by Price, Sarah
After an hour, sometimes less, his phone would vibrate and he’d glance down at the intrusive device. Not once was it a call or text that didn’t require his immediate attention.
And then there were the evenings when he would arrive home with his entourage. Amanda thought they were as intrusive as Alejandro’s cell phone. She knew what to expect when Alejandro called for her on those evenings: the same embrace, the same lifting off the ground, the same nuzzling at her neck. Yet she felt uncomfortable with his affection for her being displayed in front of those men, some of them looking like hoodlums from the street in their T-shirts and caps.
Alejandro appeared oblivious to her uneasiness in their presence. He delighted in showing off his wife and made certain to compliment her appearance or tease her about something that would bring that all-too-familiar flush to her cheeks. Then he would excuse himself and escape with the men to his recording room or take them outside to sit around the pool, where they’d drink and discuss business. Occasionally, more people might arrive—his friends, cousins, other entertainers—and the music would start. On other nights, Alejandro might work on writing new songs until well after midnight. Either way, she retired to bed alone, waking early in the morning with Alejandro beside her, sometimes with his arm draped around her waist, but always in a deep sleep.
Tonight, however, he was taking her out.
He traced her cheekbone with his thumb, and she opened her eyes, eager to have his undivided attention for one whole evening. She didn’t even mind that their dinner reservations were for nine o’clock, the time of night when she was usually washing her face and changing into a nightgown so that she could settle into bed after her evening prayers. She’d read the Bible for a while until her eyes drooped, and then she would drift off to sleep, sometimes with the light still on.
“Let’s cancel those reservations,” he murmured as he leaned down and brushed his lips across hers, his thumb still on her cheek. “I’m no longer hungry . . .”
She felt light-headed and realized she was holding her breath. It seemed impossible to breathe in his presence. The less time they spent together, the more strongly she felt the need to be near him.
As if reading her mind, he pulled away from her, letting his thumb slowly fall from her cheek. He half smiled in his mischievous way as he whispered, “Later, sí?”
He took a step backward and glanced in the mirror, taking a moment to straighten the sleeves of his shirt and brush a piece of lint from his pants. She watched as he assessed himself, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin. Like a beautiful rooster preening, she thought, and felt an immediate longing for the simplicity of what she feared she would always secretly consider her home: Lancaster. Wherever Alejandro went, he was prepared for paparazzi. Not once did he leave the house in anything less than what Amanda would consider equivalent to his Sunday best. Tonight was no exception.
The doorman nodded to them as he opened the door and stepped aside. Amanda smiled and greeted him with a soft hello. She had attempted numerous times to engage him in conversation until Dali finally informed her that she was not to fraternize with such people, by which Amanda quickly realized she meant hired help. Amanda hadn’t responded to Dali, but the comment had stayed with her, tasting foul in her memory each time she remembered it.
“Ah, here she is!” Alejandro said as the valet emerged with his Porsche from the underground garage. He gestured toward the car with a great flourish and smiled at her. “Your chariot, Princesa.”
“And the occasion is . . . ?”
“Do I need an occasion?” He opened the car door and gave an exaggerated bow. “Perhaps you are the occasion.”
With one foot inside the car, she pivoted on her other to look at him. “I am?”
“Sí, Princesa.” He reached out to take hold of her elbow so that he could guide her into the passenger seat. “I have been so busy. I fear I have been neglectful of my most precious jewel.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say neglectful . . .” she teased gently.
Alejandro rolled his eyes and placed his hand over his chest. “Ouch.”
She laughed, enjoying his playful mood.
The week had been long. It had taken her time to get used to the fact that the pregnancy test she took on Saturday had come back negative. At first, she hadn’t wanted to tell Alejandro, hoping and praying that the test might be wrong. But on Wednesday, a second pregnancy test displayed the same negative sign on the plastic stick, and she recognized the truth: there was no baby—not now anyway. The realization felt overwhelming; she had been ever so certain that she carried his baby. While he was working, she had crawled into bed, curled into a fetal position, and wept silently for the baby she had conjured in her mind.
With it being February now, she knew that enough time had passed for her to have conceived a baby. Even considering the time she and Alejandro had spent apart before Christmas, there was no reason for her not to have become pregnant. The disappointment was devastating; she felt like a failure. There were very few Amish couples who didn’t have a baby by their one-year anniversary. And when that was the case, it was usually because there was a problem.
She hadn’t wanted to tell Alejandro in person, so when her tears had dried up and she’d gathered her strength, she did the cowardly act of sending him a text message by phone:
I’m sorry. Not this month.
A.
Barely five minutes had passed before her phone dinged, announcing a new incoming message. She’d hesitated, feeling worried about what his response would be. She waited to look at it, fearing that his disappointment would increase her feelings of inadequacy. When she finally found the strength to retrieve his message, she covered her mouth with her hand and stifled a tearful laugh of relief:
Why sorry? Trying is the best part, Princesa.
V.
That night he’d brought home two dozen white roses and, without even giving her a chance to ooh and ahh over them, had swept her off her feet and up the staircase. She didn’t have time to feel sorry about her lack of immediate conception. Alejandro made good on his promise to keep trying.
Now, as he drove her to the restaurant, singing along with the radio as he did, she leaned back and enjoyed the pleasure of just being with him. Not once had he seemed disappointed or upset that she wasn’t yet pregnant. Instead, he treated her with tender care, acting like he normally did and without making any mention of what could have been.
His support certainly helped her overcome her erratic swing of emotions. It will happen when it happens, she told herself. When God wanted her to have a baby, that would be the moment when she would conceive.
The music faded away, and it took her a moment to realize that he had turned down the radio.
“Did you say something, then?” she asked him.
“I did not. But if I had,” he replied with a sideways glance, “it would have been to comment that you seem relaxed tonight.”
And she was.
“Where are we going, if I may ask?”
Alejandro lifted an eyebrow and pursed his lips, one corner raised just enough to show that he was in one of his playful moods. “You may ask,” he said, flicking on his turn signal. “But I am not going to answer, Princesa.”
“Ah.” She knew better than to press him. When he wanted to do something special for her, he would not be convinced to divulge any information. “I see.” She tried not to smile back at him. “It’s a right gut thing that patience is a virtue, then, ja?”
Five minutes later, Alejandro pulled up to the restaurant and stopped the car under a burgundy canopy so that the valet attendant could take it away. The driver’s side door was opened by the attendant, but before Alejandro exited the car, he turned toward her. “Tonight is going to be very special, Amanda.”
Her curiosity was piqued as she wondered what he had up his sleeve. His secre
cy was one thing; the use of her name was another. Usually when he called her Amanda, something serious was about to be discussed. But he didn’t seem to be in a serious mood. No, he looked fresh and happy, his face glowing with pride as he walked around the car, bent his arm, and waited for her to take it so that he could escort her inside.
The restaurant was dark, illuminated only by sconces that clung to each panel of the rich red walls, the light creating a seductive effect and adding to the dramatic atmosphere. From somewhere inside came the sound of music, a dull, muffled noise that seemed to come from far away. Blue lights glowed from the underside of the bar in the cocktail lounge at the back of the restaurant. The people at the bar were all dressed in fancy clothes: the men in stylish slacks and silky shirts, and the women in form-fitting dresses and high heels that made Amanda feel unbalanced just by looking at them.
“Ah, Mr. Diaz,” a woman said as she approached them. “Your table is ready.”
She led them through the lounge, and several people looked up as they passed. Amanda saw the subtle movements of people leaning forward and whispering to each other. Alejandro, however, acted as if he didn’t notice although she knew that he noticed everything. If he acted aloof and preoccupied, however, he wouldn’t have to stop and pose for photos; neither would he be obligated to talk to anyone. This seemed reasonable to Amanda. After all, she rationalized, this was his time, not time he owed the fans.
As she thought these things, something dawned on her: Alejandro orchestrated every move that he made. The realization struck her hard, and she stopped walking just long enough for him to pause and turn around.
“Are you coming, Princesa?”
She stared at him, remembering that first weekend in Philadelphia when he had taken her hand and asked her to dance. It hadn’t been their first dance together; he had danced with her back on the farm in the grossdaadihaus. But that second dance had taken place as several dozen people stared at them, watching the international superstar dance with the fresh-faced, straight-off-the-farm Amish girl. She had felt awkward and shy, but he had said something to her that she hadn’t thought to question at the time: They need to see this. Remember the goal.
While she stood there, digesting this realization, she watched as Alejandro took a few steps toward her and stretched out his hand. The gesture broke her trance, and she saw that people were watching them. Remember the goal. And she understood: reality was the fantasy that the public saw. From the corner of her eyes, she had seen several people take their photo. And she remembered that every photo had a price. Fans would circulate them on social media while the paparazzi would sell them to the news media. Regardless, she knew that every photo had the potential to either add to or detract from Viper’s success.
She smiled at him, tipped her head demurely, and took his hand. Trying to maintain a straight posture, something about which Stedman constantly criticized her, she caught up to Alejandro and let him lead her to the private alcove in the back of the restaurant.
“Well done, Amanda,” he said under his breath as they settled into their seats. “Now, may I ask what that was about?”
“You may ask,” she said as the server set the linen napkin across her lap. “But I am not going to answer.”
It took him a second to digest what she had said, her voice so serious that it had caught him unprepared. Then, when the words sank in, he tossed his head back and laughed. “Touché, mi querida. Touché.”
She pursed her lips and batted her eyes at him, trying to act coquettish, which only made him laugh again. He reached across the table and took her hand in his. She squeezed his hand, enjoying the way that he looked at her, as if he was appreciative of her humor as well as happy to be in her company.
“Danke, Alejandro,” she said in a soft voice.
He tilted his head and arched one eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, he finally asked, “For?”
“For being patient with me,” she answered. “I needed your support this week.”
Alejandro released her hand and glanced at the server who was approaching the table, a bottle of chilled champagne resting against his arm. Alejandro glanced at the label and nodded before returning his attention to Amanda. “I know you are disappointed,” he said. The flat tone of his voice surprised her. He might as well have stated that the sun was shining or the sea was calm. “Aren’t you?”
He took a deep breath, looking as if he was trying to choose his words carefully. The hesitation was enough to let Amanda realize that he had a different opinion on the situation than she did. “We have a busy few months, Amanda,” he started. “The South American tour is going to be followed by Europe. And when we return from that, we will play more venues in the States.” He lifted the flute of champagne to his lips, hesitating before he sipped it. The tiny bubbles traveled from the bottom of the glass to the top. “Try your champagne, mi querida. It’s a night to celebrate.”
“I . . . I’d like to hear more about what you were just saying.” She couldn’t just brush aside his comments. She needed to truly understand what he meant.
“About the tour?” He twirled the stem of the champagne flute between his thumb and fingers, thoughtfully watching the rising bubbles in the glass. “It’s a busy time, Amanda. Days and nights merge into one on a tour like this. It’s different from touring in the US. More difficult. And during the downtime, what little there is of that, I’ll be recording new songs.”
“From where?” This was news to her. She had figured that while he was on the road, his focus would be strictly on promotions and performances.
“In hotel rooms, if I must. The EP is scheduled to release in time for summer with the remaining songs releasing in time for the Christmas tours.” He sighed, meeting her gaze with a look of sorrow in his eyes. “My joy, Amanda, comes from your joy. Would I have been happy if you were pregnant? ¡Sí, claro! I know how happy that would make you and that, in turn, would make me happy. But there is so much going on right now, and I know there is time for family later. For now”—he lifted the glass and tipped it toward her, a silent toast—“I am enjoying a wonderful evening with my beautiful wife.”
Reluctantly, she lifted her glass and touched its rim to his. But she did not drink the champagne. Instead, she set the glass back down on the table and tried to understand what he had just told her. She paid no attention as Alejandro spoke to the server in Spanish, gesturing toward her and then toward himself. The server must have said something that struck Alejandro as funny for he laughed out loud and reached out to touch the man’s arm.
Give them what they want. Remember the goal.
Amanda wondered if he used that same philosophy with her, giving her what she wanted in exchange for the end goal. But she couldn’t imagine what that end goal could possibly be. Alejandro loved her; that, she never once questioned. Her greatest concern was his constant need to orchestrate situations, all conveniently and impeccably timed to either tease or reward the fans.
So what is this mysterious goal? she wondered.
And just as she had experienced the beginnings of an epiphany earlier, she now had another thought: the price of the photos was a metaphor for the concept of a brand. Alejandro wanted whatever photos were taken of her to work either to build the image created by his marketing team or to provide the paparazzi with nothing. If the photos didn’t help sell the image his team wanted to create, then she should simply walk away. To stop and greet the fans was a great photo opportunity if the paparazzi were taking photographs. But to allow random selfie photos to be taken with her and posted on social media was a different matter, especially if the photos did not match the image that was being built of her.
Clearly, the image of her earlier that week—one in which she was leaving a dance studio after three hours of practice with her cheeks flushed as a result of Stedman’s constant criticisms regarding her performance—was not the image of Amanda th
at Alejandro wanted circulated.
“I hate dancing,” she blurted out.
“Excuse me?” For once, he appeared truly taken aback.
“I hate dancing,” she said, forcing herself to continue with her confession. “And I am not particularly fond of Stedman.”
“I see.”
“Please don’t make me continue, Alejandro.”
He seemed to consider her request. “Stedman is working on the choreography for the show. You know that, sí?”
“He’s unkind,” she said sharply. “And I don’t want to be treated in an unkind manner. He gets angry that I have an improper sidestep on the line of dance and that my hips don’t open during the three-eighths turns in the waltz. He keeps telling me to listen to the music, to feel the rhythm, but I just don’t understand what he means.” She lifted her chin and took a big breath, trying to muster the courage to say what she really felt. “Dancing is just not something I am comfortable with.”
For a long second, Alejandro merely stared at her, a blank expression on his face. He took a moment to sip at his champagne while he studied her. She couldn’t tell if he was irritated or amused. When he set down the champagne, he slid out from the alcove and extended his hand, palm up, in her direction.
She looked at it, confused. “What is this?”
“Come, Princesa,” he commanded. “Take my hand and let’s go.”
“We’re leaving?” She placed her hand in his as panic welled up inside of her. “Is it what I just said?”
With a slight shake of his head and a soft clicking of his tongue, he indicated that she should not continue speaking as he led her back through the restaurant’s lounge and to a doorway that she hadn’t noticed previously. A stairwell curved down to another floor of the building, and as they descended, Amanda could hear music coming from wherever they were headed. The closer they got to the bottom of the stairs, the louder the music grew.
