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“Have you been here?” Maggie asked.
“Years ago, and it was a different crowd. I don’t know these people.”
“Where do you usually go?”
Cirilda shrugged. “Private parties, but they’ve become a bore.”
“It’s good to try new things,” Maggie encouraged.
“Like a visit to Spain?” Cirilda asked.
Fox and Santos had turned their chairs toward the stage. She knew what Santos thought of Cirilda, but this might be her only chance to get to know her aunt. “Yes, this is a whole new world, although so much is familiar and reminds me of America’s southwest.”
“I’ve traveled throughout Europe, but America doesn’t interest me.”
Maggie wondered what did. “I always enjoy travel, regardless of where I go.”
Cirilda focused on her martini. “Travel may be good for you, but I don’t dare leave Miguel now.”
“I understand.” She waited for her aunt to say more, but Cirilda hummed along with the music rather than confide anything new, and Maggie gave up the effort to become better acquainted.
This was an intimate café, not one where people got up to dance, but Maggie missed Rafael. He would have moved his chair closer to hers and whispered in her ear. He would have made the evening fun rather than merely passed the time. She knew very little about him, and this would be a nice place to come and talk. She didn’t regard the others present as vulgar and wondered if Santos hadn’t simply meant to discourage their aunt from coming. They had been there perhaps an hour when Santos sat up and yawned. “I need to go.”
Maggie was also ready to leave. “Thank you for bringing us here.” She stood and stepped aside to give Cirilda room to leave her chair and led the way, but when her aunt began to weave slightly, Santos brushed by her to take her arm. “This way, Auntie.” He escorted her safely outside and eased her into the backseat of his SUV. Maggie gestured for Fox to take the front passenger seat and moved into the backseat with Cirilda.
They were almost home when Cirilda whispered, “I have it.”
“Have what?” Maggie asked.
“My father’s memoir. Mother told me to get rid of it, but I didn’t.”
Santos glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Where is it?” he asked.
“In a safety deposit box at my bank.”
“Did you read it?” Maggie inquired.
“No. It must be filled with things I’d rather not know. I’ll let you read it, but my mother must never know it still exists.”
“She won’t hear it from me,” Santos promised.
“I’m very good at keeping secrets,” Maggie added.
“Don’t look at me,” Fox added. “I don’t care what’s in it.”
“Take me to the bank on Monday, Santos, and we’ll get it.”
“It’s a date.”
They were both assuming Santos would be alive and capable of driving a car next week, and Maggie didn’t want to worry that he wouldn’t be. Augustín’s memoir might be as practical a manual as his bullfighting journals, but she hoped they would reveal something about the man’s very private life. She knew her mother’s parents and Peter’s, and they were dear people, but her father’s side of the family consisted of little more than faded photographs. Augustín was a mystery, and his memoir would provide a way to get to know him. It might even make her feel
as though she belonged.
She saw Rafael’s car parked in front of the house the moment her brother did. “Better watch out,” he called. “They’re might be paparazzi hiding in the bushes.”
“I’ll take my chances.” She hadn’t expected to see Rafael tonight. A delicious thrill ran through her. As soon as he’d stopped the car, she got out and circled the house, looking for her man. He got up from a patio chair and came toward her. Wearing black, he might have faded into the night had it not been for his wicked grin. She liked so much more than his looks, but just seeing him took her breath away.
“Come home with me. I want my sheets to smell of you.”
