A Summer for Scandal

by Lydia San Andres

  A Summer for Scandal

  An Arroyo Blanco Novel

  Lydia San Andres

  Contents

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Thanks for reading!

  Also by Lydia San Andres

  Copyright

  Copyright (C) 2015 by Lydia San Andrés

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  Cover design by Fiona Jayde Media.

  Foreword

  Arroyo Blanco, the town in which this story takes place, is located in a fictional island in the Spanish Caribbean, neighbor to Puerto Rico, Cuba and the Dominican Republic. It shares those islands’ hispanic heritage as well as some of their customs.

  Chapter 1

  Arroyo Blanco, 1911

  “No,” Emilia Cruz said. She had just changed out of the dark blue skirt she had worn to the office where she worked as a typist and into a threadbare pink housedress, and had been looking forward to spending the hottest part of the day in the cool shadows of the front porch, sipping lime juice and penning the latest adventures of Valeria Del Valle, the protagonist of The True Accounts of a Former Courtesan, a serial she was writing for a magazine. The latest installment was due in a handful of days and Emilia had never particularly cared for Ana Maria Espinosa or for the rest of her sister’s friends.

  “But Emilia,” her sister Susana said, “Ana Maria has asked us so many times. We can’t say no again.”

  “I can,” Emilia said firmly. “No, no, no, and, furthermore, no.”

  Not two hours later, she was sitting inside a small rowboat as it glided through the mangroves, maneuvering around the roots that rose from the water as thick and sinuous as sea serpents. The breeze was cool, the shade pleasant, and the bobbing of the boat on the gentle ripples so soothing Emilia had to admit that coming to the party had not been the waste of time she’d made it out to be.

  The shadows here were blue-green, deepening with every minute that passed, though the afternoon sun lightened them in patches where it filtered through the leaves. Emilia wished she had brought along her notebook, and that she had been allowed to take a boat out by herself, even though her companions had thus far proven to be quite amiable. Rosa Castillo was clever, though a little quiet, so Carmen Vidal had taken it upon herself to supply them with the latest gossip.

  The other person on the boat, Mr. Torres, a guest of Luis Rojas’s, had come to spend the summer to escape the city’s suffocating heat, though it was only marginally cooler in Arroyo Blanco, even on the water. He listened to them talk, making only the occasional comment. He had shed his pale linen jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, revealing a pair of strong forearms that both Emilia and Carmen eyed with appreciation. In his capable grip, the oars slid smoothly through the placid water.

  He was guiding the boat around a cluster of roots when it came to a sudden stop.

  “What happened?” asked Rosa, holding on to the side of the boat to avoid sliding into Mr. Torres.

  Emilia scooted to one side and used the point on her parasol to try and shift the tangle of roots that had trapped the boat’s prow, to no avail. “Here—if you hand me the oar, I think I can shove us off.”

  Before she had a chance to do more than poke ineffectually at the roots, Emilia heard the murmur of voices coming from the other side of the leaves.

  There was an undistinguishable sound and then, what sounded like Susana's voice. “Oh, I don’t really read very often.”

  This was as blatant a lie as her sister had ever told— Susana didn’t just read books, she devoured them.

  As the boat drifted close enough, Emilia could see her sister’s face through the leaves. Susana’s straw hat cast a shadow over her eyes but Emilia could see the corners of her mouth pulled tight into the expression she wore when she was uncomfortable. Susana was sitting beside Ana Maria Espinosa, and across from her were Cristobal Mendez and Luis Rojas, who was effortlessly pulling the boat across the water. There was no reason for Susana to feel uncomfortable around them, unless they had been discussing the one thing she would lie about— Emilia’s stories. She had begun to publish the serial the year before, and while it was one thing to know people were reading it, it would be quite another to hear it being discussed.

  The boat came into view as it skirted one of the bigger mangroves and as it did, Emilia sought out her sister. Susana ought to have been ecstatic to be sitting across from Luis Rojas, who had returned for the summer after being away since he had started university some six or seven years before, and for whom Susana had been nursing an attraction ever since she’d been twelve and he a strapping fourteen-year-old. Instead, Susana looked as though she was contemplating diving into the water at the first opportunity. Emilia felt a pang of sympathy. The illustrated papers had been writing about Emilia’s stories ever since the first installment came out and though she knew that they were being read in Arroyo Blanco, she had never been confronted with actual proof of the matter.

  Cristobal was smirking. “I apologize. It was very bad of me to bring up such an outrageous subject.”

  “Have you read them?” It was Carmen Vidal who’d asked this, tilting her head coquettishly as she addressed Luis Rojas.

  The occupants of the second boat turned to her in surprise, only just becoming aware of their presence.

  Cristobal was the first to recover. “I wouldn’t dare,” he said, making it evident by the quirk of his eyebrow that he, of course, had.

  Carmen was still looking at Luis, who seemed oblivious of her attention. He had eyes only for Susana, even though she was doing her best to become invisible. “They’re written by a woman, you know.”

  “Oh yes, Doña Belen told Mama all about them when she came for breakfast last Sunday.” Ana Maria gave a sniff to show she didn’t care for Doña Belen’s gossip. “She thinks the authoress is from Arroyo Blanco. Just imagine—it might be someone we know, someone we’ve said hello to on the street.”

  “How perfectly scandalous,” said Carmen with relish.

  “How indecent, you mean,” Ana Maria said crisply. “Mama says those stories an affront to propriety.”

  “Not to mention good literature,” said Mr. Torres. Emilia glanced at him in surprise. She had heard him say so little beyond the usual pleasantries she’d half assumed he probably hadn’t much to say at all.

  “Mr. Torres is a literary man,” Luis explained, having caught her look. “He writes the literary review for El Diario Nuevo and has published stories in some of the country’s best magazines. If anyone knows about good literature, it’s him.”

  Emilia drew in her breath. The man sitting across from her must be Ruben Torres. She’d read his book, a debut so brilliant it had bee
n lauded by all the critics, and had switched their newspaper subscription to El Diario Nuevo solely because she enjoyed reading his book reviews, which were intelligent, thoughtful, and so filled with a sharp, witty humor that more often than not she found herself laughing out loud. He was one of the writers she most admired.

  And he hated her stories.

  It stung, but it was no great surprise. The literary crowd tended to despise anything they felt was unworthy of their exacting tastes and Emilia’s stories, filled with secret dungeons and scheming dukes and sultans with a penchant for dismemberment and beautiful women, were most certainly not highbrow. But they were fun, they paid the bills and they allowed Emilia to be independent in a way that her salary from typing at Cristobal’s father’s company never had.

  Carmen raised an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t make it a habit to read such things, Mr. Torres.”

  “I do, as a matter of fact.” Torres said, pushing a lock of hair off his forehead, which was pale brown but growing darker from the sun. He looked nothing like Emilia had imagined he would—she’d pictured a bearded intellectual with spectacles and rumpled clothes, not a tall, well-dressed man whose arms seemed to indicate he did more rowing than pen-holding. “I read a wide variety of things— not only for the sake of my column, but because I feel I could hardly call myself a literary man otherwise. There are quite a few sensational serials being published at the moment, in different papers and magazines, but none of them have captured the public’s attention as The True Accounts have, even though there’s nothing exceptional about them, save for the—the risqué content,” he said, clearly meaning sex but unwilling to say it in deference of the girls, “which is admittedly more explicit than in most stories of that nature.”

  “You make it sound like—” Emilia began, but was interrupted by Ana Maria.

  “I’ve heard they’re about what you can expect from anyone who writes under a pseudonym,” she said scornfully.

  “Oh, but pseudonyms are all the rage in the literary world,” Carmen said. “The editor of Blanco y Negro writes under one.”

  “I would, too, if I were him,” Luis remarked. Blanco y Negro was one of the most popular gossip rags, known for its vicious commentary. “I don’t suppose the man would have any peace otherwise.”

  “Pseudonyms,” Mr. Torres said, and Emilia thought she could hear disapproval in his voice, “are masks for cowards to hide behind.”

  Save for Susana, no one knew Emilia wrote—much less that she wrote the scandalous True Accounts—and she was in no hurry to divulge her secret. She used a pseudonym as protection. Not from the gossip, but from the bile and violence always directed at women who dared to use their voice, especially if it led them to say things society did not approve of. And if that was cowardice, then she’d long since made her peace with it.

  Still, she couldn’t help but turn to Mr. Torres. “What is it that so offends you about The True Accounts, exactly?” she inquired placidly—or as placidly as she could manage when she felt as though smoke ought to be coming out of her ears. “That the protagonist sells her body or that she likes it?”

  There was a chorus of shocked gasps but Emilia ignored them, keeping her eyes on Mr. Torres’s face. His light brown eyes were gleaming, though that may have been the reflection of the light on the water, and there was the slightest quirk in his lips when he leaned forward and said, “I object to the authoress’s blatant disregard of anything resembling coherence. The courtesan’s characterization is weak at best and the men are nothing but cardboard figures.”

  “The literary reviewer at La Gazeta Semanal said that the relationship between Valeria and the sultan seemed like it had been drawn from life.”

  “I found it entirely too sentimental.”

  “And what’s wrong with sentiment?”

  “It’s manipulative.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t say so if the stories had been written by a man,” Emilia said, and she knew she sounded peevish. She was still gripping the oar, and while she would have liked nothing better than to smack Mr. Torres upside the head with it, all she did was tighten her grip until her knuckles turned white.

  “We certainly wouldn’t be discussing them if they had been. Everyone knows the only reason they’ve gotten so much attention is because no one can believe a woman writer would sacrifice her respectability to write such trash,” Cristobal put in, but his comment was ignored by both Emilia and Mr. Torres, who were by now glaring at each other.

  “A man would have been more restrained in his use of emotion,” Torres said.

  “No matter how much restraint a woman used, her writing would still be accused of being overly emotional.”

  “Oh, that’s hardly fair. There are a great deal of female writers who don’t indulge in such cloying sentimentality. Take Mrs. Lopez’s Camila, for one. It’s moving and tragic without being emotionally manipulative. These sensational stories, on the other hand, are nothing more than an assault. They use sentimentality to force an emotional reaction in readers and rely on the outrageous to hide the fact that there is nothing really interesting about them and that, in my opinion, makes their authors the laziest of writers.”

  “Lazy because they make no pretense that their only intention is to entertain? I’m sure it’s awfully lowbrow of me, but I’d rather my—the fiction I read lean towards the sentimental than the cynical.”

  “Cynicism is just as lazy as sentimentalism,” Torres said. “They’re the refuge of mediocre writers. The lack of cynicism is what saves The True Accounts from being truly abysmal, even if everything else about it is lazy and indulgent.”

  The other boat had drifted so close that it knocked lightly against theirs with every swell of the gentle waves. They were close enough Emilia could no longer pretend she couldn’t hear her sister’s quiet admonitions. She swallowed a heated retort and instead said, a trifle stiffly, “I didn’t think it was.”

  “Come now, Miss Emilia, do you really think so? I had imagined you to be more discerning, given your family’s literary inclinations.”

  Emilia was startled. When they had been introduced, Mr. Torres had given no indication he recognized her last name. But then, if he was a literary man he would of course have heard of her father.

  “If you ask me, I’d say her family’s inclinations lean rather more heavily towards drink than literature,” Cristobal said, in a murmur just loud enough for Emilia to hear.

  She would not have been more surprised if he had struck her. In fact, it rather felt as though he had.

  The blood rushed from Emilia’s limbs, leaving her cold, her fingers numb. The oar fell to the water with a splash but she didn’t bother to retrieve it. Scrambling to a standing position and ignoring both the boat’s wild rocking and her sister’s entreaties to be careful, she grabbed her closed parasol and tried to push off from the tangle of roots, her fury giving her strength.

  But not stability.

  “Miss Emilia--Emilia.” Mr. Torres reached out to clamp a hand around Emilia’s wrist. “What are you doing? You’ll tip the boat over!”

  His grip tightened, but it was too late. The boat rocked, Emilia lost her balance, and with an ungainly flail went flying over the edge, taking Mr. Torres with her.

  The lagoon into which they plunged was only waist-deep, and warm. Ruben might have been grateful but at the moment he was not inclined to be anything but irritated. Still, when he and Miss Emilia resurfaced, he tried not to let it show.

  “Is this how you end all your discussions?” he inquired as he and Miss Emilia held on to the side of the boat. “Drowning your opponent is certainly an effective way to quench his argument but I’m rather partial to the use of logic and reason, myself.”

  To his surprise, Miss Emilia’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He had caught only a glimpse of her face before she went overboard but it was enough to see just how much Mendez’s remark had infuriated her. The brief dunk seemed to have helped her regain her composure, as if her temper had been
doused along with her frock. She looked calm, if a trifle blank, and collected enough to say, with more than a trace of humor, “Why bother with logic and reason when there’s a lagoon handy?” Her hair had come undone from its pins; strands of it were plastered to the side of her face. She brushed them back with one hand and looked at him with a raised eyebrow and as she did, he couldn’t help but notice the tiny droplets clinging to her dark eyelashes. “Are you—”

  But whatever she had been about to say was lost as Miss Castillo reached out to help her back into the boat. Ruben managed to haul himself up after her without overturning it—it had rocked dangerously before, though none had fallen overboard but himself— and was relieved to see that the movement had dislodged it from the roots.

  After replying to their entreaties with assurances that they were all right and making his excuses to the women for dripping on the hems of their summer whites, he followed Luis to shore. Silence lay heavy upon both boats and even Mendez, who Ruben suspected was one of those men entertained by discord, looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  As soon as the boats reached the small dock, Miss Emilia was deposited into the matrons’ arms, wrapped in a tablecloth and set out in the sun to dry, despite the fact that the afternoon sun was hot enough to scorch. Then they turned to him. Ruben managed to keep the fussing to a minimum but eventually found himself likewise bundled.

  Luis had drawn Mendez aside and was taking him to task, quietly but sternly. Ruben had met Mendez only a handful of times but he’d taken an immediate dislike to him and hadn’t been altogether pleased when Luis had told him Mendez would be at the boating party. It had been cruel of Mendez to say what he had about the girl’s father, even though it was undoubtedly true. It was common knowledge in literary circles that Virgilio Cruz, one of the past decade’s most celebrated poets, had a tendency to overindulge. Heavens knew the gossip would be far more vicious in a small town.