The Infamous Miss Rodriguez: A Ciudad Real Novella

by Lydia San Andres

  His eyes hadn’t moved from the display. Graciela burned to know what was happening behind those depths but no more words were forthcoming. “Everything looks wonderful,” she said. “Better than I ever dreamed it could. I’m certain Graciela will be a success.”

  Vicente’s head dipped into a nod. “Thanks to you,” he said softly.

  “Not entirely,” Graciela said. “You and Aunt Elba have worked so hard.”

  Vicente abandoned his careful study of the display and turned to face her. And then he said, suddenly and without warning, “I’ve booked passage on a steamer to New York.”

  She’d known the blow would come, eventually, but knowing didn’t spare her from the shock of it.

  “I—have you?” She managed to keep her voice steady, though she was certain that at least some of the dismay she felt must have trickled into her voice.

  She might have said two dozen of the things that passed through her mind at that moment, at the forefront of which were “Don’t go,” and “Stay with me,” but she stopped herself with difficulty as she reminded herself that she had no claims on Vicente Aguirre.

  “Does Aunt Elba know?” she asked instead.

  He nodded, and whatever emotion had darkened his eyes just a moment ago, was now shuttered behind his usual steady gaze. “She helped me find a job and gave me good references.”

  “That was good of her,” Graciela murmured. At no time during the past three months had Vicente or Aunt Elba talked about his departure. Graciela might have felt hurt at the thought of their making plans without her, but the prospect of losing Vicente was bleak enough that any other emotion seemed minor in comparison.

  She would find plenty of ways to fill her days after Vicente left but even so, her heart squeezed inside her chest as she thought about the pleasant hours they’d spent in Aunt Elba’s parlor as they made plans for the perfume’s release. She had never been a part of an undertaking of any kind—unless her campaign for notoriety counted as an undertaking—and so she’d never known that the rewards of labor could be so sweet.

  “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Graciela nodded slowly. “I wish you the best.” It was no more than a fraction of what she would have liked to say but, suddenly, tears were burning in her eyes. She nodded at him and turned away before he could see them, threading her way through the crowd until she came to one of the tall windows that looked out over Paseo de los Flamboyanes.

  If the factory’s steadily rising bank balance weren’t proof enough of their success, then this evening certainly was. The cream of Ciudad Real society had been invited to La Parisienne for the grand unveiling. They trickled in slowly, and soon and the room was glittering as the warm electric light reflected from their jewels and the faceted goblets into which rivers of sparkling Spanish cava was being poured.

  The main floor of the department store was too large to be turned into a garden in its entirety, but the space around the white wooden gazebo that housed the display was blooming with a profusion of fresh flowers and lush tropical greenery. Even the easels on which the likeness of Graciela were being displayed were twined with strands of leafy vines.

  They had settled on an illustration, rather than use the photograph Vicente had shown her, but it bore such a strong likeness to her that she had already heard the guests whispering about who had posed for it. The illustrations scattered around the room were large, larger even than the posters that announced a theater performance down the street, and showed her sitting with her back to the viewer, her hair crowned with a circlet of jasmine and camellias. She wasn’t nude, but the gown she’d been painted in was short-sleeved and low in the back, allowing for glimpses of skin between strands of her long curls. The name Graciela—her grandfather had named the fragrance after his wife, after whom Graciela had also been named—was emblazoned along the bottom in curlicue letters that almost, but not quite, hid the curve of her bottom. It was daring and scandalous and all Graciela could have wished for. She almost wished the Medinas were there to see it—both Alvaro and his mother would have an apoplexy on the spot.

  Graciela wished she could share the thought with Vicente, and then she nearly had an apoplexy when she realized that Alvaro was standing beside her.

  She hadn’t invited him to the event, but it was impossible to find a reason why he wouldn’t be allowed inside. Impeccable in evening wear, his dark hair glossy and thick, he looked like a storybook prince—if storybook princes glowered as hotly as steam engines.

  “Did he put you up to this?” he said, his voice low with rage. “If you were my wife, I’d have never—”

  “No,” she cut in, not caring what it was he’d been about to say, “you’d have never. Which is one of the reasons I’m not your wife.”

  His lips thinned. “I can’t imagine you’re overjoyed to be his. I had my man of business look into his life before he came to the island. He wasn’t an engineer in Santiago, Graciela, as I’m sure he’s led you to believe. He was a thief. A low, common thief who fixed boxing matches and ran out on his bets before they could be collected.”

  Her first instinct was to accuse him of lying but he looked far too smug for Graciela to believe he was saying anything but the truth. A tendril of something cold curled around her stomach, and squeezed. He must have seen something in her face that encouraged him, because he moved closer, saying, “You see, Graciela, I care so much about you that even after everything you did to me I’m still trying to protect you.”

  He reached for her, heedless of the crowd around them, but she stepped away and saw the familiar exasperation settle into his face. A rush of fury, followed by relief, swept over her. Vicente might leave and she might spend the rest of her life in abject loneliness, but at least she wouldn’t have to live with a husband who looked at her like that every day—as if she were a rambunctious puppy or a naughty five-year-old, causing chaos because she simply didn’t know better.

  “Come now, Graciela. Surely you can’t be happy with someone like that. Aren’t you worried that he’ll turn to his old ways? I hardly think it wise to give a thief—even a reformed one—the run of the house. He might make off with the silver and vanish into the night, and then where would you be?”

  Where would they be indeed? Where would she be, or Aunt Elba, without all he’d done for the business—and for them. Slowly and carefully, over the past three months, he had helped bridge the gap that had yawned wide as an abyss between them. With his help, Graciela and Aunt Elba had slowly come to know and even understand each other, and even though there had been more than a few occasions in which they’d have liked nothing more than to grasp each other by the shoulder and shake.

  Graciela looked at Alvaro.

  “As a matter of fact, I am happy with him. I trust him unconditionally. Perhaps it’s not something you can understand, but Vicente Aguirre is a kind, honorable, hard-working man and I love him.”

  *

  Even as he heard it, it occurred to Vicente that Graciela might defend him not because she was on his side, but because she was wont to get contrary when around Alvaro Medina.

  He’d been looking for Graciela but she had been surprisingly difficult to find in the crush. All of Ciudad Real society had turned up for a chance to gawk—whether at her, at himself, or at their new venture, he couldn’t say.

  They certainly seemed to have a lot to say. He heard the whispers and saw the concealed glances, though not everyone took the trouble to lower their voices and some were frankly staring. Weeks had passed since their wedding, but apparently no better scandal had come along to deflect their attention away from Graciela.

  So they stared, and they whispered, and Vicente ignored it all, until he realized that the whispers had grown in intensity and that all their attention seemed to be focused on one side of the room.

  He knew how to make his way through a crowd without drawing attention to himself. Usually when he did, he’d emerge on the other end with a wallet or a pocket wa
tch. This time, he made it through with nothing but a building anger.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” Medina was saying, with a show of patience, as if he were speaking to a child. “You couldn’t love a thief. You wouldn’t have thrown me over for one if you’d known the truth.”

  “I would do it again and again if I had to,” Graciela said. She may have sounded haughty and willful, but Vicente recognized the quaver in her voice. Being around Medina always upset her, hard as she tried not to show it. “Vicente’s past is what it is but he’s a gentleman through and through. Which is more than I can say for you.”

  Medina raised an eyebrow. “A gentleman wouldn’t make his wife play the whore just to turn over a profit.”

  “I’ll thank you not to speak that way to my wife.”

  For all he knew, Graciela was at that moment wishing she were anything but his wife. But when Vicente laid a hand on her shoulder, she stepped back, closer to him, so that her back was solidly pressed against his chest.

  Vicente could have easily filled his eyes with menace but there was no need. Medina had grown up in the gleaming ballrooms of Ciudad Real, not the slums of Santiago, and he would never be so crass as to fight in public.

  Well, that or he still remembered how it felt to have Vicente’s fist against his nose and was unwilling to encourage a second pummeling.

  “You’ll regret it,” he told Graciela, “if you haven’t already.”

  He shot a virulent glare in Vicente’s direction and turned away without further comment, disappearing into the crowd.

  Vicente and Graciela remained standing by the window in silence, until the crowd lost their interest and wandered away.

  She spoke first.

  “Why did you never tell me about your past?”

  Vicente had always been a quick thinker. He’d had to be, in order to get himself out of the situations that often befell a boy on his own. He could have come up with a dozen answers to Graciela’s questions, without a moment’s hesitation.

  But as he stood there in front of her and looked at the downward sweep of her eyelashes, he realized there was only one thing the wanted to tell her: the truth.

  Before he had a chance to say anything, Graciela held up her hand.

  “I’m sorry. This is hardly the place—or the time—to ask such questions. And I don’t suppose it matters much now anyway.” She shook her head and attempted a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We ought to be enjoying the fruit of our labors. Look at all the people who have come here tonight to look at what we’ve made.”

  “For some reason, I get the feeling they’re here to see you.” Vicente turned to see Graciela’s friend, Beatriz, looking at the two of them with an amused expression. “I’ve got to congratulate you, Graciela. It seems like you’ll achieve notoriety after all. Half the city’s talking about you and it isn’t only because of that picture—a perfect example of womanly modesty and virtue, of course,” she added with a grave look that made Graciela burst into sudden laughter.

  Vicente couldn’t help smiling himself. The agreeable expression she’d plastered on her face a moment ago was gone now, replaced with genuine merriment. He wanted to drink it in for as long as he could. He’d be gone in a few short hours and the devil only knew when he’d have the opportunity to see her again.

  He lingered by her side for the rest of the evening, shadowing her like he had when Elba’d hired him to look after her.

  He’d followed her all around the city, intercepted her every scheme, and on none of those occasions had he paused to consider how she would look in the spotlight.

  There was no question about it—she shone.

  *

  Graciela slid into the back seat of the motorcar and waited for Vicente to enter from the other side before asking Aunt Elba’s driver to take them home to the Europa. Aunt Elba herself had remained in the store, no doubt still bullying the contingent of store owners and exporters who had attended the event to increase their orders of Graciela.

  Graciela had always known she was a hard worker, but it had taken these three months to show her just how tireless Aunt Elba really was.

  La Parisienne wasn’t at all far from the Hotel Europa, but at that time of night, the avenue was crowded with motorcars and pedestrians as the theaters and restaurants emptied. The Packard proceeded at a good pace for a few meters, then slowed as it got stuck in the snarl of traffic in front of the opera house.

  It was so stifling inside despite the cranked-down windows that Graciela wished they had walked. Though it seemed to be just as hot out on the street—the palms that lined Avenida de las Palmas were as stiff as paintings and just down the street there was a girl being fanned by a swarm of solicitous admirers. To Graciela, she looked more put-out at having her hair disheveled by their overenthusiastic fanning than in danger of fainting from the heat, but the boys ignored her protests and flapped their handkerchiefs and programs in her face until she was rescued by an observant friend.

  Graciela smiled and turned to see if Vicente was looking.

  He was staring straight ahead, as if he could see the street through the back of the driver’s head. In the light that came in through the open window, she could see the strong curve of his jaw, which earlier that day had been scraped clean by one of the best barbers in Ciudad Real.

  Her amusement faded.

  “What time does the steamer leave tomorrow?” His gaze met hers and she found she had to clear her throat to keep her voice steady. “I hope we’ll have time to visit the bank in the morning. Unless you’d rather I wire the funds directly to New York.”

  “Funds?”

  “Your remuneration. For—for fulfilling your end of our arrangement.”

  “I don’t want it,” he said. “Not a cent of it. All I want—” He broke off, swearing under his breath. Then he turned towards Graciela, his gaze burning into her. “All I want is to know whether you meant it when you told Medina you loved me.”

  Her throat was tight. She had to look away to avoid shedding any incriminating tears. “It doesn’t matter if I did or not. You’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “But I’m not.” A touch on her arm made her turn back. “Your aunt made me another offer tonight and I decided to accept it—that is, if you want me to. Do you want me to stay, Graciela?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said, with a vehemence that surprised even her. Forgetting about the chauffeur in the front seat, she reached for Vicente’s hand and grasped it tight in her own. “I want you so much it hurts. I’ve wanted you ever since I met you and I’ve wanted for you to realize it for weeks—”

  He didn’t let her finish. In a second, he had closed the distance between them and was beside her, gathering her into his arms and crushing his lips against hers.

  “I want to stay,” he said, his face close enough to hers that she could feel his breath on her lips. She lifted a hand to his jaw and rubbed her fingers over the stubble there. “I want to stay in your bed and in your life until we’re gray and old and withered. I want to help you and Elba with the business. And Graciela—I want to be with you when you dance in bawdy theaters or attend poker games at gambling halls or splash naked in fountains.”

  Graciela let out a laugh. “That last one sounds very appealing.”

  “I can’t imagine a life where I’m not by your side, sharing every one of those preposterous, scandalous, wildly inappropriate moments with you.”

  She pulled away just enough to be able to look into his eyes. There he was, the man she’d caught glimpses of, the one who bought her roasted peanuts and helped her plot mischief. Reaching up to smooth a wayward strand of sandy hair, she said, teasingly because she was too choked up to be serious, “I’ve still got my list if you want to look it over. We can think of new things to add to it. Together.”

  His smile came swiftly. “Together,” he agreed.

  Then he pulled her to him again and Graciela was lost to the heady sensation of being touched by the one man she wa
nted touching her. He had removed his gloves and the inches of skin between her elbow-length gloves and the tiny beaded sleeves of her gown felt like they would burst into flame as his hands passed over them. He caressed her shoulders, her neck, and wherever his hands went, his lips followed.

  Her own hands were just as bold. Her fingers threaded through his silky sandy hair, brushing the curve of his ear, sliding under his collar to touch the back of his neck, where they twined together and held him close as his mouth returned, again and again, to her lips.

  The motorcar must have begun to move again but Graciela didn’t notice until it had coasted to a stop in front of the Hotel Europa and a liveried bellhop was opening her door. She pulled away from Vicente, ignoring the bellhop’s confused apology and adverted gaze, and smiled at her husband. Her hair must have been in mad disorder and she suspected her gown to be in a similar state but if he objected to the dishevelment, he didn’t say a word, only smiled back.

  She wanted to kiss him again, but the bellhop was still waiting. “Well, Mr. Aguirre, it looks like we’re home.”

  Vicente didn’t move from the seat. Her hand was in his, and he was caressing her ring with his thumb. “I’ve never had a home before,” he confessed in a low voice. “I never thought I would.”

  “You have one now,” she said fiercely. She squeezed his hand. “And I mean that you should always have one with me—if you want it. So, Mr. Aguirre. Will you come home with me?”

  “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he said, and brought their linked hands to his lips before following her inside.