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Maggie washed and dried their ice cream bowls and put them away. She felt marginally better and went back into the living room to retackle Augustín’s papers. More to keep her mind off Rafael and Santos than for concern for her grandfather, she removed all the Aragon-crested sheets. The dates were written in tiny numbers at the bottom she’d missed earlier, and she slid the pages into order now.
I saw Simone again today, the first sheet began. Maggie moved to the couch, slipped off her shoes and curled up. Augustín had described Simone in as loving detail as he’d shown in his drawing. She’d been a French girl with blonde curls and bright blue eyes. They’d met at a party given by a French friend of the Aragon family. Augustín had called on her the next afternoon, but her father had sternly warned him that his visits were unwelcome.
Maggie laid that sheet aside to read the next few. The tone changed as Augustín recalled their love story in letters he’d never mailed to Simone. He’d written about the times they’d been able to slip away together without her parents learning she hadn’t visited a museum alone. They hadn’t suspected her sudden interest in art was due to a young man they’d forbidden her to see. Then, without warning, Simone’s family had returned to France.
He hadn’t followed her and had regretted the decision for what appeared to be the rest of his life. The letters became melancholy poems. Some were separated by several years, others by only a few months, but there was no mention of Carmen or his children. He’d written only sad reminiscences of what some might dismiss as a youthful flirtation, but clearly Augustín considered Simone the great love of his life.
She wondered if Carmen had known he was in love with another woman when they married. Her father had told her his mother was from a fine family, and she’d surely have been a very innocent bride. Maybe while they courted, Augustín had truly believed he could love her, but instead he’d nourished his memories of Simone. He’d never written the French girl’s last name, but Maggie would have loved to have found out what had happened to her. She hoped Simone had gotten over Augustín and been happily wed to a man her father had approved enthusiastically.
Too sad herself to dwell on Augustín and Carmen’s marriage, she put the letters and poems into their own
pocket in the file and got up to gather the yellow sheets. A quick review of them revealed plans for the ranch and thoughts on raising profits. There were party guest lists, menus with comments on the most popular foods. The notebooks devoted to bullfighting had documented each fight in minute detail, the letters to Simone had overflowed with emotion, and the faded yellow sheets described life on the ranch with a cool detachment. Maybe all of Augustín’s thoughts of his family were in the photo albums rather than words. She hoped Carmen had been loved as a bride and new mother, but there was no evidence of her husband’s devotion here. Maggie replaced everything in the folder and secured it with the elastic band. Cirilda had been right; there were things in it she didn’t need to know.
She found the books dedicated to her father’s career in the bookcase. Miguel was handsome in all the photographs, in the bullring or in casual poses in street clothes. One had been written at the same time as the documentary she’d seen. He was shown with Vida and their two young children. She scanned the book looking for her own name or Santos’s, but they weren’t mentioned.
She searched through the others, and while she found two that included the fact Miguel had attended the University of Arizona, that he’d been married while a student wasn’t disclosed. She wondered if anyone outside his family had known he’d wed an American girl and fathered a daughter. Had he ever told anyone? Was it simply easier not to mention Santos and her than answer questions about their mothers?
Anita Lujan had known about her, but the ranch was home to the Aragon family, and perhaps secrecy wasn’t necessary there. Except, of course, for the secrets Augustín kept from Carmen. None of the books Santos owned described Miguel’s private life in any detail. They were only photo albums of a dashing matador with an occasional nod to his current family. Santos was now recognized as his son, but her brother might have been the one to brag about their connection.
While she’d just met her father, it bothered her so few people had known she existed. Now that she’d made the tabloids, a reporter might search for the details of her background and link Miguel to the brief marriage that had produced her. She’d never felt as though her father loved her, and Santos had a whole bookshelf to prove it. It didn’t matter what anyone discovered about her now. Her father was gone, and it was too late.
It was already dark outside when Rafael and Santos returned. Santos hobbled in on crutches. “I hope you’re satisfied,” he told her. “That was one of the worst ordeals of my life.”
Maggie slid the last of the books she’d read into the bookcase. “In what way?”
Santos fell onto the couch. He dropped his crutches to the floor. “Getting there with Rafael for a start.”
Fox joined them and picked up the crutches to try them, but he wasn’t tall enough to use a set intended for Santos. He leaned them against the wall. “Did they give you any good painkillers?”
“Yes, and no, you can’t share them.”
“I hope that was meant as a joke, but it wasn’t funny,” Maggie added.
Fox stepped back. “Sorry. The twins should be back. I’ll call a cab if you don’t want to drive me home.”
“I don’t think we should leave Santos all alone,” Maggie stressed.
Santos regarded Rafael with a wicked grin. “She’s worried about me. Isn’t that sweet?”
Maggie watched the dark glances passing between the men and quickly made her choice. “If you don’t want to call Ana, why don’t you call one of the other women you know for company? Do you mind taking Fox home, Rafael? I’d like to see the twins too.”
Rafael reached for her hand. “I’ll be happy to take you anywhere you’d like to go.”
She grabbed her purse, and Fox followed them out the door. “What happened at the hospital?” she asked.
“He didn’t need me to hold his hand, so I don’t know. They probably cleaned out the wound, stapled it closed and gave him antibiotics. You were right to insist that he go.”
“His father died,” Fox reminded him. “No wonder it didn’t seem important.”
“Yes, until the pain became severe,” Rafael replied. “Don’t ever make that mistake.”
“Right. I’m staying out of bullrings.”
Maggie was relieved he hadn’t worshipped Miguel as Santos and Rafael had and been eager to follow in his footsteps. All the lights were on in the beach house, and there were several cars parked in the driveway. Rafael parked out front. “I don’t know any of my father’s friends,” she murmured. “Some must have come by to pay their respects.”
“I’ll introduce you,” Fox offered as he climbed out of the car.
“Not tonight, Fox. I’d rather not cause a scene with our grandmother. Would you go in and ask the twins to come out to the patio?”
