Love Me At Sunset (Destined for Love: Mansions)

by Lucinda Whitney

  Her expression closed off again. Her tolerance for questions of a more private nature was as low as before. Maybe he should wait to ask her another time, but his curiosity wouldn’t let go. “Who’s Juan-Carlos?”

  Her face paled. “Juan-Carlos?”

  Her Spanish accent was impeccable. She was back to repeating what he said, which she did when she got nervous. Maybe she did it to buy herself some time.

  “You mentioned that name when you were sick. Was that your husband?”

  Catarina sucked in a breath and pressed her fingers to her lips.

  What kind of fool was he? “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” She was still very much affected by her husband’s passing. “You don’t have to say anything.”

  She nodded and looked away to compose herself, and he gave her a few minutes.

  Afonso stood and extended his hand to her. They watched each other for a long moment before she finally placed her fingers in his.

  Such a small hand she had. A need came over him to cradle her hand and protect her from the grief. But it was not up to him to console her.

  They mounted the ATV without saying anything else, and Afonso drove it around the house to the back. She didn’t put her arms around him this time, and he maneuvered slowly so she could keep her balance.

  At the kitchen door, she hesitated before entering, then turned to him. “Thanks for showing me the grounds.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She stood silent but didn’t rush inside either.

  “I’m going to return the ATV to the barn, and then I’ll be a while. I need to make a list for my shopping trip on Friday.”

  She straightened her posture. “Where are you going shopping?”

  “Some supply stores in Castelo Branco. Do you need anything?”

  “I need to run some errands in the city. Can I get a ride?”

  “Sure.”

  After she entered the manor, Afonso had second thoughts about her coming along, but it would be rude to take back the offer.

  He’d have to keep the questions to himself and the conversation to neutral themes. As long as he remembered to stay away from getting too personal, it would be okay.

  Catarina woke to phantom sounds of distant music in a fading dream. The melody wasn’t distinct, but it sounded like a piano.

  Outside the windows, the sun hadn’t risen yet. The soft pink glow of morning had begun dissipating the last grays of night. It was too early to be up, and she was now too awake to return to sleep.

  In her dream, she’d been dancing with Afonso. She was dressed in the pink kimono, and he wore only a bath towel around his waist, and they twirled and twirled around the music room to the three-quarter beat of a waltz. Were crazy dreams another pregnancy symptom?

  She stretched in bed as she thought of the day before, of seeing Afonso in that towel and nothing else, of grabbing on to him on the ATV for the grounds’ tour, of sitting with him under a linden tree at sunset. When was the last time she’d sat with a man and just talked? During her time dating Juan-Carlos, he’d provided opportunities for long conversations and quiet, romantic moments. The Rosy Period, as she called it, had lasted a few months into their marriage, enough to make her feel secure before Juan-Carlos had started showing his true colors.

  Afonso hadn’t fabricated the quiet moments; they’d just happened naturally. He’d taken all her questions in stride, answering all of them without hesitation, without seeming to mind her probing and curiosity.

  She hadn’t reciprocated. She couldn’t. And when he’d asked her about Juan-Carlos, she’d let him think she was too emotional about the recent passing of her husband, instead of upset at herself for letting Juan-Carlos’ name slip. What kind of widow was she who didn’t mourn her husband? A liar, for sure.

  What if Afonso recognized the name? What if he found out who she truly was? He could make a seemingly innocuous comment to Senhor Francisco, who would then say something to his wife, and Dona Madalena was the busybody kind. Before long, the whole village would know Catarina was staying at Sunset Manor, and if someone took a picture of her, they’d recognize her as Dulce Vega, the late Juan-Carlos Aragón y Vega’s missing wife. From there the word would leak out to the media, and throngs of journalists would descend on the property looking for a scoop.

  She didn’t want to be accosted by paparazzi again. The days between Juan-Carlos’ accident and funeral had been terrible as the paparazzi had followed her everywhere, invaded her privacy, and printed lie after lie for the whole world to read. No, she didn’t want to go through that ever again.

  Sharing anything too personal with Afonso was out of the question. Let him think she still grieved for a husband who had only wanted her in his life for the convenience of having a young, agreeable wife who looked good on his arm.

  Why had she stayed with Juan-Carlos for seven years?

  Catarina blew out a breath and pushed her thoughts away.

  It was all in the past. She would never go back to that life.

  And she wouldn’t say anything to Afonso, no matter how patient and kind he was, and how good he looked without a shirt on.

  After making a trip to the bathroom and drinking a tall glass of water, she sat on the bed, listening. It wasn’t a dream. Someone was playing the piano somewhere in the house. Someone could only be Afonso. Why was he playing at five in the morning? She hadn’t noticed a central sound system, so he must have his own speakers.

  She reached a hand out to the pink kimono but stopped midair. Maybe it was a bit absurd, but her dream was still too vivid in her mind.

  Instead, she pulled on a pair of purple yoga pants and a black tunic and tied her hair in a low ponytail.

  The sound increased as she descended the stairs. When she reached the ground floor, she had no doubt the melody was coming from the music room.

  The door was barely closed, as if he’d been in too much of a hurry to make sure the latch had locked.

  With a soft nudge, it opened noiselessly.

  An empty room greeted her, as it had the few times she’d been there. Filipe hadn’t furnished it. Nothing besides the old grand piano in the corner, its cover pulled onto the floor beneath.

  Afonso sat on the bench, playing something vaguely familiar, his hands caressing the keys, his fingers running without hesitation.

  She slipped through the ajar door and sat on the floor, leaning against the wall and making herself small so he wouldn’t notice her presence. He faced the other way, his back to her, and as long as he didn’t turn, he wouldn’t see her.

  This moment—she didn’t want it to stop. She closed her eyes and let the notes fill her heart. With joy and happiness and a sense of peace she couldn’t remember having in a long time.

  During the years she’d been married to Juan-Carlos, they’d attended concerts and recitals, both in Barcelona and in Lisbon. Juan-Carlos had fancied himself a patron of the arts, even if hobnobbing with celebrities and royals had been more important to him than the programs or the musicians.

  Afonso had no pretense. Nothing seemed to matter to him than the music.

  She lost track of time. The hard wall and uncomfortable floor didn’t matter, and she could have stayed in the same spot for hours, listening to Afonso.

  As another melody crescendoed into the next movement, he hit a dissonant key and stopped. He played the last few notes again, ending with the same off-key sound. Then he ran through a series of upper and lower scales and arpeggios, rapidly at first, giving in to a slower rhythm, and hitting specific keys as he played along.

  To her untrained ear, some of the notes didn’t sound as clear and melodic as the others, but Afonso seemed to know exactly which ones they were.

  He stopped at last, ran a hand through his hair, and blew out a breath. He closed the lid onto the keyboard and stood, then reached for the cover on the floor. When he straightened, his eyes landed on her, and he stilled.

  “Catarina.” He slowly rose,
absently holding on to a corner of the cover. “How long have you been there?”

  Her legs had cramped up, and she stretched them out before standing. “A few minutes.” Maybe longer. She couldn’t remember.

  Afonso finished covering the piano and crossed the room to her. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t.” Not directly. Dream-Afonso had more to do with waking her up than real-Afonso. “You’re a pianist?” Of course he was. She’d just heard him. Couldn’t she think of anything smarter to ask?

  He held the door open for her, and she passed through.

  “I was, but not anymore.” He looked at her. “You’re dressed already. Aren’t you going back to bed?” He gestured at the closest window. “The sun is not even up yet. Would you like to join me for breakfast?”

  She followed him to the kitchen. “Okay.” Did she even want to eat breakfast this early? In any case, she wanted to talk to Afonso and find out how he played so well.

  Within a few minutes, Afonso had fried eggs and ham with sliced tomatoes on a platter. “I lived in London for a season and got used to the British breakfasts. Minus the baked beans and sausages.”

  Catarina eyed the food. She hadn’t taken the anti-nausea pill, but maybe she’d be able to keep it down. As she took small bites, Afonso poured orange juice into a glass and drew a bowl of sliced strawberries from the refrigerator.

  “Did you play professionally in London?”

  “With the Royal Philharmonic as part of a cultural exchange.”

  “Where else did you play?”

  Afonso finished chewing and set his fork down, as if giving himself time to come up with a reply.

  “I’m being too nosy, aren’t I?”

  He smiled a lazy half smile, his eyes locked on her, and her cheeks heated. “I don’t mind. To answer your question, I played in London, Lisbon, Barcelona, and Berlin for a few years. Then I got tired of the touring and applied with the Gold River Company.”

  “You were the pianist on board.”

  He nodded. “I liked the change of pace and the lack of stress that was always present in professional performing. Playing on board was more fun.”

  “Why do you say you’re not a pianist anymore? You’re so talented.”

  He wrinkled his brow and chuckled. “That piano is so out of tune, it sounded like a drowning cat.”

  “And still you played it better than a lot of musicians do.”

  He finished eating and sat back, watching her with a depth that drew her in and wrung her out as if he understood what lay beneath her mask. His gaze was steady, full of unspoken questions that she wasn’t ready to answer.

  Catarina hurried on to say something to distract him. “It’s not the first time you played the piano since your arrival, is it?”

  He blew out a breath. “I tried to stay away but…” A shrug lifted his shoulder.

  “You probably didn’t get a chance to play while you were… uh, inside,” she said.

  “You mean prison. You can say it. It doesn’t bother me talking about it.” He balled the paper napkin and dropped it on the plate. “No pianos there, that’s for sure.”

  Afonso took the plates to the sink, and she followed with the glasses. “Why were you playing so early? You don’t have to hide it from me. Or do you prefer to play with no one around?”

  “I wasn’t trying to hide it. It was the only free time I had before I go out for the day.” He stacked the rest of the dishes and picked up the rag to wipe off the counter.

  Catarina extended her hand. “I’ll finish cleaning up the kitchen. You can go.”

  He held on to the rag. “Are you sure?”

  “Maybe I can’t cook, but I can wipe a counter.” It had been a while, but how hard could it be?

  As she reached for the rag in his palm, Afonso squeezed her fingers before passing it on to her.

  “Thanks, Catarina.”

  He left out the back door, and she stood by the sink without knowing what to say in response.

  Every day he did something that took her by surprise. She was running out of excuses to keep his friendship away.

  *

  How many things could go wrong in one week?

  Apparently every day, sometimes more. Falling in the bog on Monday had been the least of his problems. He’d also found the wires cut in the north pasture when taking Catarina for a tour of the grounds. She’d actually been the one to point it out to him, since he’d been so focused on her body pressed to his back. On Wednesday the right back tire on the Ford truck had a nail he’d failed to see. Locating a spare and taking the tire to the village to be fixed had taken longer that he’d predicted. A whole afternoon wasted.

  As Thursday rolled around, Afonso tried to push away his irritation. Senhor Francisco and Dona Madalena had returned from their mini vacation while he’d been in the village.

  He wanted more private moments with Catarina like the ones he’d had during the Silvas’ absence.

  It was wrong to wish for time alone with her. Having the Silvas around made it easier to avoid problems. There was nothing going on between him and Catarina, and feeling like he had a right to wish for it was entirely inappropriate. He should be glad the Silvas were back.

  When Senhor Francisco paused for a lunch break and invited him to come along, Afonso declined. They’d been working in the northeast field where a series of ruts and bogs had crossed from the other side of the fence onto the property. After going back for his camera to take pictures of the evidence, Afonso had leveled an area close to the front of the house and had brought in the extra dirt on the ATV’s trailer. They weren’t finished yet.

  He paused and leaned on the shovel’s handle. “I think I’ll pass. I gotta finish this today.”

  Senhor Francisco removed his hat and mopped his forehead. “Do you want me to bring you a sandwich or something?”

  He wasn’t hungry, but he didn’t want to be rude. “That will work. Thanks.”

  The old man crossed the field until he reached the path, and Afonso turned to the small trailer to shovel more dirt.

  Someone had cut the fence and rutted the field on purpose. He couldn’t find any evidence of anything missing or any damage in the barn, the garage, or around the house, but this week he’d added daily inspections of the perimeter to his schedule. If the issues persisted, he’d contact Filipe about it, but for now he didn’t want to alarm anyone unnecessarily.

  Afonso worked until he ran out of dirt, but the ruts weren’t filled yet, and he hopped on the ATV to get some more. He made a mental note to have some soil delivered to the property. As he started down the path, he found Catarina, a small basket in her arm, walking in his direction. He slowed as she reached the ATV.

  “You didn’t come in for lunch.”

  She wore a large frayed straw hat, one that had seen better days. He tipped his chin toward it, and she touched the brim.

  “Dona Madalena lent it to me.” She patted the handle on the basket. “And she sent lunch.”

  He cut the engine and dismounted. “I guess I can spare a few minutes.” He couldn’t, but it was too late for that. Missing lunch had been part of his plan to stay away from Catarina. Not because he didn’t want to see her, but because he wanted to see her too much. It was better to keep his distance. And here she was.

  They walked off the path and sat in the shade of a young chestnut tree. Catarina settled the basket on the ground between them and pulled off the cloth, uncovering the food inside: a cold meat sandwich on half a loaf of bread, an apple, and a small wedge of Gouda cheese. Water and beer bottles leaned together to one side.

  Afonso unwrapped the sandwich. “Obrigado, Catarina.”

  She leaned back against the tree. “Dona Madalena had the idea and packed it. I just brought it.”

  “Thanks for bringing it.” He smiled at her, and her expression relaxed. He’d make sure to go in for lunch tomorrow and save Catarina a hike through the field. Eating with the Silvas was less dangerous t
o his heart than sitting under a tree with Catarina. He could get used to it easily.

  “I didn’t think I’d like the landscape in this part of the country, but there’s something about sitting under a tree, don’t you think?” Catarina asked.

  Afonso stilled, his sandwich midair. Hadn’t he just been thinking the same thing? “How so?”

  “It stops the busyness. It gives me time to slow down and think.” She glanced at him.

  He understood how she felt. “Every night on the river cruise, the ship docked at a different port, towns on the river banks. I played until after dinner, and then I had the rest of the night off. I’d find a quiet spot and watch the lights across the water. The landscape is different here, but the moments are similar.”

  Catarina nodded and let out a long sigh, her eyes landing on the scene before them—the house and the outbuildings, the row of linden trees sloping toward the road and beyond, to the village. He resumed eating his sandwich, his mind holding on to the words between them.

  She cleared her throat. “How’s the work going?”

  Was she trying to make small talk? “Well. And you?”

  Catarina scoffed lightly. “Not much to do around here. I’m dying of boredom.”

  “What do you like to do?” He phrased his question carefully, trying to find out more about her without tripping the alarms that would have her raise a wall immediately.

  “I’m not sure.” Her eyebrows wrinkled. “I’m trying to move on from what I did before.” She glanced at him. “That’s kind of vague, isn’t it?”

  “I understand. I feel the same way.” He held his hands up and turned them, exposing the calluses and scratches crisscrossing his skin. “The work here is different, more physically demanding. But I like using my hands this way. It makes me feel like I’m accomplishing something.”

  Catarina raised her fingers as if to touch his palm but dropped them to her lap instead. “Do you think you’ll ever go back to playing the piano professionally?”

  “I don’t think I will, but who knows? I’ve learned not to make long-term plans. Life can get at you real quick. But if the right chance comes along…” Afonso finished eating the cheese and slipped the apple in his pocket for later.