“The Desoto boy bought the trinket,” Arturo said dismissively. “And he dragged me there because there was a girl in that dirty hamlet that he fancied and wanted to talk to, but he didn’t wish to go alone. He was probably too afraid her father would turn him into a pig. Such silliness.”
“That may be true, and I don’t like talk of ghosts and spells and devils, but there is no reason to antagonize a guest. The countryside is different from the city. We must tolerate a certain level of quaintness. Now, how about a little music? Alba, play a tune. Tadeo, you can sing that song by Melesio Morales. You know the one I mean.”
“I’m a terrible singer, Mother,” Tadeo said, but he sprang to his feet and laughed. “Valentín, come over here, if I’m to sing, you must sing with me.”
“If you’re terrible, I’m worse.”
Alba played “Keep That Flower,” and the boys were indeed as awful as awful could be, but they made her laugh. They sang several more tunes; Tadeo’s ill humor had completely dissipated. He was, once again, the affable, teasing brother who grabbed Alba by the hand and twirled her around in an impromptu dance while Valentín clapped his hands. Then Valentín danced a few steps with her, but he was rather bad at it, and Tadeo made jokes about his inability to shuffle his feet in the correct direction. The young children joined in the merriment, lured downstairs again by the music and the noise, and Fernanda and Dolores poked their heads into the room. They smiled and clapped, too.
Arturo watched all this from his chair, subdued, though at one point he stood up and offered Alba his hand for a waltz. They swayed together and she gazed up at him, naked delight on her face, lips half open, amazed at how well he moved. But then he probably danced often, darting from party to party in the city.
Once their dance concluded, Valentín rushed back toward Alba,clasped her hand, and spun her around, making her laugh as her skirts flared. Valentín was not used to dances, his feet seemed baffled by the music, but she was charmed by his clumsiness.
Eventually, Valentín grabbed his hat and said he must head home. Tadeo promised he’d hurry over early in the morning to look at his horse.
Alba walked their visitor out. They lingered by the front door for a while as the sun was setting.
“It’s nice to see you and Tadeo in better spirits,” Valentín said. “I know it’s been a difficult time for your whole family.”
“Yes. Thank you again for thepastes,and for your company.”
“I’ll tell my mother you liked them. I’m wondering, Alba, if it’s not too much of an imposition, might I stop by again next week?” he asked as he respectfully pressed his hat against his chest and looked at her.
“Tadeo will be happy to see you again.”
“Well, I’m wondering ifyouwould be happy to see me.”
“That’s very bold of you to say, Valentín. I ought to slap you.”
“I hope not too hard. Then I’ll see you next week?” he asked hopefully.
Alba felt like giggling but managed to compose herself, nodding instead. By the time she drifted back inside, the sitting room was half in shadow, lit by a couple of candelabras, and the one person left there was her uncle. He had a book between his hands but made no effort at reading it.
“Your beau has finally ridden away?” he asked.
“Valentín is not my beau,” she said, her voice low. Yet the way her mother had smiled at him and Alba’s smothered giggle and even Tadeo’s laughter contradicted her words.
“Really? They think he’s courting you.”
She didn’t want to dwell on it; the Molina girls had essentially said the same to Alba, but she refused to acknowledge it. Valentín was fun, that was all. She didn’t want to make any more of him than that. Not yet.
“We’re in mourning,” she replied, though it was a flimsy response.
Her uncle pressed on, unconvinced. “Your brother was saying how good he is with children and your mother replied it was time he married. They didn’t mention your name, but it was obvious, implicit. I imagine Tadeo would love it if Valentín Pimentel wedded you. He’d have another hand to help around the farm and a good friend to chat with.”
Alba brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Tadeo has never said anything of the sort to me.”
“He’s thinking it.”
“He may think it, but it doesn’t mean he’d make my match without asking.”
Arturo turned his head in her direction and looked at her sharply. “He’s the man of the house. He’ll say what bed you should slip into.”
Her hands fluttered to her face and she blushed, both ashamed and startled by the crudeness of his remark. “You have no business discussing this matter,” she said. “None!”
“Forgive me,” he said coolly, and set his book down. “I thought you wanted me to read to you tonight, but I suppose it’s not the best time for poetry.”
“Certainly not.”
