“Amanda Platas, this is my brother Vincenzo.”
Nicolas’s brother kissed her hand and looked her in the eye. He was better looking than most men in San Isidro, but he paled in comparison to his older brother. He excused himself, claiming he had an appointment, but it didn’t escape Amanda’s attention that he winked at Nicolas before he left.
“Monsieur Nicolas,” Bernardo interrupted. “Mademoiselle’s bracelet.”
Why was the man speaking French? He placed the emerald bracelet on the table.
Amanda picked it up, but Nicolas quickly took it from her. “Allow me.”
The soft touch of his fingers on her wrist as he clasped the lock was enough to send chills down her spine. He was not much of a talker, this Nicolas, but she didn’t need another Joaquin, who wouldn’t be quiet for more than a minute. Words were unnecessary between them. The curve of his jaw, his moustache—trimmed just right—his exquisite suit, and the bergamot scent of his expensive cologne were enough for her. Add to the mixture the touch of his fingers rubbing the inside of her wrist and she was in heaven.
Amanda sat back in Nicolas’s 1934 Fiat Balilla with her eyes closed, enjoying his proximity and the now familiar scent of his imported cologne. She’d made a habit of sneaking out of her house every night and escaping to Il Napolitano. She’d meet Nicolas at midnight, after the last client had left, and keep him company while he closed the business. She loved watching him impart orders to his subordinates, smoke incessantly while he counted stacks of money, or argue with his brother in Italian. Amanda had become one of them. The waiters greeted her as she walked in, the black leather sofa in his office became hers, and Bernardo brought her a slice of tiramisu or a scoop of gelato every night. She usually observed Nicolas in silence—so as not to disturb him—while listening to the sounds of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons on his phonograph. Nicolas had taught her so much already about music, wine, and the other fine things in life. How much more would she learn from him still?
Nicolas was always a gentleman. The anger he displayed against his brother or employees was never aimed toward her. Every time he directed his attention to her, his features softened and his voice turned kind. He was different from any other man she’d known. For one, he was a man, not a boy. And he never tried to touch her inappropriately or asked her to kiss his earlobes, the way other boys had done. Of course, real men were not obsessed with breasts and hormones, the way Amanda’s peers were. Men had more important things on their minds, like managing the family business or raising a younger brother after their parents’ passing. Yes, Nicolas had every reason to be different, and she loved him for it.
She often wondered if his parents’ untimely death was the reason for the sadness she found in his eyes, in his demeanor, and she vowed to erase that melancholy off of him, to make him happy. Together, they would travel the world, go to the theater, the opera, museums, his homeland, and after they’d had enough fun and adventure, she would give him children, the family he’d lost.
When Nicolas stopped the Fiat—the only Italian car in San Isidro—Amanda didn’t open her eyes, hoping to prolong those last moments in his presence.
“Are you sleeping, bella?” he asked.
She opened her eyes, recognizing the fabric shop that belonged to Joaquin’s father at the corner of the street, one block away from her house. This was the spot where Nicolas parked every night so his car wouldn’t call attention to them, so Papá Pancho wouldn’t hear the engine outside his house. He held her hand in his, the way he did every night, and kissed it softly.
“Thanks for the lovely company,” he said, staring into her eyes.
Some nights, like tonight, she wished he would respect her less, compliment her more, or even steal a kiss from her. She longed to feel his lips against hers, his hands on her waist. But his kiss didn’t come, and despite what everyone in town thought of her, she would never make the first move. Not when she was used to having men beg for her love.
Before he could step out of the car to open the door for her, a knock on the passenger’s window disturbed their farewell. The blood drained from Amanda’s face as she discerned her father’s disapproving eyes in the darkness. A deep frown crossed his forehead. How had he found her? Did Ana say something? No, it wasn’t possible. Ana no longer lived in the house.
He opened the door.
“Out!” he yelled.
Amanda stepped out of the Fiat, while her father took her seat inside the car.
“Wait for me at the house,” he ordered.
Papá Pancho shut the door and pointed forward.
“Drive!” she heard him say. Maldita sea! Papá Pancho was treating her like a child in front of Nicolas. He was going to ruin everything! She watched the Fiat drive away, into the blackness of the street, and she forced herself back home.
In the stillness of her room, the minutes went by slowly. Her eyes remained fixated on her bedside clock as its hands marked one hour since the car drove away. Where was her father? Had he killed Nicolas and was now entangled in the tiresome task of disposing of the body? No, that was impossible. Nicolas was twice her father’s size, and her father didn’t have a violent cell in his body.
A thump downstairs startled her. Her father was home. She brought the covers to her chin, hoping to find protection in the blanket her mother had knitted for her as a child, to become invisible to her father’s wrath. She waited in terror for her bedroom door to open wide, for Papá Pancho to march inside and pull the covers off, slap her face, spit on her, call her a bad daughter, an easy woman. But nothing happened. The minutes passed in a nerve-racking silence until Amanda could barely hold her eyelids open.
In the morning, she woke up to the dark figure of her father at the foot of her bed. He stood there in his chocolate night-robe, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His cheeks appeared thinner than the previous day and bags underlined his eyes.
She sat up. “Papá, let me explain.”
But he was in no mood for explanations. “You will marry that man as soon as your wedding gown is completed.”
After pronouncing his last word, he left the room. Amanda pulled the covers off her legs, uncertain of whether she’d heard her father correctly, or if she was still dreaming. She stepped out of bed; the floor cold under her feet. Yes, she was awake, and her father had been in her room, and he had somehow persuaded Nicolas to marry her. Or had Nicolas been the one who came up with the idea? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was going to be Mrs. Nicolas Fornasieri.
She covered her mouth with her hands for she had an irrepressible urge to yell, to laugh, to tell the world how happy she was. Things wouldn’t have been so perfect if she’d planned them. She would marry the man of her dreams and she would live happily ever after with him.
Amanda pulled the heavy wooden door open, hoping her stylish felt cloche wouldn’t offend Father Ramón, who favored a traditional veil for the women who walked into his church. She pressed her purse against her new wrap coat, another one of her husband’s expensive gifts, and entered the church. The scent of incense was strong, as usual. She’d always wondered about that. Was incense supposed to purge all sins? Or just mask them?
She walked along the nave, the same path she’d followed six months ago, on her wedding day, back when she still believed her life with Nicolas would be a fairy tale.
She quickened her stride; she needed to catch Padre Ramón before he left for his siesta, she needed to talk to him before she changed her mind. And God only knew how many times she’d changed her mind. She slowed down as her doubts kicked in once again. Would she have the courage to tell him the truth? Her secret was too embarrassing, too painful to utter aloud; not even Ofelia or Ana knew. It was times like this when she wished she had Joaquin to talk to. But he hadn’t spoken to her since the day she announced her engagement to Nicolas. She’d seen him around, always with a different girl by his side and a contemptuous smirk on his face. If only he knew the truth about her marriage, he wou
ld laugh at her; he would say “See? I told you so,” or “You should have married me instead.”
She found Father Ramón locking the sacristy door.
“Amanda Platas, long time no see. What brings you here at this time?” Father Ramón eyed his wristwatch, wrinkling his large nose. By now, the entire town knew his afternoon siesta was sacred.
“Padre, I need to speak to you. It’s urgent.”
He sighed, running his palm over the scarce long hairs covering his bald head. “I was on my way out.” He examined her face for a moment. “But I guess I can spare a few minutes if it relieves your soul.”
She followed his black cassock to the confessional and knelt down, her eyes away from his large silhouette at the other side of the metal screen that separated them. This was infinitely better than having to look him in the eye. She crossed herself and began her confession in a monotonous tone, prolonging her petty sins, her lack of spirituality, her insolence with her parents, anything, before saying what was really on her mind. She paused for a moment.
“Is that it?” Father Ramón yawned.
“No.”
“Continue, then.”
“I can’t, Padre.”
He turned to her for the first time. “Why? What’s wrong?”
She bit her lower lip. “It’s … my husband.”
“Your husband?”
“I’m not happy with him.”
“Does he not respect you?”
“He does, Padre.”
“Is he violent?”
“No.”
“Is he not a good provider?”
“The best one.”
“I thought so, after that wedding.”
Father Ramón was right. Her wedding had been the most ostentatious one the town had ever seen. And Nicolas had paid for everything.
“Then?”
She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
“Amanda?”
“Padre, the thing is, Nicolas and I, well, we’ve never been intimate.”
For once, Father Ramón was out of words.
“He’s the most benevolent man and a splendid husband, but when it comes to, you know … he won’t. For a while I thought I wasn’t attractive enough, or that he respected me too much, but lately, I’ve been thinking about something I heard once about men who …” She played with her wedding band. “Who aren’t attracted to women.”
For a moment she thought Father Ramón might have fallen asleep. She glanced at him. His shadow grew larger on the grille—he was definitely awake.
“What should I do, Padre?”
“Well, hija.” He looked straight ahead. “We all have our crosses to bear. The Lord has sent you your own cross, and there’s nothing you can do about it. As you know, marriage is sacred.” He used his homily tone now. “You must be strong and patient. You must wait until your husband is ready.”
“You think he will be?”
“Only time will tell. But I’ve heard of cases where it’s happened.”
His words energized her. She would help Nicolas; she would be patient and sweet, the best wife he could ask for. She just hadn’t made her best effort yet. But that would change. She would go to the seamstress right away and have her make her a new chiffon nightgown; make herself irresistible. There was hope after all.
Chapter 12
By the time Malena returned to the jewelry store from her outing with Amanda, most of the boxes had been removed from the storage room. Free of his tie and with his shirt sleeves rolled up, Javier swept the dusty floor. The corner of the room, where she had left the trash bag with the accounting books, was now empty.
“What did you do with the trash?” she asked.
“I threw it out.”
Her head started to itch. “But I told you I would throw it out!”
“That’s okay, I don’t mind. You helped me enough.”
She had to get hold of those notebooks before they took the trash out of the house! But where did they keep the garbage bin?
“Where were you?” Javier asked.
“Amanda took me to her restaurant.”
She’d seen a back door in the kitchen leading to a patio. Maybe that was where they kept the trash.
“How was it?”
“I’ll be right back.”
She scampered in a mad search for the garbage bin, passing halls and doorways until she reached the empty kitchen, where the pots on the stove indicated that Trinidad was nearby. She went through the back door to a small patio surrounded by a brick wall covered in vines. Three cotton sheets hung from a clothesline in the center of the patio, and a concrete laundry sink sat by the house wall. Behind the kitchen door were two large metal garbage bins.
Holding her breath, Malena dug inside the first trash can. She gagged as her fingers felt all kinds of disgusting textures and shapes: mushy avocados, old corn husks, empty sardine cans. She was definitely going to the shower after this. Among moist banana peels and leftover bones, she found a handkerchief. She took it out. Could it be the handkerchief? The cause of Rafael’s accusations? She examined it; nothing extraordinary about it: white cotton and the letter “E” embroidered with golden thread. She made a mental note of all the names in the house; there were no E’s, and her father’s initial was an “H,” so it couldn’t be his. She buried it in her skirt pocket anyway and continued with her search. The black bag was stuck underneath broken eggshells and glass bottles. Good thing the bag had protected the accounting books from the filth surrounding them.
“Can I help you with something?” Trinidad said behind her.
Malena sucked in her breath, inhaling the stench from the trash.
“You scared me!”
“I’m sorry, Niña, did you lose something?”
“Javier accidentally threw some important papers here.”
“If you want, I can look for you.”
“No. Thank you.” Malena lifted the nasty bag. “I already found it. I’d better take it back to him.” She went into the kitchen, praying the maid would keep quiet.
The dining room was empty, but there were voices coming from the foyer. She couldn’t go to her room! Her only option was the courtyard. She drew the curtains in the dining room so nobody could see her outside, and slipped through the glass door.
Kneeling by a lemon tree, she dug a hole in the moist ground with both hands until her fingers were covered in dirt and a nail had broken. She could smell the trash in her clothes. After making a knot, she placed the bag inside the hole, covering it carefully with the soil to make sure the area looked intact. At night, when everyone slept, she would come back and examine the notebooks. There was something there, she was certain, and she would find out what it was, starting with who had written those books and why the handwriting looked so much like her father’s.
Malena could barely recognize herself in Amanda’s red sheath.
“I think this one fits you well,” Amanda said.
Malena had never worn a red dress before; especially not one with a pencil skirt that so tightly outlined the contour of her waist. She ran her hands by her hips, self-consciously, and felt the fine silk under her palms.
“It’s very pretty,” she said, watching her own reflection in the mirror.
“I’ll do your makeup tomorrow,” Amanda said. “None of that black eyeliner.”
Malena agreed, but if it was up to her, she wouldn’t even show her face tomorrow at Claudia’s engagement dinner. Not when her fiancé—Sebastian?—could say something about that indecent hotel where he’d seen her with Javier.
“And that necklace?” Amanda asked her.
Malena grasped the silver sun pendant hanging from her neck. This necklace was the only valuable piece of jewelry her grandmother Eva had given her, and Malena always wore it under her shirts. Coming from Guayaquil, she knew better than to flaunt her jewels, lest someone might try to rob her.
She covered the pendant with her hand, as if anybody who would see her grandmother’s neckl
ace would know her true identity. What a fool she was.
“It was a gift from my grandmother.” Was Lili’s grandmother even alive?
“Let me see.” Amanda touched it. “It’s so familiar. Did María Teresa wear it before you?”
The door opened and Claudia walked in. She stopped short when she saw them.
“What do you think?” Amanda asked her. “Doesn’t Lili look beautiful? She’s going to wear it to your Pedida de Mano tomorrow.”
Claudia sat on her bed, staring at Malena.
“It’s settled, then.” Amanda picked up a pile of dresses she’d brought for Malena to try on and walked out of the room.
After Malena closed the door, Claudia spoke.
“You’re really going to wear that dress?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Well, I don’t think it would be appropriate.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one it’s red, and someone our age shouldn’t wear red. And second, it’s out of style.”
“But your aunt—”
“I can imagine what Tía Amanda said, but she’s older than us. She doesn’t know what young women wear nowadays.”
Claudia had a point. Amanda had criticized her makeup and false eyelashes when Audrey Hepburn and Angélica María wore them all the time.
Claudia opened her armoire and removed an ivory empire waist dress with a bell skirt. “This would probably suit you better.”
She extended it toward Malena. “Go ahead, I won’t look.” Claudia covered her eyes with her hand as though she were a child playing hide-and-go-seek.
Malena slipped off Amanda’s dress and tried on Claudia’s. It felt tight around the bust line and pushed up her cleavage.
Claudia peeked. “See? This looks much better.” She circled Malena, examining her front and back with a clinical eye and brushing the creases from the bottom of the skirt. “And I think you should keep your eyelashes on, too.”
Malena examined her reflection. It was truly a beautiful gown, fancier than Amanda’s had been. In her twenty years of life, Malena had never owned anything this expensive. It was a hard choice—both dresses were stunning—but perhaps she should go with the one that was mostly likely to get her unnoticed during the party.
The Sisters of Alameda Street Page 11