by Phoebe Conn
“She’s jealous of you?” Fox guessed. “Or really mad at Santos, but I don’t understand how I got into it.”
Maggie didn’t appreciate being assigned a part in an incestuous love triangle either, and was grateful no one at home would see it. “Is that Tomas’s copy?”
“No, one of his helpers gave it to me, the shaggy-haired one. I think his name is Julian. Do you suppose the mob will think I’m trying to take over their gambling rackets here in Barcelona?”
“Is there a Spanish mob?” she asked.
Rafael reached the top of the stairs in time to answer her question. “Yes, there is.”
Fox handed him the tabloid. “Have you seen this?”
Rafael shook his head. “This is a good photo of us, but Ana should have requested our permission before she sold it.”
“I’m afraid we fall into the celebrity category and are fair game,” Maggie said. “You know there’s nothing going on between Santos and me.”
“When I’m the other choice, of course.” He leaned down to kiss her, and embarrassed, Fox took the paper and fled down the back stairs.
Maggie had thought it was bad enough having to worry about whether Rafael lived or died, but to be featured in tabloids was another whole mess. “Do you find yourself often in these types of papers?”
“No, I don’t look.”
She rolled her eyes. The man was smooth, she had to give him that, but she wanted more than his flippant Gypsy ways. “That wasn’t an answer.”
He rested his hands on her shoulders and kissed her again, and again. “I missed you last night.”
She breathed in his scent and couldn’t be angry with him. “I missed you too.”
“I’ll come for you on Sunday evening. Be here for me.”
The urgency in his voice surprised her. “Yes, I’ll be here.” If her grandmother hadn’t thrown her out. They waited for Dr. Moreno to leave, and then Rafael spent twenty minutes with her father. She sat on the top step to wait and walked down the stairs with him.
“Did you mention Augustín’s journals?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t want him to believe his advice isn’t enough. He talks to me about his fights and mistakes he doesn’t want me to repeat.”
“It sounds as though he ought to write his own journal. Is there a museum that collects bullfighting memorabilia? Maybe Augustín’s journals ought to go there.”
“There is such a place, the Museo Taurino in Madrid. They have Manolete’s last traje de luces.”
Manolete, one of Spain’s greatest matadors, had been gored and died when he was only thirty. “Is it drenched in blood?”
He opened the front door, and they walked out holding hands. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Then it is. No one will ever forget Manolete, but why would anyone want to see such a gruesome relic?”
“After all this time, he is still loved. As for Augustín’s journals, I’m glad you found them. They were a real help to me, but they’re too important to share outside the Aragon family.” He kissed her one last time and drove away.
She checked her watch. With so much left of the day, she needed something to do. Thinking her wardrobe could use a bit of color, she walked along the shore until she reached the boutiques they’d driven by on the way to the freeway. Resort clothes were always expensive, but she hadn’t treated herself to anything new in a long while. She had plenty of dark tops; maybe a colorful skirt was all she needed.
The first shop she entered had prices so high she turned around and walked out, but farther down, she found a sale at a much more inviting shop. They had long skirts with embroidered hems in pale shades of blue and greens, but she was drawn to a skirt in sunset colors with godets and gores that would swing with every step. She tried it on and turned in front of the full-length mirror.
“That’s very beautiful on you,” the clerk said. “These ballerina tees go well with our full skirts. The aqua will catch the green in your eyes.”
The tees had V necklines and three-quarter sleeves, and after trying on the aqua, she agreed. The colorful clothes were perfect for the glorious weather in Barcelona, and she could dance in the outfit back home. She slipped back into her clothes and handed the clerk her credit card.
The young woman’s eyes widened as she read the name. She reached for the tabloid Maggie had seen that morning and laid it on the counter. “Isn’t this you?”
There had to be hundreds of women named Magdalena Aragon in Spain, but she was too easily recognized to escape further notice with lies. “Yes, but you mustn’t believe anything you read with our photos. There probably isn’t a true word in the whole issue.”
“Maybe not, but it’s plain you’re dancing with El Gitano while Santos Aragon looks ready to kill. Everyone can see that.”
“It’s a bad angle,” Maggie insisted. She signed the bill, pocketed her receipt and card, and left carrying her new clothes in the shop’s lime green bag. She enjoyed walking along the beach and stopped at another small shop to purchase a straw hat. The proprietor flirted with her but didn’t notice her name when he handed her the bill. Grateful for his inattention, she donned the hat at a saucy angle and walked back toward her father’s home.
She’d forgotten to ask him about the reservation for her flight home. She wondered if the return trip to the airport rated the Hispano-Suiza, or if Rafael would take her rather than Santos. She’d been on trips where she’d been eager to return home. This time, an empty condo held no appeal. The thought of remaining with a matador was terrifying, however. She didn’t care about the notoriety the tabloids created, but the constant worry would surely kill whatever feelings she had for Rafael and probably his for her. She could concentrate on him as a man when they were together; when they were apart, however, her common sense took over with a desperate wail.
At dinner that night, Carmen took one look at Maggie in her colorful new outfit and shook her head. “Don’t come to my table again dressed as a Gypsy.”
Cirilda regarded Maggie with a condescending smile as though she expected no better than outlandish garb from her niece. Fox sent her a beseeching glance, and unwilling to abandon him at their opinionated grandmother’s table, she took her seat.
“I regard them as resort clothes, and this trip is a vacation for me,” she responded with forced sweetness. “Full skirts are also perfect for dancing flamenco, which I love.”
“You’re beautiful as always,” Santos interjected, but he was unusually subdued and offered few comments to warm the frosty mood.
As they ate raspberry sherbet for dessert, Cirilda mentioned an artist who was extending his modern artwork into a clothing line, and Carmen promptly denounced it as a certain failure. “Why is that?” Maggie asked, just to be perverse.
“He is known for using huge splotches of bright colors. One of his paintings is a striking accent in an office foyer. On a woman, it will look like she’s crazy and wrapped in an old awning.”
“I suppose it would depend on the style,” Maggie added.
“He has no background in fashion design,” Carmen insisted.
Maggie was sorely tempted to comment until her grandmother finally ran out of criticism for the artist, but Santos changed the subject before she could speak.
“What should I wear on Sunday, the red traje de luces, or the green?”
“Red,” Carmen replied with her usual fervor.
“I rather like the green,” Cirilda posed.
“What’s Mondragon wearing?” Santos asked.
“Black.” Maggie replied, grateful she wouldn’t have to see him wearing it. “I won’t be going on Sunday. I’ll stay here with Father.”
Carmen laid her fork across her plate. “When Santos is featured, we all go, without fail.”
“I’m not going on Sunday,” Maggie repeated. “The mere thought of a bullfight is too much for me. I wouldn’t be able to reach my seat without fainting.”
“And yet you sleep with Gypsies.” Carmen s
hook her head in dismay and left the table. Cirilda waited a moment, perhaps contemplating an equally rude remark, but apparently thinking better of it, she followed her mother from the room.
Santos finished his wine. “We can’t let this be the end of the evening. Do you want to go to the Caves? We can slip in a side door and remain in the shadows where no one will see us.”
“Do I have to dance?” Fox asked.
“Not unless you want to,” Santos assured him. “Please say you’ll go, Maggie.”
“I’d be happy to go anywhere tonight, but are you sure we can stay out of the tabloids?”
“The tourists won’t know us, remember. Mondragon might be there.”
Maggie doubted it, and he wasn’t, but early the next morning Carmen came into her room and threw a new tabloid on her bed. “I cannot wait for you to leave this house.” She slammed the door on her way out.
Maggie sat up, shoved her hair out of her eyes and read the latest story. She and Santos were shown seated at a table at the Caves, leaning close together and laughing, which was taken as blatant evidence of their romance. Fox was a shadowy figure in the background and not mentioned. The headline read: Where’s Mondragon?
The tourists might not have recognized them, but Santos had forgotten everyone who worked at the Caves would. Someone must have used their cell phone without attracting any notice, and all the photo really proved was that she and Santos had been there. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Her father’s world was so different from her own. It was also Rafael’s world, which was even more disturbing. Unfortunately, there was no way to combat the tabloid’s absurd assumptions other than to ignore them. She tossed the paper on the floor and went back to sleep.
When she got up later, she thought her father might appreciate a more colorful guest at his breakfast table and put on her new outfit. When she opened her door, Rafael was waiting down the hall. He came toward her carrying the tabloid featuring the photo from the Caves. His dark scowl only peeved her now.
“Is it impossible for you to stay at home?” he asked in a sarcastic whisper.
Maggie grabbed his hand, drew him into her bedroom and onto the balcony where the wind would catch their words. “Why should I when my grandmother regards me as a whore? Cirilda can scarcely bring herself to speak to me. Santos is a marvelous big brother and works to keep Fox and me entertained. He looked after the twins too. We didn’t expect anyone to recognize us at the Caves, but it’s a lot more fun to listen to music and watch people dance than it is to sit here alone in my room.”
Unmoved by her scolding tone, he glanced at the photo and then her clothes. “Have you even been to bed?”
She hadn’t been up long enough for the maid to clean her room and pointed to her unmade bed. “No, I just muss up the bed to make it look as though I did. And while you’re being so damn critical, I want my white lace panties back.”
Even with his deep tan, she swore he blushed. “You’re not wearing them, are you?”
“No!” he shouted. He caught himself and looked toward the door, then lowered his voice. “I wanted them for luck, but I should have asked you for them.”
“Yes, you should have. Do lace panties bring especially good fortune?”
He laughed. “They have been so far.”
“You have a trunk full of them?”
“No, I was teasing you. I only have yours.”
Growing suspicious, she rested her hands on her hips. “Did you need an article of my clothing to cast a spell?”
“I don’t know any spells.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “The only ones I ever heard about were con games played on tourists, or anyone else foolish enough to believe Gypsies’ magic actually worked. Even if I did know a hundred spells, I wouldn’t use them on you. Some men say American girls are more difficult than bulls. Now I believe it.”
She poked him in the chest. “I’m not the one who started this.” She checked her watch. “My father’s day is planned with time for rest and visitors, and if I miss the breakfast shift, I won’t be able to see him today.”
Rafael crossed the room to open the door and caught Carmen Aragon listening on the other side. She took one look at him, and steam nearly shot from her ears. “You are not to entertain men in your room!”
“I wasn’t entertained,” Rafael assured her with a straight face, which upset her all the more.
She swept Maggie with a scalding glance. “I told you to get rid of the Gypsy clothes. I don’t want to see you in them again.” She wheeled around and walked toward her son’s room.
Maggie shot by Rafael and overtook her. “Rafael was concerned by the tabloid, as you were. We stepped into my room for privacy. My father doesn’t need to hear about this.”
Her grandmother raised her index finger. “One more problem and you’re gone.” She passed by her son’s room and went down the rear stairs to the kitchen, where she could be heard berating Tomas over the luncheon menu.
Rafael came up behind Maggie and spoke softly in her ear, “My grandmother may have sold worthless potions, but your grandmother is a…”
“I don’t think there is a word in any language that accurately describes her.” She turned to find him smiling as though he hadn’t just compared her to a bull. At least he didn’t sulk. She couldn’t stand that. “Do you want to come into see my father now? I hate to have you wait out here while I visit him.”
He held up the tabloid. “I’ll wait and catch up on my reading.”
Her father greeted her with an amused smile. “You look beautiful in more colorful clothes. You should wear bright colors more often.”
“Thank you.” She sat with him at the round table, took a small plate and a blueberry muffin. “I meant to ask you about my airline reservation. Is my flight home all arranged?”
“No, I left the day and time open so you could make your own arrangements on Monday.” He sat back and regarded her with a slow smile. “My mother is upset you’ve refused to attend Sunday’s corrida. I haven’t heard Santos complain, but I’m sure he’s disappointed. He’s very fond of you.”
“I’m fond of him too, but a bullfight is a bloody spectacle I’d rather not see. Does Santos know his great-grandfather died in the ring?”
“Yes, it’s no secret. Juan Diego’s death was seen as a tragic loss by the whole nation. Many women wore black for months in his honor. A few men too, I imagine.”
Reminded of her conservative classroom wardrobe, she was startled to realize she already owned a widow’s dark clothes. She blotted her lips on her napkin. “You’ve grown up with certain traditions, while I haven’t.” Thank God, she thought. “Santos will understand why I’m staying here on Sunday.”
“Will Rafael?”
“Yes.” At least she hoped he would. She’d made her feelings clear, and he hadn’t argued with her, yet.
“You should come here and be with me. I won’t insist you watch, but I’d enjoy your company.”
“If I may sit right here at the table and look out at the sea.”
“Of course, whatever pleases you.”
She kissed his cheek before she left him and nearly collided with his physician when she opened the door. “I’m sorry.”
“There is no harm, Miss Aragon,” he responded with his usual hurried smile and left her standing with Rafael in the hall.
Rafael had leaned against the wall to read and straightened up. “How is your father?”
“As fine as he can be. He complimented me on my colorful new clothes, and his opinion trumps my grandmother’s. Besides, I don’t think I look like a Gypsy.” She turned to make her skirt swirl around her feet.
“Would that be so bad?”
“No, not at all. Do people stop you on the street and comment that you resemble a Gypsy?”
He shook his head. “No, people move past me as fast as they can.”
“After Sunday, people may trail you, begging for your autograph,” she posed.
“I’ll look
forward to it. Whose name should I write?”
She laughed with him. “Your own. Maybe you ought to start signing them now.”
“I could use Post-it notes and peel them off as fans surround me.”
“Yes, what a good idea.”
“Rather impersonal, though.” He reached out to curl his arm around her neck and drew her into a lingering kiss. “I’ve laughed more with you in a few days than I’ve laughed in years.”
His compliment twisted her heart. She didn’t need the certain sorrow of loving him, but this was the first time she’d considered how much he might need her. Maybe that was love, when his feelings mattered as much as her own. It was a troubling thought. They were running out of time, which was either a blessing or a curse.
Chapter Fourteen
That afternoon, Santos went home to his apartment. It was in a modern new building with air conditioning, but he preferred to open the windows and allow fresh air to circulate through the rooms. The view of the Mediterranean Sea from the broad expanse of plate glass in the living room showed a perfect day for sailing. He thrust his hands in his hip pockets and wished his father had kept the last of his sailboats. Maybe next week he would rent one to take Fox and Magdalena, if she were still here, sailing.
He’d gone running that morning and on the way home stopped at his gym to lift weights, but the day was still too long. He liked to cook for himself, but he didn’t feel like eating. He was naturally lean, and didn’t worry his traje de luces wouldn’t fit on Sunday, but he never ate much for a couple of days before a fight. It made him lighter on his feet and far more difficult for the bull to gore.
On the way home, he’d seen a poster for Sunday’s fight with a banner adding El Gitano’s name. It was an example of his father’s excellent grasp of details. Nothing escaped his notice, nor had it escaped Augustín’s. Santos had grown up on the ranch, but his father had never mentioned his grandfather’s journals. Now he thought he ought to begin writing his own. He sat on the couch with his laptop propped on a bent knee and started as far back as he could remember, when he’d chased his father around the ranch yard waving a baby blanket. He’d usually ended up being carried on his father’s shoulders, but that was the start of his career as a matador, and he’d never wanted to be anything else.