruddy complexion was growing redder from drinking too much champagne, and he introduced Santana to the others with great enthusiasm, obviously enamored with her beauty.

  “I see our token Californio is here,” he then said to Will. He bowed to Santana. “Please excuse the remark, Senora. I am not referring to you. The proud and honorable Spanish families of California are to be afforded our greatest respect. But men like Don Bolivar command no respect and have few friends. I am surprised the governor invited him, but as I said, he is probably a token. I am sure the governor doesn’t know about the past between Don Bolivar and your husband, or he would not have invited both of them to the same occasion.”

  Santana felt too warm, and she opened her fan and waved it. “Yes, I would rather Don Bolivar were not present,” she answered. “He once tried to shoot my husband in the back, you know.”

  Will kept an arm around her. “That was a lot of years ago. Most people here don’t even know about it.”

  “I suppose not,” Maddigan said, “but there are a few more like me who were already in San Francisco at the time and heard all the stories. Even before his little run-in with you over Santana, his arrogant attitude had lost him a lot of friends. I also remember something about some suspicious fires up at your mill after you married Santana. You think Bolivar had something to do with them, don’t you?”

  Santana felt Wilma Maddigan’s eyes on her. What did a woman like Mrs. Maddigan think of two men fighting a duel over her? She managed to steal a glance around the room to see a group of women talking together and looking her way. What were they saying?

  “I firmly believe Bolivar had someone set those fires,” Will told Maddigan. “But I can’t prove it.”

  “Just look at the pompous ass,” Maddigan said, keeping his voice low, “greeting people with that damn cocky smile on his face. I heard he even beats his wife. You know how rumors circulate among servants, something about him being upset that the poor woman has never given him any children.”

  Santana watched Carmelita. It was easy to read the loneliness in her eyes, and her heart ached for the woman. She realized that in spite of what Hugo had done to her, Carmelita lived in a worse hell. Still, all the horror of her rape had returned to haunt her. She could tell by the way Hugo kept glancing at her and smiling that he knew his presence was upsetting her, and suddenly she felt removed from the others, lost in her own world of nasty secrets. The foul memory of Hugo taking her flashed into her mind with such force, she flinched.

  “What’s wrong, Santana?”

  Will’s words brought her back to reality. “What? Oh! I am just more tired than I thought.”

  Will turned her away from the Maddigans and the other couples. “It’s Bolivar, isn’t it?” he said in a low voice. “Why do you let him bother you so much after all these years? I agree I’m still angry enough to kill him if I could get away with it, but I don’t let him crawl under my skin like you seem to do.” Will looked at her closely, and he seemed to sense she was more shaken than he’d realized. “Is there something I should know, Santana? I’ve always felt there was something you weren’t telling me. Does it have to do with Bolivar?”

  “No,” she answered, too quickly. “I mean, there is nothing to tell about anyone. He just still upsets me, that’s all. To think I might have been his wife…Did you see her? Carmelita? She is not a happy woman.”

  “She made her choice, and you made yours.”

  “And the result is six beautiful children whom I miss very much.”

  “I know you want to go home to the children, but this is our night, Santana, and not Bolivar nor anyone else is going to spoil it.”

  Will led her back out to dance, and after that they spent the rest of the evening meeting other people and talking about everything from politics to the stock market. All the while Santana felt Hugo staring at her, forcing her to remember…remember…

  Be strong, she told herself. Do not let him be the victor by being faint and begging to leave early. Show him how happy you are with your husband. Let him envy Will for having six children while he has none…none… Yes, she was the victor after all! She had her children, including a little son Hugo could never claim. He had nothing but a barren wife and an empty life.

  Eventually all the guests were taken on a grand tour of the new building, then they sat down to a royal meal at one long dining table brought into the building just for the occasion. Santana smiled and chatted with deliberate enthusiasm. She was proud of how wealthy and important her husband had become, and she was determined to rub it in to Hugo, as well as to prove to him that what he had done had not broken her in the least. When everyone raised a toast to the Central Pacific, Santana felt the champagne beginning to take effect. Laughter and champagne, and the thought of her children and her husband. Yes, those things helped cover the ugliness. Those things showed Hugo he had not hurt her happiness one bit. Sitting at the same table with him, even though he was farther down, in a position where, thank God, she did not have to face him, was still the most difficult test of how much she had healed.

  Dinner finished, Will took her off to dance again, and she began to feel giddy. She was winning! It was as though Hugo had never touched her at all! He was in the same room, she had faced him for the first time since her attack, and she had not crumbled. Perhaps he felt victorious knowing what he had done, but she would spoil his victory by showing him she was as happy and unruffled as if he had never touched her.

  She looked up at the decorated dome that rose 247 feet above the center of the capitol building. “It is quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Will studied the graceful lines of her neck and shoulders, the way her diamond necklace sparkled against her dark skin. “Yes, very beautiful.”

  Santana met his eyes. Would he still love her if he knew? Would he believe she had done nothing wrong? “I love you, Will. It is growing late. I would like to go to our hotel room.”

  He drew her closer. “I was thinking the same thing.” He stopped dancing, but held her there. “I know something is still wrong, Santana. I wish you would tell me what it is.”

  She met his eyes squarely. “Nothing is wrong,” she lied. “I have just had too much champagne.” She ran her hands along his powerful arms. “And I wish to be with my husband tonight.”

  “All right. I’ll go hail our driver. Did you bring a shawl?”

  “I left it in the carriage.”

  She joined Will in saying good-bye to several of the others and shaking hands with the governor and his wife, before Will left her to see about their carriage. Santana walked outside and waited, anxious to get away from Hugo’s all-knowing eyes, shivering while sh
e waited. She rubbed the backs of her arms nervously. It was then she realized it was more than the night air giving her a chill.

  “Sweet dreams, Santana.”

  The words were spoken behind her, and she whirled to see Hugo standing there. Her heartbeat quickened with dread. She had managed to avoid him all evening. Now he had deliberately followed her outside. “What do you want?”

  “Just to say good night.” He stepped closer. “I have heard you have a son who is retarded.” He grinned. “How fitting. Your gringo husband is not so perfect after all. Perhaps the child was your punishment for having slept with another man. Have you told Will yet of your indiscretion?”

  She fought the urge to scream and scratch his eyes out. He had only come out there to try to poke one last prong, she told herself. She had not behaved as he had expected, and that irritated him. “We both know the truth about that, and you must live with knowing you are a coward, and a man who will leave behind no children to bear his name!” She felt great pleasure in seeing him flinch at the words. You do have a son, Hugo Bolivar! she told him silently. But you will never know it, nor will you ever know the joy he can bring to a man’s heart. “The fact that you have no sons is your punishment, Hugo Bolivar!”

  The color in his face deepened as he came even closer. “Perhaps I should tell your husband about our little affair,” he said threateningly.

  “Affair? You are not such a fool, Hugo! You know he would see the truth, that he would believe me if I told him you raped me. You know what he would do to you then! You have lost, Hugo, in so many ways. You committed a despicable, sinful act, and God has punished you by leaving you childless. Will and I have six sons and daughters. We have something wonderful that rises above the ugliness you tried to bring me. As far as I am concerned, you never touched me!”

  She turned and quickly walked away, past the huge white columns that graced the front of the building to the drive, where she waited for Will. A rage of emotions swept through her so that she could barely think straight. She had faced him alone! She had stood up to him on her own, and Will never need know about it! Hurry, Will, hurry! Get me away from here!

  Finally the carriage appeared. She did not even wait for Will to get down from the passenger seat to help her board. She quickly climbed inside, and Will slid an arm around her. She rested her head against his shoulder, taking comfort in the safety of his presence. Tonight he would help her forget again.

  Will frowned as he glanced at his wife. She seemed almost to be running from something. He looked back, but saw no one.

  Twenty-Six

  “Oh, Will, I had too much champagne.” Santana laughed and threw back her head as Will kept an arm around her and led her into their hotel room. She struggled to remind herself to be careful what she said. She was dizzy and confused, her encounter with Hugo leaving her feeling both victorious and angry. Having to look into those eyes again, to face the man she most despised in the world, and to have to do it all alone, had stirred so many emotions she thought she could leave buried.

  She wrapped her arms around Will’s neck. “Make love to me, carino mio,” she said in a sultry whisper.

  Will picked her up and carried her to the bed. “I guess you have had too much champagne,” he said. “You’re acting strangely tonight, Santana.” He joined her on the bed, straddling her and bracing his arms on either side of her. He wished he could understand the woman she had become, decide how she really felt about him. Ever since he’d returned from the war, he had felt the distance between them. She had said that Valioso’s problems would bring them closer, and in many ways they had. But sexually, something was still wrong. First he’d felt it was simply because they had become like strangers after more than three years apart. He blamed himself for their continued problems after Valioso’s birth, sure they stemmed from Santana resenting him for the boy being retarded.

  She never said that she did, but the passion she’d once shown for him was never there anymore. They had both been pretending, he wanting to believe everything was fine, she acting as though she enjoyed his lovemaking. She did not respond as she once had, though, and she never came to him first. Many times she made excuses as to why they could not make love, usually something to do with tending the children.

  Now, tonight, she was behaving more like the old Santana, who used to tease him with words and with her body. Maybe his idea of getting off alone with her had worked better than he thought. He stretched out beside her. “Not that I’m complaining that you want to make love.” He raised up on one elbow, pushing a strand of hair back from her forehead. “Santana, you practically ran to get into the carriage. Was something wrong?”

  She smiled. “I only wanted to get to our room so we could be alone. You said yourself that this was our night away from the children.”

  Will watched her eyes. There it was again, that look that told him she was not being totally honest. He had seen it at other times, usually when she was behaving as though she were the happiest woman alive. She was deeply troubled about something, had been for a long time, and the only reason he could come up with was that she had never quite forgiven him for leaving in the first place.

  Before he left there had always been a childlike innocence and happiness in his wife’s eyes. But in spite of the closeness they had achieved in working together with Valioso, there was still something missing. Each time he made love to her, he hoped to unlock the secret she held in her heart, even if it meant unleashing a terrible anger she might feel against him.

  “You’re right. This is our night,” he answered. He met her mouth in a soft, hungry kiss, massaging her bare shoulders, then bent down to kiss her throat, the soft swell of her breasts. Whatever her reason for being more open and aggressive than she had been in years, he would not argue it. This was more like the Santana she’d been, full of passion and love and need. He so longed for the woman he had married.

  Santana stretched her arms over her head and closed her eyes, relishing the feel of her husband’s strong hands caressing her shoulders and breasts. She was determined to prove to herself she could truly bury what Hugo had done to her. She had faced him that night, squarely, boldly, showing him he had not destroyed her. Now she would prove at last that he had not spoiled this for her either. All these many months she’d had to simply “allow” Will his manly needs, responding as best she could, but never really enjoying her husband the way she had before he went off to war. She could not keep letting Hugo’s vile act destroy what had been so beautiful and satisfying between her and Will.

  She breathed deeply as Will pulled the low-cut bodice of her dress away from her breasts so that they were exposed. He tasted her nipples, and she grasped his hair as she closed her eyes, reminding herself that this was Will and it was all right. She must recapture what had been lost between them. Seeing Hugo again had dredged up so many unwanted emotions, feelings she could have kept buried if not for having to look into those eyes again. Surely making love with Will would make it go away once more.

  Will had drunk a lot of champagne himself, and he moved with deliberate desire, not bothering to take off his clothes. He kissed Santana’s breasts while he pushed up her skirt, then raised to his knees and pulled off her drawers. In that moment Santana opened her eyes and saw him. Hugo! This was the way Hugo had taken her, quickly and brutally, their clothes still on, jerking off her underwear to get to her. She closed her eyes again, her mind fighting the image. This was Will! Will! If only she had not drunk so much champagne. It was playing tricks on her mind. She opened her eyes once more, but she could not see Will. She could only see Hugo Bolivar leering at her, an expression of evil pleasure on his face as he forced himself inside her, stealing her dignity, destroying her purity, claiming that which she had given with such utter love and devotion only to her husband.

  She could not find her voice. She lay frozen, staring. He entered her, and she gasped the word no. She felt the man on top of her go rigid. He thrust in quick rhythm and finished with he
r in seconds, as though angry. Then he pushed himself off her. She lay there wanting to scream, not understanding what was happening to her. She had been so sure she could live with what Hugo had done to her, could keep it buried, pretend it had never happened. Seeing him that night, though, had forced her to face the fact that he had been intimate with her, that he had stolen something so precious.

  “What the hell is wrong, Santana? One minute you’re begging me to make love to you, then you freeze up and practically push me away.”

  Was that Will’s voice? For a moment she thought she was in her old bedroom. No. She was in a hotel in Sacramento with Will. This was supposed to be a special night for them, an evening alone together. What had happened?

  “I…I’m sorry. It must be the champagne.”

  Will sat up and buttoned his pants. He threw his feet over the side of the bed to sit on the edge of it. “It’s me, isn’t it? This part of our life has never been the same since I came back. You’ve never forgiven me for leaving, for having Juan all alone, for giving you a retarded son—”

  “No, Will, that is not so!”

  “Then what is it? When I make love to you I can sense you’re only pretending. All the passion that used to be there is gone. You allow me my pleasure, but that’s the extent of it. You used to take your own pleasure in our lovemaking, Santana. Now I get the feeling you don’t enjoy it at all. Our closeness only comes from the children. Other than that, there is something missing.”

  He rose from the bed, and Santana saw true anger blaze in her husband’s eyes. She had seen him angry before, but never had such fierce anger been directed at her. If only she could tell him the truth! Yet that would be even more devastating than this. If he understood what she was going through…but how could any man understand? She could not tell him Hugo was Valioso’s father. Will had shown the boy so much love and devotion. Valioso thrived on that love. If he lost it…