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“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.
He’d just gotten up to turn on the lights when Ana came to his door. She had a key but always knocked if she knew he’d be home. In a yellow silk blouse, tan leather pants and gold platform sandals, she looked as though she’d just stepped off a magazine cover, but her incredible looks no longer captivated him. “What a surprise. Were you hoping I’d pose without my shirt?” he asked.
“May I come in, please?” She opened her tooled leather bag to display the neatly organized contents. “I haven’t got a camera. I just wanted to see you.”
Unimpressed, he leaned against the doorjamb and barred her way with his arm. “How much did you get for the photo of Magdalena and Mondragon dancing?”
“That’s none of your business, but they’re a striking couple, and the publicity will fill the bullring. All publicity is good.”
“Not all of it. If I took a photo of you without your makeup carrying out a bag of trash, you wouldn’t say that.”
“No, which is why I never leave home looking less than my best. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
He didn’t need to think it over. “No. I’m done, Ana. You have your pass for Sunday, and I don’t care who you photograph there. Now I’d like my key.” He held out his hand and waited for her to take it off her keyring.
She slapped it into his hand. “It’s true, then, isn’t it? You are in love with your sister.”
He had no idea how to respond when she’d twist anything he said and promptly sell it. He stepped back and closed the door before she could do more than sputter. She was a beautiful woman, but it was a lovely façade, and she was hollow inside. She was more his father’s type than his, and he’d been a fool to pursue her. Too restless now to write, he closed his laptop and got ready to go back to the beach house. Maggie would be there, and he did love her; she’d become his favorite sister, nothing more.
Magdalena wore another new outfit that night, a long sea-green linen skirt with an intricate swirling appliqué circling the hem. Her white cotton knit top could be worn with the neck high or pulled off her shoulders. She chose the chaste version tonight, with a low brown leather belt with a shiny brass buckle. As she’d expected, her grandmother raised her brows but didn’t comment.
They were halfway through dinner when Santos spoke. “We read grandfather’s bullfighting journals when we were at the ranch. Father mentioned a memoir. Do you know what’s become of it?”
Carmen sent Cirilda a frantic glance, then choked and covered her mouth with her napkin. When she at last recovered, she shook her head. “He spoke of a memoir as a man might speak of one day owning a race horse. It was never written. Now, you must excuse me.”
Santos waited until Carmen had climbed the stairs, then asked his aunt, “Is that true?”
“Everything she says is true, isn’t it?”
“No,” Magdalena interjected. “I’m not a whore.”
“Oh well,” Cirilda allowed, “that’s merely an opinion. Where are you going tonight? I might want to go along.”
Fox dropped his fork, but Santos smiled as though she’d be welcome. “I know someplace quiet. You’d probably regard the people as vulgar, but the music is good.”
Cirilda finished her wine. “For some reason, vulgar sounds good tonight.”
The café was long and narrow, with small tables on one wall and the other side left open as an aisle for the waiters. The bar stretched along the end of the occupied wall, and the stage crossed the back of the room. A trio of young men played a guitar, flute and violin. Their music was soft and sweet, often melancholy. The conversations at the tables were conducted in low whispers.
Santos and Fox sat opposite Maggie, and Cirilda was on her left. Feeling slightly claustrophobic, Maggie looked for the exits and was relieved to find one at the rear and another exit door close by on the opposite wall. When Santos noted the direction of her glance, she smiled. “It’s always a good idea to spot the exits. There are two plus the front door. No one ever expects a fire, but in a small café, they do happen.”
“After a few drinks, everyone grows careless,” Cirilda remarked. She asked for a martini. Maggie took a glass of white wine. Santos requested his favorite beer and insisted Fox order a soda.
“I like their music,” Maggie said. “You must know a great deal about Barcelona’s night life, Santos.”
He nodded. “Unfortunately, many places have forbidden my return.” He waved to an acquaintance near the stage, then leaned back against the wall.
Cirilda glanced around the café as if searching for someone. She bit her lip, finished her martini and summoned the waiter to request another.
