She asked Susana to stoop down so she could secure one of the many pins that held her hairstyle together, glancing at Luis as she did. He was taking a glass of rum punch from a housemaid, listening to Torres as he spoke in a low voice. As she watched, Luis scanned the room for Susana, his eyes brightening when he saw her. He took another glass of punch and headed their way, Torres trailing behind.
It was plain that Luis was serious about Susana, even if he hadn’t been about all those other girls. He was sure to ask Susana to marry him before the summer was over.
If Torres didn’t stand in his way.
Chapter 7
The disadvantage of having a job, a burgeoning writing career, and an increasingly full social calendar, in Emilia’s opinion, lay mostly in the lack of time to sleep.
Carmen’s party had ended late the day before. Susana had insisted on staying until after midnight, even though Torres had clung to Luis like a burr for the rest of the evening. Emilia hadn’t spoken to him again, but his sister had approached Emilia when she was in the foyer getting her and Susana’s wraps.
“Did you enjoy yourself, Miss Cruz?” Miss Torres had asked, untangling her shawl from the ones the housemaid was holding out. It was too hot for shawls, Emilia thought irritably as she picked out hers, and for stockings and dinner jackets, and for anything, really, heavier than a thin cotton shift.
“Not as much as you did, I’m sure,” she said, smiling so Miss Torres wouldn’t take her words as a rebuke. “You danced to almost every song— quite an achievement, in this heat!”
Miss Torres laughed. “Oh, I couldn’t help myself, when the music was so lovely and the men so charming. I must have danced more than four times with Miguel Fung.”
“He’s a wonderful dancer, isn’t he?” Emilia said.
“Just wonderful,” Miss Torres agreed. “And so is my brother. But you must have surely found out already.”
Though Emilia recognized this as an attempt at subtlety, there was nothing subtle about the probing look Miss Torres gave her. In fact, that particular look as applied to herself and Torres was quickly becoming familiar. Denial only seemed to make others more certain that something was happening between them.
“I wouldn’t know, Miss Torres. I haven’t yet danced with your brother.” Emilia gave Miss Torres a brief smile and was about to return to the parlor to look for Susana when she felt Miss Torres’s hand on her arm.
“I’ve spent the past four years waiting for my brother to come home. My father needs him, and he needs my father, though they’re both too stubborn to admit it. We need him at home, Miss Cruz, and I know you’ll understand when I tell you it’s not in his best interests to be kept away for much longer.”
Gently, Emilia removed Miss Torres’s hand from her arm. “I can assure you, Miss Torres, to the best of my knowledge, there is nothing preventing your brother from returning home save for a misguided sense of protectiveness towards Luis.”
Emilia and Susana had gone home shortly after, and though they had gone straight to bed, it was hours until Emilia was able to drift off. Miss Torres had gotten things so wrong, it was almost absurd. The idea that Ruben Torres was staying in Arroyo Blanco because of her was not only absurd, it was…
It was, if Emilia was honest with herself, a little bit thrilling.
Monday afternoon saw her sitting in front of her typewriter at Mr. Mendez’s office, transcribing a letter and trying desperately to keep her eyes from closing.
Another large order had come in that morning, for fifty sewing machines to supply a new clothing factory, and Emilia’s desk had been flooded with a tide of paperwork to be typed and filed and mailed out.
Emilia covered up another yawn with her hand and went to the little room at the back where Mr. Mendez had installed a small stove, brushing past Miss Santos on her way down the hallway. One of the girls had just brewed a pot of coffee. The aroma of it was strong and enticing, making Emilia smiled a smile of pure bliss before she realized Cristobal was in the room.
Emilia didn’t say anything, but kept a wary on him as she reached for one of the cups in the cupboard and filled it with a great deal of very hot and very black coffee. He remained leaning against one of the walls, his arms folded, his tie slightly askew—no doubt the work of Miss Santos—and a faint smirk on his lips.
Pretending she hadn’t noticed his dishevelment, or what passed for dishevelment in someone as scrupulous about their dress as Cristobal, Emilia opened the lid of the sugar bowl and added two spoonfuls to her coffee.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he said, with an appraising look at her bottom.
“Thank you for the advice,” Emilia said evenly, digging the spoon so hard into the sugar that some of it spilled on the table. Overturning two more spoonfuls into the tiny demitasse and rendering the coffee too sweet to actually drink, she fought the urge to march back to her desk and walked sedately instead, even though she was sure he was looking at her backside.
As she settled herself into her chair—which, she wanted to point out, did not break under the exorbitant weight of her posterior—the chimes over the door jangled and Mrs. Espinosa came inside. Cristobal came out of the back just then and, greeting her effusively, led her into his office.
They emerged shortly after. Mrs. Espinosa, who hadn’t even removed her wide-brimmed hat, was apologizing profusely.
“I know you’re awfully busy, Cristobal—” Mrs. Espinosa said, and Emilia only just kept herself from snorting, “—and I know it’s such an imposition, but it would be such a help, what with the typewriter at the library having broken. You can’t imagine how swamped we are, with the fair less than a month away.”
“It’s all right. I’ll have Miss Cruz take care of it,” he said. “I’m sure she won’t mind. Emilia,” he called. “If you please.”
There was nothing for it but to get out of her desk and go up to them with what she hoped was a pleasant smile.
“There are some papers on my desk that Mrs. Espinosa would like to have typed. Would you mind doing us the favor? I know how committed you are to the literacy program.”
“It would be no trouble at all,” Emilia said, stretching her smile wider.
The effect was probably grotesque but Cristobal and Mrs. Espinosa were no longer paying attention to her. They were walking to the door, once again deep in conversation.
Taking advantage of his absence to prevent being cornered her again, Emilia ducked into his office and scooped the pile of papers from his desktop, which she then carried back to her desk. Miss Baez caught her eye as she did, and gave her a sympathetic look.
There was hardly any room for the new papers on the scarred wooden surface. She still had most of Miss Contreras’s paperwork to get through, as well as some documents from the week before. From the looks of it, Cristobal’s little favor would set her back at least three hours.
Cursing Cristobal under her breath, Emilia wrenched her chair back and dropped into it. The documents Mrs. Espinosa had dropped off were mostly correspondence dealing with the book fair, but at the bottom, Emilia found something that looked familiar.
It was the terms of payment for the order they’d just received, a clean copy of which she was supposed to be typing. This must have been an earlier version.
She was about to crumple up the page when something in it drew her attention.
Cristobal was callous and irresponsible and a snake to boot.
And neither was he altogether honest.
She wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t spent the previous week typing clean copies of all the documents pertaining to the previous order. Though he tended to be lenient with individuals who bought the machines for small endeavors, Mr. Mendez was always very clear about the terms of payment when it came to large orders from companies who had the capital to make substantial payments. So the terms of payment on the sales contract Emilia was holding should have been the same as the previous one. In fact…
The second page of the sales cont
ract Miss Contreras had given her only an hour before was still in Emilia’s typewriter. In it, the terms of payment were the same as on the previous order.
Emilia looked more closely at the document she held in her hand. It was addressed to a Hugo San Miguel, like the one in her typewriter, and the details of the order looked the same. But this one had Cristobal’s signature at the bottom, and it was dated for the following day, as though in anticipation of a change.
Before she quite knew what she was doing, she’d folded the page in half and had stuffed it into her pocket. And then, heart pounding, she collected her handbag and left the office for the day.
Chapter 8
On her way out of the office, Emilia ran into Rosa Castillo. In a town as small as Arroyo Blanco, it was unusual for so much as a day to go by without accidentally encountering someone you knew, but as it turned out, there was nothing accidental about their meeting.
“Emilia, I have something to tell you,” Rosa said. “Do you have a moment?”
“Yes, of course,” Emilia said. “Do you want to sit at La Tacita?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. This really will only take a moment— I’m on the board of the Municipal Hospital and I’ll be late for a meeting if I don’t hurry.”
Despite her haste, Rosa didn’t speak immediately. She seemed to be thinking over what she had been about to say, and waited until they had walked to the corner to begin talking.
“I didn’t know if I should say anything,” she said, “because I don’t know anything for a fact. But I overheard Ana Maria earlier talking to her mother about possibly using the WSA booth in the fair for campaigning against magazines that print sensational literature written by women, because she thinks they’re damaging to the cause.”
Emilia would have let out an exclamation, but Rosa pressed on. “I know you’ve been vocal in your support of sensational literature, and I tend to agree with you on some points. But that’s not what concerns me. The WSA has only one goal—to help achieve woman’s suffrage. I don’t think the association should—”
“Police the literature enjoyed by its members?” Emilia interrupted. “I agree. I also don’t think Ana Maria should be allowed to do whatever she likes just because she’s the president. She can’t continue to act alone.”
“We don’t know that she will,” Rosa said, then bit her lip. “She may call for a vote during the next meeting.”
“Let’s hope she will,” Emilia said grimly. “Thanks for telling me this, Rosa.”
“You won’t say anything to Ana Maria yet, will you?”
“Not until the meeting,” Emilia promised.
She and Rosa parted ways and Emilia, mulling over their conversation, headed for the park.
Ruben and Manuel had spent most of the morning answering letters from readers. They’d had two more tips on the supposed identity of The True Accounts’ author, but neither seemed more legitimate than the last one, especially not now that he was so certain it was Emilia Cruz. Noon came and went, and before long it was five in the afternoon, and Ruben was bleary-eyed and in possession of a massive headache from the thwack the typewriter keys made as they struck the paper.
He left Manuel in the boarding house where he was putting the finishing touches on the sketches for Emilia’s booklet of legends and set out for La Tacita for a cup of coffee and the afternoon newspapers. He was still two streets away when he saw Emilia in the distance, speaking with someone he recognized as Rosa Castillo. Without giving it much thought, Ruben changed direction and headed her way.
By the time he caught up with her, she had crossed the street to the park and was sitting on a bench that overlooked the fountain. A large jacaranda spread its branches above her, casting dappled shadows on her navy blue dress and obscuring her face so it wasn’t until he was standing next to her that he saw her downturned mouth.
Her expression brightened the moment she lifted her gaze to his and Ruben returned her greeting, his smile widening when she said, with a quirk of her dark eyebrows, “I wouldn’t stand so close to the fountain if I were you. You don’t know when the urge to drown you might strike me.”
“Don’t tease,” he said, dropping into the bench beside her. “I still have nightmares about it.”
“Are you admitting, Mr. Torres, that I inhabit your dreams?” she asked, with her disarming smile, but he could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She was fiddling with a piece of paper, folding it into smaller and smaller squares, then unfolding it and repeating the entire process.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nothing that a good dunking in the fountain can’t fix,” she said, and changed the subject.
Ruben was burning with curiosity but he amiably answered her question about a play he had been to see some months before, which he’d mentioned in passing. It wasn’t until the following day that he learned what had upset her.
Violeta and Miss Espinosa had persuaded him to join them for a cup of coffee at La Tacita, and while he stirred sugar into his cup and listened listlessly to their conversation, which centered largely around the Woman’s Suffrage Alliance and Violeta’s interest in joining a similar organization, Ruben thought about his predicament.
The next issue of Blanco y Negro was all but finished. Manuel would take it into the city in a few days, where it would be printed and distributed. That meant Ruben only had a few days to decide whether or not to run the piece on Miss Del Valle’s identity.
He’d yet to write it. He should have, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it quite yet. Not without confirmation. He hadn’t even mentioned his suspicions to Manuel.
Without warning, the door to the coffeehouse flew open, as if it had been pushed by a strong wind. The wind—hurricane might have been a better word for it—turned out to be Emilia Cruz. “You can’t be serious about this,” she said, heading straight for Miss Espinosa, who she must have seen through the window. Her face was blazing, her hair in a riot, and she was waving a piece of paper that she set down in front of Miss Espinosa and struck with a closed fist, hard enough to make their cups shudder. “Rosa told me yesterday you were considering it but I didn’t believe you really would do something so—so despicable.”
The paper, Ruben saw as he looked at it from across the table, was some sort of newsletter with the Woman’s Suffrage Alliance’s logo emblazoned across the top—he recognized it from the SUFFRAGE NOW signs posted around town.
“A call for all WSA members to boycott sensational literature?” Emilia was saying. “That’s censorship! It’s not up to the WSA to define what is feminism and what is not, and even if it did, you had no right to call for a boycott without waiting for the members to vote on it.”
Miss Espinosa stiffened. “As president of the WSA, I did what I thought was best. Those stories are a disservice to every woman who—”
“Not everybody agrees with what you’ve done. As you just said, the WSA is a democracy, not a dictatorship, and it was wretched of you to act without consulting anyone. I won’t stand for this!”
Without giving Miss Espinosa a chance to answer, she whirled around and marched out of the coffeehouse.
Casting his sister an apologetic glance—and a handful of pesos to pay for their coffee—Ruben scrambled after her.
“It’s an outrage,” she choked out as he reached her side. “She called for a boycott of all literature she considers detrimental to the cause, and she means for the WSA to protest The True Accounts during the book fair.”
His pulse quickened. Here was an opening, and a better opportunity than this was unlikely to present itself. “I’ve often wondered why it is you seem to feel so strongly about that serial. Can you really like it that much?”
“I don’t feel strongly about it at all,” Emilia said. Her cheeks were bright red and she was breathing hard. “I feel strongly about censorship and about people who think they’ve the run of the town just because their ancestor had the brilliant idea of moving to Arroyo Blanco before anyone else
’s.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” he observed. “Come, now, Emilia.” This was the first time he’d called her by her first name, and the sound of it made her expression soften slightly. “Surely you don’t think I’d believe that.”
They crossed the street and into the park and came to a stop beside a street lamp. The leaves overhead cast dappled shadows on her face, darkening her eyes. He wanted to take hold of her face and tilt it up so her eyes caught the patch of light illuminating the curve of her cheek but he kept his hands to himself, not knowing if she’d welcome his touch.
Emilia looked at him and he could tell from her expressive eyes she was debating whether or not to tell him the truth. After a moment, she shrugged. “Very well, Mr. Torres. What is it you want me to tell you? That I’m the author of The True Accounts and I’m livid about this scheme of Ana Maria’s? There you have it, then.”
This was what he’d been waiting for and what was better, he hadn’t had to press her for the admission. Contriving to keep his expression nonchalant, Ruben nodded. “That would do, for starters.”
She gave him a sidelong look. “You don’t seem very scandalized. I thought the news would be quite shocking.”
“I’m a modern man,” he said, raising an eyebrow in a good imitation of her expression, “and if I recall correctly, modern people are not easily shocked.”
She laughed, and the small brown bird that had been hopping closer and closer to her skirts took sudden flight. “Well, now that you’re acquainted with my secret identity, I’ll look forward to hearing more of your opinions on my poorly written prose and wooden characters.”
She laughed again, this time at his wince. “Don’t worry, I’m sure plenty of people agree with you. Though it seems like most of them object to the scandalous nature of the stories, and not the weak characterizations.”
Hearing his words quoted back at him made him want to squirm inside his shoes. He hadn’t even the excuse of having written them for Blanco y Negro—he’d said those things to her face, in front of her friends. It was no wonder she had tried to drown him. “I didn’t think you’d be the sort to be worried about public disapproval.”
A Summer for Scandal Page 10
