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Mariano is in hot demand. Everyone in his family wants a piece of him. His two nieces hang off each of his arms, begging for more stories of England. Did he meet any royals? Was there really a guillotine? Was he made to walk the plank and swim back home? I think English history might have been meshed withRatatouilleandPirates of the Caribbean,but I can’t be sure. There’s a lot going on in those stories, and Mariano does nothing to disabuse them of the notion that my homeland isn’t a medieval pageant rife with intrigue and ignominy, treachery and treason, dungeons, dragons, princesses, and ghouls. We are apparently a proud people, humbled by our enemies, but risen from the ashes. Mariano and I have only been here for twenty-four hours, and already I can’t keep up, the tale takes so many twists and turns.
“Mariano?” I whisper his name.
From one hundred feet he hears me, disentangles himself, and is at my side with a smile. “Sí?”
“Over here. Fewer ears.” We follow Pippa to a small clearing behind the drinks tent. Now that I know who she is,whatshe is, her penchant for private chats makes a lot more sense. She clearly loves the undercover nature of her life. “I had my people hire people to talk to people who knew people.” She grins. This is the way with her. No names. No details we don’t need to know. “And they confirmed that everything—and I do mean everything—that you’ve endured this past year—the slew of pictures, the phone calls, the Wiki hack that accused the two of you of trading sex slaves and holding orgies—all of it traces back through a network of hired assistants to one person.”
I already know who it is. No one who didn’t have a vested interest in harming me and Mariano would go to the lengths she’s gone to. If Pippa reports she’s clinically insane, that would not be totally shocking. I saw her in action and paid the price. But she didn’t stop there. Not only did she send photographs of me and Marianoin flagrante delicto, she sent exploding glitter, chicken shit candles, eggplants (complete with a dick message engraved in the skin), and—thecoup de grâce—a heaving box of dung. Turns out it’s not illegal to send shit through the mail as long as it’s doneas aprank.But my revenge is as sweet as her rage is unending: I have Mariano and I’m happy. So, there!
“As we have long suspected, your stalker is Stephanie Weiling—”
Knew it!
Pippa has the good grace to break eye contact and not say the obvious to Mariano.Lucky escape! Turns out she never got over you.“Do you want to press charges?”
Mariano looks to me, even though he knows what I’ll say. Leave her to her shabby life. We served out our contracts withThrills, Spills, & Kills, banked the cash, and after the season in Argentina, are setting up our own stable in Florida. Life is perfect. There’s nothing Stephanie Weiling can do to either of us. Let her send enough poop to bankrupt her. It’s nothing to me.
He shakes his head. “Crazy is as crazy does. We leave her to herself.”
I lean against him. Not so long that we lose our shit and run to the barn for a tumble, but long enough that he knows I’m thinking about it.
“Not even a restraining order?” Pippa hasn’t hidden the fact that she believes this might escalate, but we’ve had a year of what amounts to small potatoes. No guns or knives or death threats. Stephanie is simplytantruming.The woman is throwing the mother of all shit fits, and it’s hurting her more than it’s hurting us. As long as she stays on that side of the line, my plan is to ignore her. “I don’t even want her to know we know.”
“As you wish.” Pippa scans the crowd. No doubt there’s some spyshit going on that we know nothing about.
A knife strikes a crystal glass and we are called to the table. The chatter of our friends, the bubbling of the children, the convivial hum of the place as we each find our seats, makes my heart sing. I knit my fingers through Mariano’s and squeeze onto the bench beside him.
“We come today…” Mr. Arias—I still can’t call him Javier or Papá, though he presses me to—smiles down at me. “Yes, Miss Lolly, for you I speak this in English.”
I place my hand over my heart, for there are no words that will express how happy I am that this family embraces me so wholeheartedly.
“We come together today,amigos yfamilia,from near and far to celebrate my beautiful son and his radiant wife—now our daughter, fixed in our hearts.”
I am not going to make it through this without sobbing.
“Mariano is now, as he was as a boy, the loyal, dutiful, generous son.”
His mother nods, her head bowed.
“When our troubles came…” He rests his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “May no one feel such pain, my friends.” He pauses long enough that I fear he’s done, the tears swimming in his eyes a signal that he can’t go on. “When we lost Manuela, our precious daughter, it was Mariano who took up the family burden.”
Mrs. Arias’ hand creeps to her shoulder and grips her husband’s hand.
“He bore his duty without complaint. Without resentment. Without a word about what was due to him.”
I love that his father’s saying this about Mariano. I can’t look at him for fear of blubbing.
“But now his reward is met. Charlotte comes to us and gives him back his heart.”
Well, fuck. That’s me done for the night. But not only me, the whole tent is sobbing.
“And so, for Mariano and Charlotte, our hope is that your love will blaze as ours does.”
The sobs give way to applause, but he’s not done. “Sofia,mi encantadora esposa,my beautiful, beloved wife, took pity on this poor soul, accepting thecabeceofrom across a crowdedmilonga—”
My mother raises her hand. Of course, she does. It’s a speech, mother, you can wait. “What is thecabeceo?”
“I’ll translate the story for you.” Mariano stands, his hand on his father’s shoulder. “My most excellent father…” He beams at his dad in a way I rarely see, either in England or the States—our men aren’t allowed to love each other in this unabashed way—or at least if they do, they don’t show it. Not like this. “He will not tell you, but he is the master of the tango.”
