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They remained in the den after the private detective had gone. Libby moved from her chair to snuggle against Santos on the sofa. She laced her fingers in his. “When is your next doctor’s appointment?”
“Thursday. The swelling has gone down, and I should be able to begin therapy. I hate this, Libby. I’m never sick, and I’m used to being able to do whatever I want. I should be grateful it isn’t worse, but this is bad enough.”
She slid her hand through his hair and kissed him long and hard. “You’re getting better. That’s what’s important.”
“I know what you’re doing,” he whispered when he c
ould catch his breath. “You’re trying to distract me so I won’t worry about letting you go out alone.”
She tilted her head to feign a charming innocence. “Really? Are you always suspicious of my motives?”
His gaze turned sly and cool. “I’m suspicious of everyone.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? If you suspect everyone is insincere, you’ll miss out when someone is.”
He coiled one of her curls around his finger. “That is a problem, isn’t it?”
“Put it in the ‘Matador Blues’.” She sang what she recalled of the tune, “Don’t believe a woman when I should.”
“Don’t do the right thing when I could,” he added.
“Do you want your guitar?”
“No, thank you. Will you bring me some paper from the desk?”
She brought him a handful with a pen and pencil. He took the pencil. “If you write in Spanish, the rhymes won’t work, will they?”
“Spanish is much easier to rhyme, but let’s work on the feeling first. The guy’s sad, alone, and regrets every damn thing he ever did.”
“We have to be poignant, not pathetic.”
“Sincere without tears,” he agreed.
“Can’t take back my life,” she sang, “but I caused all the strife.”
“Can’t take back my life,” he echoed, “but every mistake was mine.”
“Yes, that’s much better. It’s all better with your deep voice. Every mistake was mine, that’s a great line. You could list all sorts of sad events, and add every mistake was mine in the chorus.”
“Or I could turn it around and blame it all on some heartless woman.”
She cocked her head. “Have two versions of the song? Why not? You could write a women’s version where she blames her problems on him.”
“I could, but it’s better if the singer blames himself for his own misery.” He jotted down a couple of quick phrases and began a list of problems. “What can a man do, cheat on a woman, seduce her best friend, lie, steal her money?”
“Drive her new car into a ditch?” she suggested.
“That’s a good one.” He tapped his pencil on the paper. “That’s one way to go, but I want something tragic, not so true it’s funny.”
“We’ll have to work on it and give it some real thought. I love the tune. You’ve caught the blues perfectly. The words will come with time.”
“I was wrong all the time,” he sang, “and every mistake was mine.”
Tears welled up in Libby’s eyes, and she blinked them away. “Women are going to love that.”
“Men are wrong all the time, aren’t they?”
“Other men,” she said softly. “Not you.”
