Enchanted By You

by Alexander, Hilaria

  “That’s for the ghost tours,” Esteban says with a grin. “Apparently the tour guides think they need to set the mood…as if the ghost stories aren’t enough.” He gives me a thoughtful glance, and I want to know what he’s thinking about. I sense that he’s holding something back.

  “Is there anything I should know?” I ask.

  He winces, looking like I caught him in flagrante, but then his expression relaxes, and he bites his bottom lip, staring at me for a few interminable seconds before saying, “No. Nothing at all.”

  And then I realize maybe there is something that he’s not telling me.

  There is something wrong with the place I’m about to rent, and I’m falling for it like the fool that I am.

  “Oh, no. There’s something wrong with the rental property. Your sister’s place is haunted, isn’t it? That’s why it’s available and why you two are being so accommodating and have asked no basic personal questions. You can’t find anyone to rent it to!” I exclaim.

  “What?” he breathes out incredulous, looking at me quizzically. Then he laughs with so much gusto that I’m afraid he’s going to lose control of the truck. Thankfully, we stop at a red light, and he has enough time to recover from his laughing fit.

  I frown at him, perplexed. What’s so strange about what I said?

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You,” he replies. “What’s with you tourists and ghost stories? Very few people around here give a damn about them, but those ghost tours back there? They’re booked weeks in advance.”

  “What do you mean? Are you trying to tell me you don’t believe in ghosts? Are all the stories they tell fake?”

  “No, some of the stories are real. Completely real. Terrifyingly so.”

  “Swear.”

  “On my abuela’s grave,” he says, placing his right hand on his heart, and I don’t know why that spurs a sweet ache in my chest. Maybe it’s because I wish I could have known my abuela, but she died before I was born.

  “The look you gave me was so strange…for a minute I thought…never mind.” I shake my head and look away from Esteban—a stranger I feel I can trust, even though I don’t even know his last name. “What’s your last name?” I ask.

  “Garcia,” he replies, looking to his left and then to his right when we stop at a stop sign. “What’s yours?”

  “Bradbury.” I sigh. Ines Bradbury. That will have to change soon, but to be honest I’m not upset about it. I’d always liked my maiden name better. I should have never changed it in the first place.

  As if Esteban Garcia could read my mind, he asks, “What’s your maiden name?”

  “Ines Sanchez,” I breathe out, and he replies with a tight-lipped nod.

  “Are your parents first- or second-generation immigrants? Where did your ancestors come from? Mexico? Sorry, maybe I should mind my business and stop asking so many questions, right?” I shake my head in response and let out a laugh. His question makes me smile, because that’s one I had to answer a lot of times in my life. Quite a few times I’ve wished I had family in Mexico. I would have felt a lot less lonely, knowing that someone I was related to lived not too far away from me.

  “I don’t mind. I’m actually first generation. My parents moved to the US from Spain. Are you familiar with the Franco regime at all?”

  “I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know much about it,” he admits.

  A few seconds go by, and then he says, “Ines Sanchez. That suits you better.”

  “I think so too,” I agree. “Maybe I should have never taken my husband’s name.”

  “Wait…no, it can’t be,” he laughs.

  “What?” I lean forward, and get another whiff of his scent, minty and fresh, even though he just came out of a restaurant. How is it possible? Esteban Garcia has skills.

  “Your husband’s name is Brad Bradbury?”

  “Unfortunately, it is,” I say, trying to stifle the laughter I’m about to let loose. “I almost didn’t date him because of that. Who names their kid Brad Bradbury?”

  “Jerks, from the sound of it. And maybe your instincts were right. Maybe you shouldn’t have dated him…or married him,” he says in a clipped tone. “Or maybe I’m really crossing the line and I’m assuming the worst. Sorry,” he adds with a bashful glance. I inspect him again, mostly out of curiosity. He seems to be exceptionally interested in my life. Maybe I shouldn’t have trusted him, but I’m already in his car, so now I’ll just have to roll with it. In a way, I know he’s right, at least when it comes to Brad. Brad’s parents weren’t that bad most times.

  After a few seconds he adds, “I’m sorry. That was out of line. It’s none of my business. All I know is that no woman should be treated the way he was treating you.”

  “It’s okay. Brad’s parents aren’t too bad, actually—if you forget about the atrocious name they gave their oldest kid.” Mustering up the courage to admit the truth, I let out a deep breath. “However, you are right about my husband. I’m just disappointed it took me so long to see him for what he really is.”

  Interrupting our uncomfortable conversation, Esteban slows the truck to a stop and says, “We’re here.”

  I recognize the building. It’s one of the jewelry stores I stopped by earlier today.

  “Oh, yes. I was here earlier. She has some really nice things.”

  “Find anything good?” he asks.

  I let out a sigh. “I got a lapis bracelet, but I was on the hunt for a turquoise one. Unfortunately, I ran out of time.” That’s a euphemism for “Brad thought I was taking too long and I had to cut my visit short.”

  Esteban smiles at my words, a slow grin stretching across his face.

  “Maybe now you’ll have time to find what you’re looking for.” The spark in his eyes is alluring and inviting, and for some reason, his words seem to hold double meaning. Wait…is he flirting with me? Are we talking about jewelry or something else? I’m not completely sure we’re talking about the same thing as his eyes keep appraising me. The way his gaze lingers on me should make me feel uncomfortable, and yet, it doesn’t. Esteban parks in front of the store and we get out of the truck. He grabs my carry-on bag before I can and leads me through the courtyard adjacent to the store. There’s a staircase leading to my new place. Ceramic tiles embellish the tiny staircase that leads up to a quaint turquoise door with a tiny window, and I think I might die at the idea of having a place all to myself. It’s so adorable. I stare at it with my mouth open and I tear up from happiness.

  I should long for my upscale home in LA, shouldn’t I? Instead, I’m as happy as a kid in a candy store. This is wrong. Why am I so okay with this?

  “Ines, are you okay?” Esteban asks. The way he says my name wakes me from my daydream. His voice is warm and deep, like the caress of an evening breeze that’s blowing on this early summer evening. Ines. He says my name like a prayer, like a holy word. Has my name ever sounded so beautiful before? Has hearing someone say my name made me shiver like I am right now? I study him as he sits down on a nearby wooden bench that looks like it’s been there for the last eighty years.

  I realize my hands are over my heart and a couple of tears are spilling down my cheeks. I quickly wipe them away and I sniff.

  “I’m fine. I’m strangely fine with…everything.” I take a seat next to him on the bench.

  “Good.” He turns to me and I can’t help but stare at him, enraptured, noticing that his eyes look almost black in the dimly lit courtyard.

  “So, you were saying that your parents moved here because of that Franco guy?”

  I let out a laugh.

  “Yeah, that Franco guy. He was a real asshole.”

  “Wasn’t he some kind of dictator? He had the reputation of a Hitler or Mussolini, didn’t he?”

  “Quite similar. He wasn’t responsible for killing six million Jews, but what I’ve read over the years makes me think he set Spain back half a century at least. Francisco Franco was a military dictator who rose to power i
n 1939, and ruled until his death, in 1975.”

  “Wow, the name sounds almost as douchey as Brad Bradbury,” he jokes, and I can’t help but laugh. “Sorry, that was a terrible jab. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Please continue.” His tone is soft, almost bashful.

  “Franco rose to power after the Spanish Civil War. History sources called the Spanish Civil War the Spanish holocaust, because apparently five hundred thousand people died during the conflict. And once Franco rose to power, whoever opposed him and his regime, would be tortured and sent to labor camps. Kind of like North Korea these days. Anyway, for Spain it was the equivalent of having an administration on par with those of the Third Reich and Fascist Italy. But while those dictatorships were brought down in 1945 with the end of World War II, Franco’s regime was only over after his death, in 1975.” I pause and look at him, and only then I realize how much I’ve been talking. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to give a history lesson.”

  “No, no. Please continue. I want to know. Your parents must have been desperate if they had to leave their country.”

  “They were. Most of what I know is from stories they told me, or movies I’ve watched. Things were pretty grim during the Franco regime, but after his death the situation did not improve. Spain was basically on its knees. The economic growth was at an all-time low, the country relied too much on imports and there were not a whole lot of jobs. For my parents, who lived in a rural area not far from Granada, in the south of Spain, it was even worse. Job opportunities were slim to none. Somehow, they managed to immigrate to the US. They wanted to have a family, but they wanted more for their children.” The thought of my parents makes me smile. I don’t have this kind of reaction that often. Usually, thinking of them hurts too much. I miss them. But now, for some reason, all I can think about is the way my mother teased me during my teenage years.

  “Growing up, my mother never failed to remind me how lucky I was to grow up in the States, and how grim things were in Spain when she was younger, especially for women.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asks.

  “I don’t,” I reply, and there’s a tightness in my voice that emerges every time I think about being an only child. “My mother was pregnant when they moved to the US, but she lost the baby. My parents weren’t able to conceive again for years…at least until I came around. My mother was forty when I was born.”

  A small smile stretches across his face and I feel stupid for finding it so endearing. My throat feels parched after talking so much, or maybe it’s because of the strange way Esteban Garcia looks at me and the strange way he makes me feel.

  “Sorry I talked so much.”

  He shakes his head. “Not at all. I asked. I wanted to know.”

  “No one ever asks me detailed stuff like this. I got a little carried away.” I nervously wring my hands together, and avoid turning in his direction, as I feel his powerful, unsettling gaze on me.

  “Thank you for telling me. Maybe I should look up Spain’s history on the Internet and read more about it.”

  “I don’t recommend it. It’s pretty depressing,” I let out with a weak laugh, but as soon as the words cross my lips, something twists in the middle of my chest, realizing that I was so absorbed in telling Esteban about my parents’ history, I’d forgotten all about douchey Brad, at least for a few minutes.

  Did he do it on purpose? Did he get me talking so I would not think about my husband or does he honestly want to know about me? We’re sitting next to each other on the narrow bench, and it’s the first time that I look at him this closely, even closer than when we were in his truck. As I stare into the depths of his eyes there’s a spark of electricity between us.

  What is happening to me?

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” a woman says, briskly walking toward us. I can only see her silhouette, but I recognize her voice from earlier—Lupe. When she gets closer, I see a beautiful, petite woman with black hair tied in a low ponytail. She’s wearing a white blouse and red jeans that match her lipstick. There’s almost a Spanish flair about her. With her hair parted in the middle, the makeup and the pendant earrings, she reminds me of a Flamenco dancer. Her skin is a golden amber color, lighter than her brother’s. “You would not believe the fit those two just threw because I said I was leaving for a little bit. Of course, they wanted to come along when they heard I was coming to meet you,” she tells her brother, who lets out a laugh.

  Esteban turns to me. “My sister Lupe has two boys, Vincent and Oliver.”

  “And they are obsessed with their uncle. Sorry, you must be…?”

  “Ines.”

  “Ines?” she yells, eyes almost bugging out. She covers her mouth with her hands and exchanges a quick look with Esteban, who gives a slight shake of his head. What is up with these two?

  “What’s the matter? Is there something wrong with my name?” I ask her.

  She raises her hands and shakes them apologetically.

  “No, no. Absolutely not! It’s such a beautiful name!” Lupe exclaims and then wraps her arms around me, taking me by surprise. After the initial shock, I reciprocate her embrace a bit stiffly.

  “Lupe!” Esteban scolds her, standing up.

  Lupe lets me go, as if suddenly realizing what she’s done.

  “I don’t mind it. I like that people are so friendly here. It’s nice to meet you, Lupe,” I tell her, stretching my hand out. She takes it between her hands and holds it tight, and a warm, fuzzy feeling spreads across my chest. I didn’t realize how comforting the touch of a stranger would feel, and how much I need it right now. A laugh escapes my lips. Lupe is intense and vivacious, and I feel instantly drawn to her. She’s the complete opposite of her cool and mysterious brother.

  “You are so pretty! I can’t wait for us to become best friends,” she coos, staring at me. Esteban scolds her again, and I’m too entertained by their banter to even care.

  Blame it on being an only child. I wished so many times for a brother or a sister to argue with.

  “You are too kind. I’ve had a long day and I don’t feel pretty at all.” I run a hand through my wavy brown hair nervously, trying to fix it after a long day out and about. I get even more self-conscious about it now that I notice Esteban staring at me. I don’t need to look at myself in the mirror to know that my makeup is smudged, but it’s entirely too late to start caring now, and after such an eventful evening, exhaustion is catching up with me. “As for the best friend role, I’ll hand you an application as soon as I’m settled in my new apartment.”

  She laughs at my lousy joke and finally lets go of my hand. She exchanges a not-so-subtle look with Esteban and fishes her keys out of her pocket.

  “You’re right. Let’s get you settled upstairs.”

  She heads up the stairs, and I follow her. The landing outside the door is barely big enough for the two of us. Esteban is behind us with my luggage, waiting for Lupe to open the door. Even a couple of steps below us, I feel his presence as if he was right beside me. I look at him for a moment, thinking about his weird exchange with Lupe, and I know there’s something I should know. Something they are not telling me.

  “What is it?” he asks in a soft tone, and my eyes fall on his lips.

  “Are you sure there isn’t something I should know that you’re not telling me?”

  “Positive,” he replies in a confident tone, but something in my gut tells me he’s not telling the truth. There’s obviously something they’re keeping from me. And what was up with Lupe’s strange reaction to my name?

  “I’m sorry it’s so hot in here,” Lupe says, reaching for the AC remote and switching it on. No central AC. The unit is installed on the wall. Oh, well. Better than nothing, I suppose. “We’re all about conservation here, not like people in other states, with the AC cranked up at all times.”

  “Lupe, come on. Be nice. You wouldn't want to offend your first tenant,” Esteban reprimands her. He places my luggage in a corner of the room and turns the light switch on. �
�I’m sorry. My sister has no filter.”

  “He’s right, I don’t.” She doesn’t even try to apologize for the jab, and I chuckle. I’m not fazed by her words. In fact, I agree with her, and I like her that she’s so direct. She’s a spitfire and she seems…honest. Except for whatever it is that the two of them are hiding from me.

  I look around, open a small closet at the side of the room, peer inside the bathroom…the place looks just like it did in the pictures. It is tiny, and with the three of us in here it’s a little cramped. Or maybe it’s because the ceiling is a bit low, and Esteban is so tall he looks like he’s just a handful of inches away from bumping his head on the ceiling.

  “So, this is it,” Lupe says, pressing her hands against each other expectantly.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry. I’m so stupid. You probably want your money. I obviously don’t have six hundred dollars in cash on me, but I could PayPal you the money? Or I could give you my credit card number?”

  She waves a hand at me. “Oh, no. No, that’s not what I meant. I can wait until tomorrow and run your credit card in the store. I just wanted to make sure you liked it and it’s what you wanted. Does it feel like you were fated to be here?”

  “Lupe, for the love of everything,” Esteban scolds her, rolling his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, but what did I say wrong?” Lupe asks him, not at all apologetic despite her words.

  “You’re making her uncomfortable. You need to chill.”

  “Okay. I’m the one who doesn’t understand why you’re not more excited about this.”

  “Excited about what?” I ask them, and they look at me, dumbfounded.

  “Uhhh…excited about finally getting this place finally rented out,” Lupe says.

  Finally rented out? It’s haunted. I knew I was right.

  “Lupe…we’re going to be best friends, right?”

  “Of course!” Lupe claps her hands excitedly.

  “You wouldn’t let your brand-new BFF stay in a haunted apartment, right?”

  Lupe stops clapping her hands and her jaw falls, excitement replaced by the confused look on her face. Everything stills in the room and I only hear the jingle of her pendant earrings as she turns to her brother, who’s scratching the back of his head and looks seconds away from bursting into a fit of laughter. Again.