by Phoebe Conn
Santos looked up at him. “I’m relieved no one will take another shot at me. I appreciate your coming to tell me. I know you don’t think much of me, but…”
“You’re mistaken, Mr. Aragon. I was a great fan of your father’s, and if I compared you to him unfavorably, it was an unfortunate mistake.”
Santos nodded and hoped he’d never see the detective again, but that was the story of his life. Everyone compared him to Miguel. They saw only a spectacular matador and a son who might one day be as fine. He’d seen his father as a whole man, and he swore right then he wouldn’t write a single word about him, let alone a whole book.
As he got up to go inside and dress for dinner, it wasn’t lost on him that he was living the damn “Matador Blues”. He was too shaken to even hold his guitar, but when he could find the will to play, Libby would be in every note.
Chapter Nineteen
Santos had upgraded Libby’s ticket to first class, and the wide, comfortable seat gave her a chance to mourn in peace rather than be miserable while wedged into a row of five seats. She looked out at the tarmac as the other passengers boarded, and when someone sat down beside her, she didn’t care who it might be.
“Are you afraid of flying?” the man asked.
Libby turned toward him. He looked mid-thirties, blue-eyed and sandy-haired, casually dressed in jeans and a sweater over a long-sleeved sports shirt. For the trip, she’d put on her jeans and a black top to match her mood. “No, I don’t worry at all about flying. When your time’s up, you’re done, no matter where you are.”
“A lot of people would agree. I’m Brian Wells.”
He offered his hand, and she shook it. “Libby Gunderson.”
“This your first trip to Spain?” he asked.
Libby had the sinking feeling Brian was the talkative sort who wouldn’t shut up until they reached New York. “Yes. I came for my sister’s wedding, worked as a model and had a wild fling with a matador. How was your trip?”
Brian’s mouth fell agape. “You’re kidding, right?”
Libby remained icily cool. “About what?”
“All of it!”
“My sister married Rafael Mondragon. I’ve been living with Santos Aragon and modeled with him for ads for the new Aragon cologne. Wear it and you’ll be able to seduce every woman you meet.” She’d wanted a bottle to take home, but it would be too sad to have now when the scent would bring such painful memories. She turned back toward the window. Men were still tossing luggage onboard. Her one bag was fuller than it had been upon her arrival, but it still fit in the overhead bin.
“I saw both Mondragon’s and Aragon’s names on bullfight posters,” Brian said. “Isn’t a matador intimidating in person?”
“You have no idea,” she replied and let him think whatever he wished. Fortunately, he had an iPad, and once they were in the air, he began playing games on it. She stared out at the clouds and recalled the last hours she’d spent with Santos. If last night hadn’t been a well-orchestrated farewell, then she didn’t know how else it could be described. She wished he’d started an argument as an excuse to send her home, but he’d nearly loved her to death. He couldn’t have felt what she did, or he’d never have been able to send her away. She twisted the gold bracelet on her wrist. She hadn’t even been tempted to leave it behind. Already a beloved keepsake, it served as beautiful proof of an enchanted time that had ended all too soon.
After an eight-hour flight to New York City, followed by an hour wait before her two-hour flight to Minneapolis, with the time difference, Libby stepped off the plane only four hours after she’d left Barcelona. She felt every minute of her trip, however. She hugged her father and mother and did her very best not to dissolve into the tears she’d fought all the way home. If she began to cry, she feared she’d spend the rest of her life weeping.
“Santos has called a couple of times,” her father reported on the way to the car. “He wanted to know when you got home safely, and he called again because he forgot to give you the posters he’d promised. He’s mailing them.”
“Bullfight posters?” her mother asked. “They’ll liven up your room.”
Libby covered a wide yawn. “Yeah, they’re colorful all right.” She climbed into the backseat of their car and watched the lights blur as they sped along. It was a familiar scene, not the endless excitement of Spain, but she’d left so much of herself behind, she felt lost rather than at home.
The following week, Santos went to the advertising agency to review the sales campaign. He’d made himself go to physical therapy every morning, but before today, he hadn’t left the house otherwise. He’d neglected his friends for so long, few remembered to call him, and when they did, he gave them curt responses and hung up.
Armand spread the photos out on the long worktable. “Each one has its own appeal, but I want to begin with the more sultry poses and later in the campaign bring in the ones with you two laughing together.”
Santos missed Libby so badly he could barely stand to look at the photos and wished he hadn’t come. She had such a glowing beauty, and, seated behind her, he had the brooding intensity of a dark shadow. “I hadn’t meant to look so, well, hostile.”
“You don’t look hostile,” Denise assured him. She pushed her red glasses up her nose and pointed to her favorite. “You’re smiling here. Don’t you like this one?”
All he saw was Libby. “You’re the professionals. Choose whichever ones please you. Just give me two sets so I can send one to Libby.”
“I have them for you.” Armand handed him the manila envelopes. “Now let me show you the ad mockups.” They were on the computer, but he also had them displayed on large charts. “What do you think of Aragon, the scent of ancient kings?”
Santos laughed. “Kings didn’t bathe that often.”
“That’s exactly what I told him,” Roberto interjected. He nearly swiped Santos in the face with his ponytail as he flipped to the second chart where several slogans were written. “We want to say the cologne does all the work. Sin palabras. You don’t need words. Or, No words. Or, Without a word. Do you like any of those?”
Santos glanced toward the photo display. How closely he resembled his father was deeply disturbing. “We’re selling a cologne named for a matador, not a king. You only need one word: Deadly.”
After a long moment of stunned silence, Armand cheered and slapped Santos on the back. “Deadly is perfection! If you leave the bullring, you must come to work with us.”
His nodded, his lack of enthusiasm for the prospect plain. “Thank you. That’s the first job offer I’ve ever received.” He took the photos and wished he could take the stairs so he wouldn’t have to ride down alone in the elevator. The problem was, even after he’d sent Libby home, he could still feel her, as though she were nearby, but maddeningly, just out of sight.
“Libby, the mailman brought you something from Santos,” Linda called up the stairs.
Libby had been stretched out on her bed, reading one of her textbooks for the fall semester. She didn’t usually spend her summers being so studious, but she wanted to graduate with the highest possible grades. She marked her place and left the book on her desk. She’d really wanted bullfight posters when she’d asked for one, but now she dreaded seeing them.
She came downstairs, and her mother handed her a foam-lined envelope that had Fotos stamped across it. There were colorful stamps from Spain and stickers from Customs. “These must be from the advertising agency.” She balanced the package in her hands.
“Open it,” her mother urged. “I’ll get some scissors.”
Libby sank down on the second step. She didn’t need photos to remember Santos. She had scant hope he’d included a letter begging her to forgive him for tossing her out without even a day’s notice. When her mother handed her the kitchen shears, she took care to cut the end carefully, but she handed the package to her.
“You open it. I know what’s in it.”
Her mother shook the envelop
e to free the photos, but there were more than she’d anticipated, and they spilled onto the floor. She picked up the one closest to her foot. “Libby, you’re so beautiful here!”
“I look like a drug lord’s call girl.”
“You do not! You may have a different hairstyle and more makeup than you usually wear, but you could be Miss Minnesota in the Miss America pageant. What’s chilling is how closely Santos resembles Miguel, but you two make a stunning couple.”
Libby simply felt stunned. She hadn’t told her parents how she and Santos had parted, and they hadn’t pried, but with Patricia bubbling about Fox constantly, she could sit through meals unnoticed. She helped her mother gather the photos, and, while she knew better than to check the envelope for a note, she did anyway. Santos hadn’t even included a Post-it note. “Bastard,” she mumbled under her breath.
“Whenever you’re ready to tell me what happened, I’ll be happy to listen,” her mother offered, and they carried the photos into the dining room.
Maggie waited until she’d found the perfect apartment as an excuse to call on Santos. He was in the den, stretched out on the sofa, reading. He looked tired and thin. She was still too angry with him to be sympathetic. “You look awful.”
“Thank you. You’re pretty as always. I didn’t think you were speaking to me.” He closed his book and sat up.
“I’m not, but I wanted to give you our new address.”
“I didn’t know your old one.”
“I’m sorry, I should have given it to you when I moved in with Rafael.” She’d written it on a card, laid it on the desk and took a place on the other end of the sofa. “You wanted Libby gone, but you don’t seem to be doing well without her. Have you written to offer a thousand apologies?”
He sat slumped forward and looked down at his hands. “I sent the photos from the ad agency and the posters she’d wanted.”
“You included thoughtful notes?”
He shook his head. “I signed the posters, but I’ve nothing to say.”
“I’m miserable without you would have made a good start.”
“She doesn’t need to know,” he scoffed.
“Of course she does. I don’t understand where your mind is. I’m actually beginning to feel sorry for Ana Santillan. The photos she sold were an excuse. You would have dropped her soon anyway, wouldn’t you?”
“Give it up, Maggie. You’re not a licensed therapist.”
“A license isn’t required to see the obvious. You’re so good at caring for everyone else, but you won’t let a woman get close to you.”
“Please,” he responded with an exasperated sigh.
“You’re too bright to be such a dolt. Why did you send Libby home?”
He pulled in a deep breath. “I meant what I said. She wants a husband and babies, and I don’t need a wife and more kids to look after. She had to go home in a few weeks anyway, and it would have hurt us even worse then.”
Maggie’s voice softened. “Oh, Santos, you’ve taken care of our father’s families, but that’s not like having your own. You could have told her about your misgivings, but to say, ‘Your plane’s leaving at five,’ was cruel. If spending a night with you is half as good as it is with Rafael, it’s no wonder she wasn’t only confused but very badly hurt.”
When he remained silent, she leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I love you, Santos.”
“I love you too,” he murmured softly.
“There, that wasn’t difficult, was it?” She stood, ready to go. “We want you to come for dinner as soon as we have everything unpacked. By the way, Patricia and Fox are still exchanging e-mails, but she’s continuing at the university.”
“That’s good.” He looked up at her. “Victoria hid the rifle used to shoot at me in her son’s mattress, so that’s more evidence against her. Miguel Angel is our half brother, by the way. The boy’s staying with his grandfather and the Ramirez family, but Libby doesn’t need to be involved any further in our family’s latest mess.”
“Life is always messy,” Maggie exclaimed. “You don’t have to be alone. I’ll call you if you don’t call me.”
He looked at her askance. “That’ll make Rafael happy.”
“He already knows you’re an ass, and he still wants you to come for dinner.”
“I can’t wait.”
Maggie left without any hope she’d gotten through to him, and she wouldn’t give Libby what might be the futile hope he’d soon come to his senses. Miguel never had.
Libby moved back into her sorority house in September, but she couldn’t find even a speck of the abundant school spirit she’d once had. Patricia belonged to another house down the row, and they often waved in passing. Libby’s sorority sisters were loud and fun and full of hilarious stories of their summer vacations. She listened without once giving a hint of her own travels or sorrows. Her roommate was also intent upon doing well academically, and they both skipped weekend parties to stay home and study.
“You’re a completely different person this year,” Marcia said late one Saturday night.
Ready to take a break, Libby stood to stretch. “Maybe I’ve finally grown up.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“We’ll see.” She opened their small refrigerator and took out a soda. “You want one?”
“No, I’m off sugar.”
“Good for you.” Libby had to hike up her jeans. Nothing tasted good to her anymore, and she’d lost weight she hadn’t needed to lose. The house was quiet. All the others were out on dates or at parties spending their weekends in carefree fun as she used to do. The noisy crowds would have only annoyed her now. She just wanted to graduate and find a good job coaching, where she could give teenagers excellent advice for winning teams. When it came to love, however, she was a washout.
Santos glanced around the sparsely furnished living room of Maggie and Rafael’s new apartment and shook his head. “Do you need a furniture allowance?”
Maggie came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “No, we don’t, and don’t you dare say that to Rafael.”
“I’ll not risk being thrown out the window, but you’re an Aragon and should expect better.”
“I’ve already got the best, and furniture doesn’t matter. I’m glad to see you off your crutches. How does your knee feel?”
“Better every day, but I’m not ready to take up flamenco yet.”
“You’d be good if you did.”
Rafael greeted Santos as he came in and hurried to kiss his wife. “I’m glad you could come tonight. Maggie’s a great cook.”
“It’s difficult to ruin a chicken,” Maggie replied. “Santos brought some incredibly good wine. Would you like a glass?”
“Let me clean up and then I will.”
Santos waited until Rafael had left the room to whisper, “Is he always this nice?”
Her eyes sparkled as she laughed. “Yes. Did you think he’d shout and clomp around like a caveman?”
Santos shrugged. “With him, one never knows.”
Maggie came close to hug him. “We’re happy together. Why does that surprise you?”
“I surprise easily.”
Maggie stepped back to study his sorrowful expression closely. “Is that the problem? You’re surprised by how much you care for Libby, when you’ve never been serious about another woman? Is that what’s twisted you in two?”
He pulled away. “I’ll leave now if you’re going to torture me all night over Libby.”
He was well dressed as always, but his hair had grown too long, and he looked so sad and thin it broke her heart. “You’ve lived the life you had to. Now you have a choice. Don’t be like Grandfather Augustin and spend the rest of your days longing for the woman you let get away.” She raised her hand. “I promise not to say another word about Libby.” She returned to the kitchen to toss the salad.
Rafael came into the living room, rolling up the sleeves of a clean shirt. “Have you heard from Libby?”
; “We’re not mentioning her,” Maggie called from the kitchen.
Rafael stepped close to whisper, “You look so damn good, but there’s nothing inside.”
Santos caught his temper at a controllable smolder. “Out of respect for my sister, I’ll ignore your ignorant opinions.” He took a step toward the kitchen. “Maggie, Cirilda sent a postcard from Tahiti. It took it a couple of weeks to get here, but she and Alfonso were married there and are in no hurry to come home. They might be back by now, but I’ll wait for her to call me.”
“I’ll wait too,” Maggie replied. “I feel sorry for Alfonso, but he behaved so badly at our wedding, maybe they deserve each other.”
“Maybe,” Santos agreed. He stayed by the kitchen doorway to talk with her rather than pretend to converse with Rafael.
He did his best to be a pleasant dinner guest, and the rosemary chicken was superb, but Rafael’s insult and Maggie’s attempts to be helpful echoed in his mind until his head ached badly by the time he left. He’d driven the SUV himself and felt totally and miserably alone.
He’d grown up missing the people who’d come and then disappeared from his father’s life, so the painful emotion was nothing new. He just hadn’t expected sending Libby home to hurt worse every damn day. He had to continue to strengthen his knee so he wouldn’t limp into a bullring. He had to make certain little Miguel Angel had a good home. He worried about the twins being pushed into the fashion world too young. Then there was Fox, whom he’d given the worst possible advice on women. Thankfully, Fox didn’t appear to be following it with Patricia, who’d probably tear out the kid’s heart any day.
With the problems he had to handle, he didn’t understand how anyone could marry and intentionally welcome the inevitable problems children would bring. It would be like committing suicide in tiny, excruciating increments.