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Antonio put away his stethoscope and closed his leather bag. “There’s been no change.”
“Should I interpret that sorry announcement as good news?” Miguel buttoned his pajama top and reached for the glass of water at his bedside.
“No, it’s merely the status quo, a holding pattern, if you will. You’re still well enough to benefit from transplant surgery, but every day you delay…”
Miguel waved off his warning. “I have my reasons to wait, but many would say I’ve lived too long as it is.”
“Your ex-wives, perhaps, but not your children. Your American daughter has only just met you.”
“Yes, and I wanted to meet her, but I should send her home before she becomes too attached. It’s the least I can do for her.”
Antonio sighed. “She ought to go with a few fond memories.”
Miguel shrugged. “Probably, but it’s kinder just to let her go.”
Maggie found the twins constructing a mammoth sand castle and jogged toward them. They were dressed in florescent lime and tangerine bikinis and baggy yellow sweatshirts. Ready to play on the beach, they wore no makeup and were twice as pretty as they’d been last night. A young man was shoveling sand while the girls provided a running commentary of directions.
“Maggie!” Perry called. “Come meet Fox. He’s dying to meet you, aren’t you, Fox?”
David Hyde-Fox was as blond as the twins but green-eyed. Edging toward six feet, he wore long navy blue trunks and a torn Oxford sweatshirt stenciled with the university’s skyline. He paused to rest his arm against his shovel handle and regarded Maggie with clear disdain. “Yet another sister. This is indeed a pleasure.” He spoke with the distinctive accent of the British upper class, as though he’d eaten breakfast with the queen that very morning.
Maggie smiled. “I’m happy to meet you too, but it’s disconcerting to suddenly have a whole new set of relatives.”
“We aren’t related,” he reminded her crossly.
Maggie saw no point in arguing a boy who’d been adopted by her father was a brother, no matter how heatedly he denied it. “What are you building?” she asked instead.
“The Bastille,” the twins announced.
“The Taj Mahal,” Fox claimed loudly.
“I admire your ambition,” Maggie responded, “but why not create your own fantasy structure rather than copy one that already exists?”
Fox sneered. “What’s the challenge in that?”
“Relying on your own imagination rather than history is the greater challenge by far,” she said. “It’s also a lot more fun.” She waited for Fox to continue arguing, but his attention had shifted down the beach. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Rafael Mondragon twenty feet away.
“Do you know him?” she whispered to the girls.
“Of course,” Perry replied. “He’s one of father’s friends, but he treats us as little kids.”
That was certainly a point in his favor. Maggie stepped aside so Rafael could join their circle. He nodded to her and called the girls and Fox by their names. His manner was relaxed, as though they often met each other on the beach.
Connie propped her hands on her hips. “What do y
ou think, Señor Mondragon; which is the greater challenge, copying something or making something new?”
He glanced at Maggie. “Should I take sides?”
“Just offer an honest opinion,” she asked.
“As if a Gypsy could,” Fox muttered under his breath.
Maggie was shocked Fox would use such a disgraceful insult. Unfortunately, they weren’t in her classroom where she had the authority to handle prejudice quickly. “That was incredibly rude,” she cautioned.
Rafael raised his hand before she could continue. “He just wants me to twist off his head and kick it into the sea.”
Perry and Connie laughed as though it were the funniest joke they had ever heard, while Fox managed only a distracted shrug. “Maybe I’ve had too much sun. I’m going to the house.”
