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“No. Ask your mother about him and see how she describes him.”
Stunned by his coldly worded suggestion, she dropped his hand. “There’s no reason to torture her.” She began to wonder about Ana Santillan’s taste in men and was smart enough not to ask. “What about the protesters? Did you find any promising leads?”
Javier turned a page in his notebook. “They’re a varied group with few ties other than their opposition to bullfighting. I spoke with several men who’d been arrested during earlier protests. They wanted to congratulate whomever had flashed the mirror at Santos but had no idea who it might be. As for the women who frequently protest, they usually escape arrest, and I was unable to get their names. Next Sunday, I’ll be prepared with my camera and have more to report.”
“Thank you,” Santos responded.
Javier bid them good-bye and left on the path circling the house.
“I don’t mean to be unkind, but does he remind you of a ferret?” Libby whispered.
Santos leaned in. “The first time we spoke in person, that’s exactly what I thought. It’s the narrow face and glasses that magnify his eyes.”
“And sharp nose,” Libby added.
“And scratchy voice, as though he lives underground.”
She leaned into his kiss. It was more a good-morning gesture, not the full, passionate kind. Still, she enjoyed it immensely.
Patricia came out the backdoor, saw what Santos and Libby were up to and walked on down to the shore. Victoria was walking along the water, and she waved to her and caught up.
Rafael asked Peter to come into the den, meaning to get the dreaded conversation over and done before Maggie even knew he was there. “Would you like coffee, or something stronger?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” The taunting painting of Miguel was the size of a museum exhibit. Peter turned his back on it and sat on the sofa. “While I appreciate the effort, there’s no need to ask for my blessing. Maggie has always known her own mind, and I respect that, but you’re not the man I’d have chosen for her.”
Rafael would have been more comfortable standing, but rather than tower over Peter, he took one of the black leather chairs so their eyes would meet. “I understand, but Maggie and I love each other, and I’ll make her happy.”
“You can only try,” Peter advised.
Rafael smiled. “I intend to succeed. I want to tell you a story. You’re an attorney; perhaps you can offer advice.”
“I’m not familiar with Spanish law.”
“Nevertheless, hear me out. There was a young man who was very close to his younger sister. They had no parents, and their grandmother raised them. When the sister was sixteen, she was raped by a young man, who made a joke of it. The brother called him out. The rapist pulled a knife, and in the following fight, the rapist was killed. The brother was charged with murder and spent six years in prison. Is that what would have happened in America?”
Peter sighed wearily and looked down at his hands. “It’s a difficult question, and I wish I could give you a definitive answer, but a lot would depend on the identities of the dead man and the survivor and how much sympathy could be generated for each. A talented prosecutor might convince a jury the defendant was lowlife scum and guilty. An even more talented defense attorney might convince a jury the deceased was a scumbag and the defendant a hero for defending his sister’s honor. Unfortunately, justice isn’t always meted out fairly.”
“Whose side would you take?”
“I’m a defense attorney. I would have made the brother a hero and given him a parade when he was acquitted.” Peter’s eyes were an intense blue and filled with apprehension. “Please tell me that isn’t your story.”
Rafael shrugged. “I’m afraid it is. I worked in the prison hospital and discovered I have a talent for medicine, so those six years weren’t wasted.”
Peter winced. “Does Maggie know?”
“I told her when we first met. She took my side too.”
“I could use a drink. Is there any scotch?”
“Chivas Regal.” Rafael got up and poured him a drink.
Peter tossed it down in a single gulp and set the glass on the coffee table. “There’s no reason to tell Linda. She already feels as though we’re losing Maggie to a world she rejected twenty-five years ago. At least Miguel’s dead. I wouldn’t have come with her if he’d still been alive.”
“That would have been a very serious mistake.”
Peter stood. “Maybe, maybe not. Don’t believe you can predict a woman’s behavior. They veer off on tangents without warning, usually when you least expect it.”
Rafael rose and offered his hand. “Thank you.”
