A Summer for Scandal

by Lydia San Andres

  “I’m not,” she said. “If anything, the controversy will sell more copies of the magazine.”

  It didn’t take special knowledge of the publishing world to know that ever since The True Accounts started coming out, copies of La Rosa were selling faster than they ever had. Nearly everyone in the island read the story, it seemed, and its popularity only continued to grow as it became more and more explicit.

  “What bothers me is that Ana Maria is so determined to ignore the very obvious feminist sentiment running through the whole thing. I thought I was being subversive when I made Valeria a courtesan—not a victim of circumstance, but someone with the courage to take charge of her own life, even if it means being shunned by everyone she’s ever known. But I don’t suppose it’s as obvious to everyone as it is to me.” She was silent for a moment. “It’s hard to think that something that helped me through such a difficult time can be such an irritation to other people. And I’m powerless to say anything about it.”

  “You weren’t powerless that day at the lagoon,” Ruben pointed out. “And then again at the theater. You can defend your work—not in the way you’d want to, perhaps, but in a way that might even be more effective.”

  “You may be right,” Emilia said, biting her lip. “I could write an essay for Minerva. As Miss Del Valle, even,” she added, brightening.

  “And if all else fails, I’ll help you throw tomatoes at the protestors.”

  She laughed. “How about instead, you write an article of your own?”

  He was burning to tell her. It was the perfect moment to tell her, in fact, meeting her confession with one of his own. But she would despise him when she knew and that, he was quickly beginning to realize, was one thing he wouldn’t be able to stand.

  “Are you sure you want me to do that, after the way I’ve disparaged your poor stories?” he said.

  “There’s nothing poor about them,” Emilia said. “And I think a review in El Diario Nuevo can only be beneficial, especially as your column comes out the day before the fair. Your opinion means a great deal to the literary community. I couldn’t be so bold as to tell you what to write—”

  “—but I’m sure you have a suggestion or two,” Ruben finished. She gave him a demure look, which only made him laugh. “I’ll think about it,” he promised, uncomfortably aware that in the back of his mind, he had begun to compose another piece— Though her identity has proven so far to be elusive…

  They walked on, until they reached the bench by the fountain where they’d sat the day before. Ruben took one corner while Emilia arranged herself in the other. The skirt of her walking suit had been cut fairly close to her figure, but even so a fold of it brushed against his outstretched leg.

  “What made you start writing the serial?”

  An elderly woman strode past them, lifting a hand in Emilia’s direction, and Emilia fell silent as she returned the greeting. She waited until the woman was out of sight before saying, “I did it for the money, at first. My father was…unwell and Mama had just died and things were getting quite desperate, to be frank, so when I found an ad that claimed the magazine would pay up to eight pesos for a fresh, original story…well, I didn’t have the luxury of thinking twice about it. I scribbled a short piece and sent it off, never expecting it would result in much. But Mr. Ortiz liked it, and he asked me for more and more and now he won’t even consider looking at any other story unless it’s more of the same.”

  “Don’t know if I can blame him,” Ruben said. “You’re making him a very wealthy man.”

  “Oh, not so much as that.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “You don’t know, do you? The True Accounts has to be the most popular serial currently in publication. Sales for La Rosa have almost tripled since it began to run and its circulation is growing by the day. I’ve heard Ortiz is considering distribution in South and Central America, all on the strength of your writing. Whatever he’s paying you, it’s not enough.”

  She looked a little stunned. “Then why doesn’t he want to look at anything new?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to take a chance on something different especially if it would pull your focus from The True Accounts. Ortiz has always been a cautious fellow.” He remembered the comment she’d made to Ortiz’s associate and added, “If you have a manuscript ready, I would suggest you take it to another publisher.”

  “I might just do that,” she said. The surprise in her face was being replaced by a thoughtful expression. “I know you’re awfully busy, but I wonder if you would mind taking a look at it. I’m sure my little story could benefit from your superior understanding of the craft.”

  She was teasing him. He smiled and said, “I’d be happy to.”

  The clock struck the hour and she looked towards it, even though the clock tower wasn’t visible through the trees.

  “I should go. Mrs. Espinosa wants to go over the plans for the book fair with some of the volunteers.” She stood, but didn’t walk away, remaining instead beside the bench and looking at Ruben with a lingering smile on her lips. He rose to his feet and the movement put them very close to each other.

  Neither of them backed away.

  She lifted a hand and Ruben steeled himself, thinking she meant to touch him, but all she did was sweep a wayward strand of hair away from her forehead. It sprang back a second later and Ruben had to stop himself from smoothing it back. Though all his attention was on her, it took him a moment to realize she was talking. “…anyone else. And thank you.”

  “Why would you thank me?” he asked.

  “For listening. For the advice. And for refusing to be shocked.”

  He inclined his head. “I hope you know you can count on me whenever you need someone incapable of feeling any kind of shock, astonishment, surprise…”

  He continued to list synonyms as she left the park and walked across the street, the sound of her laughter fading in the distance.

  When she had gone, Ruben strode towards the boarding house as quickly as he could, his heart racing. He had it. He had the confirmation that she was Miss Del Valle, and from her own lips no less.

  And now that he had it, it was no longer possible to ignore the question nudging his subconscious ever since he’d overheard Emilia talking to the editor at La Rosa— was he really willing to expose her?

  Ruben slowed down as he reached Paseo Principal.

  So far, he’d been able to tell himself his reviews on Blanco y Negro, while harsh, didn’t really hurt anyone save for a few pockets. But there was no question that being exposed would hurt Emilia directly. She’d face disapproval, scorn, humiliation, and even though she’d professed not to care about what others thought, Ruben had seen firsthand the ugliness directed at her purely because of her father’s habits. It didn’t take much thought to know the reaction to her writing would be much, much worse.

  And then there was the fact that she was very likely to guess who it was that had given her secret away. Even if she didn’t know the paper was his, she’d still know he’d betrayed her…and the prospect of that made him feel slightly sick.

  And yet. Having Violeta around only made it clearer that he had to do whatever he could to survive on his own. And the only way he’d do that was if he had the money to house and feed himself. He’d walked away from his inheritance before his father could cut him off and now the paper was his main means of sustenance—the column at El Diario didn’t pay nearly enough and the sales from his first book were dwindling sadly. He’d had a taste of poverty when he’d first moved away from home and the possibility of returning to that state had haunted him for the past three years, after he’d seen just how easily it could be to step over the edge of it.

  Perhaps he ought to be considering how printing the article would benefit the paper. Blanco y Negro could only profit from it.

  Ruben stopped outside the boarding house. Through an open window on the second floor, he could hear the clattering of a typewriter. That had to be Manuel, still hard at work. He
knew what Manuel would say if he knew what Ruben was debating. Manuel had always been one to put the paper above all else. Not so long ago, Ruben had thought the same thing about himself. Now, however, he wasn’t at all certain.

  Chapter 9

  Ana Maria’s mother had once been the mayor’s daughter, and she never let anyone forget it. A portrait of her exalted father hung in the entrance of their large house and she managed to work his name into almost every conversation, always prepared to enlighten those who weren’t well-versed in the history of local governance.

  She had opened the meeting by recounting her father’s crusade to teach reading and writing to the farmers who labored in the nearby coffee and tobacco plantations, and who Emilia thought would have benefited more from a knowledge of arithmetic in order to avoid being cheated by greedy landowners. In any case, Mrs. Espinosa managed to drone on for the better part of half an hour without a thought for the heat that had settled over the veranda and, in combination with her speech, rendered her guests comatose. As she spoke, Emilia felt her attention drifting away.

  Susana would kill her if she ever found out Emilia had told someone. But she had been keeping the secret for so long that in a way it was something of a relief, being able to discuss her writing with someone other than her sister, who would soon be married and gone, and the men at the magazine. Mr. Ortiz had never anything to say but “Couldn’t you write faster, dear?” and her editor tended to blush and stutter to the point of incapacitation when around her, but Torres was a writer himself and so far he had proven to be awfully nice to talk to.

  When he wasn’t being a pretentious ass.

  Though she did have to admit the more she got to know him, the more the pretentiousness melted away. Strange though it may seem, she was starting to suspect there was a flesh-and-blood man underneath the literary snobbery.

  The thought of his flesh made her a tingle run up her spine. She hadn’t been too upset earlier to notice the breadth of his shoulders inside his pale linen jacket, or the long column of his muscular legs and thighs.

  How he’d contrived to acquire those muscles while spending half the day in front of a typewriter, she didn’t know. But, if she were to be absolutely honest with herself, she wouldn’t mind finding out.

  Emilia jumped in her chair when she felt a pinch on her arm. She glared at Susana, who widened her eyes and nodded towards Mrs. Espinosa. The venerable lady was looking at Emilia, a perfectly groomed brow raised quizzically. “What do you say, Emilia dear?”

  “Er. Yes?” Emilia blurted foolishly. That must have been the right thing to say, because Susana gave a satisfied nod. Emilia breathed out. She’d find out later what she’d just volunteered for—hopefully nothing too objectionable. In the meantime, she allowed herself to sink back into her thoughts.

  It had been very agreeable of him to say he would write about her stories in his column, especially if he really meant to defend them. She hadn’t asked him not to reveal her name because it went without saying…didn’t it?

  As soon as the meeting was over, and it seemed like half an eon passed before Mrs. Espinosa finished going over every detail of the fair, Emilia hurried out ahead of the group. Normally, she would have waited for Susana to finish her lingering goodbyes so they could walk home together. Tonight, however, Emilia kept going all the way up Camino del Oeste until she reached a side street that would take her into Paseo Principal.

  It must have been close to eight o’clock and the sun was just beginning to go down when she climbed the steps to Mrs. Herrera’s boarding house. In the dimness of twilight, the big house with its many balconies and porches and lace-like wooden trim looked like something out of a fairy tale. Emilia dug her finger into the doorbell and waited for a few anxious minutes, listening to the noise within.

  Torres was at the foot of the stairs when the housemaid pulled the door open to let Emilia inside, deep in conversation with Mrs. Herrera. Emilia caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and almost walked out again. She hadn’t paused to consider what her hurried pace would do to her hair, which was escaping its pins as avidly as a convict escaped an open jail cell, or to her face, which was most assuredly red and dewy with sweat. There was no hope for it, however—she’d been spotted.

  Both Torres and Mrs. Herrera turned to her as she came inside. Emilia greeted Mrs. Herrera, then said to Torres, “I need to speak to you.”

  Mrs. Herrera, who knew exactly who Emilia was, raised an eyebrow at him. “Another sister?”

  His mouth twisted, and Emilia recognized the gesture as one he made when he was trying not to laugh. He made it rather often when he was around her and Emilia supposed she should be pleased at being found amusing even when she wasn’t trying particularly to be so, especially since he never made her feel as though he were laughing at her.

  Mrs. Herrera caught the look that traveled between them and gave Emilia a thoughtful look. Still, she gave them the use of her best parlor, the one with the stiff silk-covered sofas—and the tall doors that didn’t close all the way—and sailed away to settle the dispute that had broken out in the adjoining room.

  Emilia could barely wait for Mrs. Herrera to cross the threshold before blurting out, “You won’t write about me, will you?”

  He looked startled, and faintly guilty. “Write about you?”

  “In your column for El Diario Nuevo. I’ve read some of the pieces you wrote on Espaillat, disparaging his use of a pseudonym to publish his essays on the suffrage movement in England. Perhaps I don’t have the right to ask you to keep my secret— perhaps I shouldn’t have told you in the first place. But I have, so now all I can ask is that you don’t reveal my identity if you do decide to write about me.”

  “Is that why you came?”

  “I don’t mean to imply I don’t trust you—”

  “It’s a reasonable concern.” He sat beside her and Emilia felt an echo of the warmth that had come over her when they’d sat together on the park bench. The side of her body closest to him began to tingle. Emilia would have compared the sensation to a limb falling asleep, but she felt exactly the opposite—as if she was coming alive. She shifted in her seat, as if she could somehow shake off the sensation. “I know it’s not enough to simply demand your trust,” he said, “not when I’ve given you no proof am trustworthy or not. So I’ll just say your secret it safe with me.”

  “I—thank you.”

  She exhaled, and her relief must have been very obvious because it prompted him to ask, “Does it matter that much what people would think?”

  “I didn’t think it would.” Emilia said. “I’ve used a pseudonym for so long that I’ve grown used to being able to say what I want without facing the consequences. I know you think pseudonyms are a form of cowardice—”

  “No, I—” He paused, and considered his words before speaking again. “I understand. In fact, I would have done the same if I were you.”

  “I don’t hide my identity because I’m afraid of talk—in fact, from the start, I thought about putting my real name on the stories. But then I think of what would happen if I did.” She drew in a breath. “Susana and I have been snubbed so often because of our father’s—because of our father—that I don’t think I could willingly do anything to attract that kind of condemnation. Especially now that Ana Maria has got it into her head that the things I write are contemptible.”

  “She couldn’t be more wrong,” Torres said. “It takes courage to write what you do. Courage, and intelligence, and—”

  “And a working knowledge of female anatomy?” she added, expecting him to laugh.

  He didn’t. “And heart,” he murmured. “It takes a great deal of heart.”

  The object in question, perhaps feeling itself acknowledged, began to beat in earnest. Emilia was uncomfortably aware of the rhythm of it as it pounded away inside her chest, which grew more erratic when Torres lifted a hand and traced his fingertips over the curve of her jaw.

  It was plain whatever effect he had
on her was mutual.

  Emilia thought about closing the last few inches between them and pressing her lips to his, then thought about Mrs. Herrera and any of the dozen people in the house who were likely to walk in at any moment… then she damned them all and did it anyway.

  Only a couple of weeks had passed since Emilia had sat in the train next to him and thought him unremarkable. His mouth, she was pleased to discover, was very remarkable indeed. It was soft and pliable and very warm and he seemed to know how to put it to good use. But before she could fully appreciate his skill, he pulled away from her.

  She gave him a questioning look.

  In the faint glow of the electric lamps, his eyes looked much darker than they were. “I shouldn’t want you to kiss me because you think it will make me keep your secret.”

  And just like that, the spell that had descended between them broke.

  She frowned at him. “I’m kissing you because I want to. Do you think I’m the kind of woman who would try to buy someone’s silence with her body?”

  “I wasn’t aware you were offering your body.” There it was again, that infuriating twist of his lips that made her realize he was baiting her to see her reaction.

  Exasperation coursed through Emilia. Throwing up her hands in disgust, she got to her feet and started for the door. “You really are impossible. Do I have your word you won’t say anything?”

  “You do. And what’s more, you can have my body, too.”

  “I don’t want it,” she said, with dignity, even though she had already begun to imagine all the things she could do with it.

  “Are you sure about that?” He was on his feet in a second, taking her by the hand and drawing her closer. She melted against him, tilting her head up, but he kept his lips one maddening inch away from hers.