“Do you remember when Luis and I went to spend the summer at our friend’s house by the seaside?” Ruben waited for Violeta to nod before continuing. “I was a terrible correspondent in those days—”
“Not much improved now,” Violeta murmured.
“—And so I never told anyone where I was going. So imagine my surprise when I drove into the town square one day and saw Papa coming out of a shop. I thought he had gone there on business and was calling out to him when a young girl exited the shop and threw her arms around him.”
Everything about that day was engraved in Ruben’s mind. The brightness of the morning sunshine as it sparkled on the panes of glass, the ribbons fluttering in the girl’s hair, the expression on his father’s face when he caught sight of Ruben standing across the street and realized he’d been caught.
“There was no mistaking the situation, especially not when the rest of them came outside. A woman and two more little girls, all of whom looked so much like him that it made my breath catch. They were his, Violeta. His children. And the woman—well, it was obvious she thought she was his wife. I was ready to disabuse her of the notion but Papa whisked them into a motorcar and drove away. He found me the next day and told me the sordid story, making me promise not to tell you or Mama. I promised, but I couldn’t stand to see him dance attendance on Mama as if those other people didn’t exist, so I left and I haven’t been able to go back.”
“Is that why you and Papa fought?”
“I—yes, of course it was. Did you not hear what I just said? He has another family, hidden away by the seaside.”
Instead of gasping or crying out or even fainting from the shock, Violeta looked at him and said, calmly, “I know. I’ve met them.”
It was the last thing he’d expected her to say. Speechless, his mouth hanging open, he listened as she went on.
“Some of them, at least. There are four children—you must not have seen the baby, little Pablo. Perhaps he’d been left with his nursemaid. The eldest girl is around my age. Her name is Sofia.”
“How long have you known?”
“I found out two months ago. Sofia’s mother fell ill rather suddenly and since Papa hadn’t gone around in some time, Sofia went looking for him. She found me instead. I knew at once who she was. She looks just like Papa—we look a lot alike and as it turns out, we have a great deal in common.”
“You’ve spoken to her?”
“She’s our sister, Ruben, and it’s not her fault that she was born in those circumstances. She was just as surprised as I was, in fact. Papa wasn’t only dishonest to us.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Ruben scrubbed his face with his hands. “There’s another family in one of the towns near the coast—I can’t remember the name. I don’t suppose it matters. This is a more recent… development. The woman has only one child, a boy. And she—I would be surprised if she were more than a handful of years older than you.”
“So there was someone else. Sofia and I thought so but we couldn’t find any evidence of it.”
“How is it you’re so calm about all this? Why don’t you—”
“Hate him, like you obviously do? I tried to, when I found out what he’d done. But for all he’s done wrong and all the mistakes he’s made, he isn’t a bad man at heart. He isn’t abusive or violent and he has made sure that every one of his children was provided for in the event that anything should happen to him. And he's done everything in his power to shield Mama from society’s censure— he was decent enough to confine his infidelities to different towns, which is more than can be said for a lot of other men.”
Even after everything, it seemed his father could do no wrong in Violeta’s eyes. A small part of Ruben wondered if he’d been unduly harsh on him…or was it that women were bred to be more forgiving of a man’s transgressions? Certainly they tended to be on the receiving end, especially when it came this sort of indiscretion.
But what his father had done was no indiscretion, no momentary lapse of judgement. For years, decades even, he had knowingly and willingly broken his marriage vows, with not one but two different women. That he provided financially for his children did not make him a paragon of virtue.
Violeta was looking at him. “Why has it hurt you so deeply?”
Ruben wanted to deny that finding out the truth about his father’s infidelity had done anything but anger him, but it was all too clear to him that Violeta would see through that with this newfound insight of hers. Or perhaps it wasn’t so terribly new. He hadn’t seen her in four years, after all. He let out a ragged breath. “Because I thought he loved Mother. Because I thought I knew what love was— constant and solid and permanent. Not something that waxes and wanes and fades with every smile from a pretty face.”
“Can you really be so much of a romantic?”
Ruben gave her a brief smile. “No one has ever accused me of that before.”
“Only because you take such pains to hide it. I see you do it when you’re around Emilia Cruz. Why do you push her away, when you’re so obviously taken by her?”
It was true he had found her attractive from the moment she’d first tried to drown him, but there was nothing romantic about his interest in her. Of course, he couldn’t explain exactly why he was spending so much time with her without revealing his own secret identity, and that irritated him to no end. “I don’t, and I’m not, and even if I were, my private life is none of your concern,” he said abruptly. “I’m going back to the party.”
“Wait.” Her hand tugged at the sleeve of his jacket and he was forced to stop lest she tear it. “I want you to meet Sofia. I’ve told her about you and she’s told me she wants to get to know you. The little ones don’t know a thing, of course, but she and I have grown quite close in the past couple of months.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” she said softly and Ruben, despite every objection he still held, said he would.
He was at the door when her voice came out of the darkness behind him. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I don’t think Papa ever stopped loving Mama.”
For some reason, an image of Miss Cruz reading her father’s poem popped into his mind. Like his mother, she seemed to believe wholeheartedly in the idea that affection could last for decades, unchanged and undamaged. And like his mother, she was sure to be bitterly disappointed when she found out it wasn’t true.
“I find it hard to believe he ever loved her,” Ruben said, aware he was talking about Luis as much as his father. “I don’t think someone who claims to love so freely can really love at all.”
The next day proved to be a long one. Mr. Mendez had taken on a great deal of new business and, as a consequence, there were endless documents to type and organize and file. It had taken her most of the afternoon to make some semblance of order out of them, and by the time she arrived home, Emilia’s back was aching and her eyes were bleary from squinting over small type. Even so, she went directly to the little notebook under the armchair cushion.
It had been hot enough inside the office that Emilia had entertained herself with thoughts of the next part in her stories, which she meant to set in the coldest place she could think of. Emilia loosened the top button of her blouse and began to write, feeling the rest of the world slip away. Valeria had to decide between the noble sultan and the rakish duke, and for once her mercenary heart would fail her and she would abscond to the Alps—or to Russia, or the southmost tip of the Patagonia, wherever it was coldest— with the penniless poet who had captured her attention…and her heart. Emilia had never seen snow, but she imagined it to be soft and powder-like. Or maybe like a cloud.
Almost two hours had passed by the time she reached the end of the chapter. Capping her pen and yawning, she glanced idly at the darkening sky, then started when she realized it was almost seven in the evening.
The kitchen was dark and Susana was in her bedroom, examining an old dress of Emilia’s that she’d made
over the week before. “Are you done? I saw you scribbling away and didn’t want to disturb you. Do you think this would look awful on me?”
“Awful? You could wear my ruffled apron—burn marks and all—and still be the most beautiful girl at any gathering.”
“If only Luis would think so,” Susana said, and Emilia wondered just how it escaped her sister’s notice that every time Luis Rojas looked at her, it was with adoration.
“I have it on good authority that Mr. Rojas is quite wild about you.”
Susana glanced at her. “Good authority? Did Mr. Torres say something?”
“He said a great many things,” Emilia said, choosing not to share them with her sister.
Susana didn’t seem to notice. She was fishing hairpins out of Emilia’s cluttered drawer and lining them up neatly on top of the dressing table. “Will you help me fix my hair like the girl in the coffee tins?” she asked, unwinding a dark blue ribbon from a snarl of string and thread.
Emilia yawned and shoved the dresses aside so she could sit on the bed. Her stomach was rumbling faintly, reminding her it was almost time for dinner. “Now? Are you planning on dazzling the carrots, or is it the plantain you want to impress?”
Susana gave Emilia a surprised look. “We promised Carmen we’d go to her party tonight. Oh, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten, Emilia.”
“Maybe I suppressed it, like a bad memory. Do we really have to go? I was looking forward to staying at home. I want to go over a story I’ve been working on and type up a new copy to send to Mr. Ortiz.”
“Do say you’ll come with me,” Susana said. “It would be unpardonably rude to cancel this late and besides, Luis and Mr. Torres are sure to be there.”
“Small comfort,” Emilia said with a sniff, but she went off to find a comb without another word. Luis seemed more and more infatuated with Susana with every day that passed, and to Emilia, it didn’t seem like it would be long before the matter was decided, one way or another. And once that happened, Emilia would finally have some peace.
It took a full hour, but at long last the two sisters were dressed, their hair neatly dressed—or, in Emilia’s case, barely tamed—and entering the Vidal’s sitting room.
The men stood at their arrival and Luis immediately made his way over to Susana's side. With him in tow, they made the rounds, exchanging pleasantries with the people who’d assembled in the parlor. Once she had greeted everyone and asked after their mothers and dogs and ailing relatives, Emilia settled herself in an out-of-the-way corner, far away from where Cristobal was tormenting some poor young girl—who, Emilia admitted, did not look terribly displeased with his flirting— wondering if it would be too rude to take out the papers she had folded into her beaded evening bag. It was one thing to drag her out of the house when she had a forty-page story to revise; under the circumstances, Emilia felt it was rather too much to ask for anything beyond civility. It was too hot for dancing anyway, even though some foolhardy souls were attempting it on the veranda.
Rosa joined her some moments later and they struck up a conversation about a series of lectures Rosa had attended in the city, and her recounting of them was so interesting that before long Emilia had begun to reconcile herself with the idea of being social. And then she reconciled herself further when Torres came over with two glasses of rum punch, even though she still hadn’t quite forgiven him for what he’d said the day before.
The windows and doors had been thrown open to let in the breeze, but it was still devilishly warm inside the house. Taking a sip of punch, she sat back to listen to Rosa as she gave them a very interesting account of the lecture on the rise of political awareness in women of the middle class.
“Luis and I had a friend in university who wrote about women and politics,” Torres said when she was done. “Where is Luis? I’m sure he could tell you much more about her than I could.”
Emilia had seen Luis and Susana wander out into the terrace a few moments before, but she wasn’t about to tell Torres so he could follow them and spoil their moment. Unfortunately, Rosa wasn’t aware Torres was a romance killer.
“I think he and Susana are in the terrace,” she said.
Torres stood. “I’ll go get him, if you ladies will excuse me.”
That wouldn’t do at all. Emilia scrambled to her feet, thanking the heavens for the sudden appearance of Ana Maria, who had heard about the lecture Rosa had been to and wanted to ask if a certain book had been discussed.
Despite the reason for leaving the party, Emilia was grateful for a reprieve from the stifling atmosphere inside the sitting room. It was still warm in the terrace, but less crowded than it was inside. The sound of conversation and laughter was soon replaced by a symphony of frogs that was almost as melodious as the ballad coming out of Carmen’s gramophone.
After making sure Luis and Susana weren’t in the terrace, Torres went down the steps leading to the sprawling gardens, Emilia at his heels.
Mercifully, the gardens appeared empty, at least at first sight. The Vidals lived on Camino del Oeste, a quiet street on the more prosperous side of town. Large old houses lined the street on both sides, their manicured gardens enclosed by wrought-iron fences and shielded from view by tall hibiscus hedges. The Vidals’ gardens, with its profusion of orchids and fishtail palms, was one of the largest and most beautiful in town. There was a small pond on the far end where they’d played as children and where, Emilia suspected, Luis and Susana had absconded to.
Glaring at Torres even though he probably wouldn’t be able to make out her expression in the moonlight, Emilia said, “I really wish you’d abandon this ridiculous campaign of yours. Don’t you find it tiresome to skulk about trying to separate two people who are obviously meant to be together?”
“I’m only trying to protect your sister.”
“She doesn’t need your protection. She’s an adult, and entitled to make her own decisions, even if they’re the wrong ones— which clearly isn’t the case here. Can’t you see they’re happy together?”
“They might be happy now, but it never lasts.”
“It must be dismal to be so cynical all the time.”
“I’m not cynical. Only realistic.”
A flash of movement in the garden below caught Emilia’s attention. It was Susana’s pale blue silk dress, waving in the breeze as she and Luis strolled down the walk that led to the pond, partially hidden by the waving branches of a jasmine bush—but not entirely.
Emilia thought fast. “Maybe you wouldn’t think so if you’d ever been in love.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“Have you?” she countered, surprised when he answered honestly.
“I haven’t,” he said. “But I’ve seen it go wrong enough times to know I want no part in it. And neither would your sister, if she knew how easily a man can fall in and out of love.”
Ever so lightly, she touched her fingertips to his arm. They had stopped walking and were facing each other, standing perhaps a trifle closer than was respectable in order to hear each other’s low voice. “It doesn’t always end badly.”
“How can you sound so sure of that?” he asked softly, turning to look at her. Emilia would have heaved a sight of relief if she hadn’t been captivated by the sight of his eyes, which had gone dark with some emotion she couldn’t have begun to describe.
“I’m not sure at all,” she said. “But neither am I willing to throw away a chance for happiness on the possibility that it might not work out. And neither should you, no matter who disappointed you.”
Her hand was still on his arm. She could feel the hard muscle beneath the linen of his jacket and it reminded her of how he’d rolled up his sleeves to row the boat at the lagoon. Had that only been three weeks before? It felt like much longer.
Standing there, the two of them together in the darkness, her hand on his arm and his eyes on her, half hidden from the terrace by the spreading branches of the laurel tree, they might have been a pair of lovers. She’d w
ritten a scene like this before, in which Valeria and the sultan made love in the moonlight. Her breath came shorter as it occurred to her Torres had probably read it.
“I wish I had half your courage,” Torres murmured, shifting closer. For one absurd—and fleeting, she assured herself— moment, it seemed that he might kiss her.
“There you are,” someone exclaimed behind them. It was Carmen, outlined in the light that spilled through the open doors. She strode to their side and took Torres by the arm. “We’ve been looking all over for you— we need a fourth to make up a game of burro and Luis has always boasted about how good you are at card games…”
She drew him away, taking no notice of Emilia, who stood in alone in the garden for longer than she should have, feeling oddly disappointed.
Susana was glowing when she came back inside. Despite the heat, she was wearing a new shawl, its silky folds draped over her shoulders and spilling down over her dress. Emilia raised an eyebrow and Susana pulled Emilia aside on the pretext of asking her to pin up a loose strand of hair.
“Do you like it? Luis brought it back from Cuba.” Susana glanced up to make sure no one was listening, then leaned a little closer to Emilia and said confidingly, “He bought it when he was in Havana two years ago and said he was saving it until he found someone worthy of its beauty. He said I’m beautiful.”
Susana's eyes were alight. Emilia squeezed her sister’s hand. “There! I knew he would say something if given the chance.”
“He’s returning to the city in a few weeks. Do you think he might…say something before he does?”
“He would be a beast not to.” In fact, Luis was so besotted with Susana he would likely marry her before then, and take her with him when he went. Emilia felt a pang at the thought of being separated from her sister, but the bliss that made Susana's face glow more than made up for any sadness Emilia might feel at being left behind.
A Summer for Scandal Page 9
