The Saints of the Cross

by Michelle Figley

“Monsieur de la Cruz. I have the mademoiselle’s bag for you,” Jean-Luc calls from the other side. I let out a frustrated sigh and tighten the towel around me as Javier opens the door.

  “Merci,” Javier says, handing Jean-Luc a tip. He closes the door behind him and turns to me, a scowl darkening his face. “You have to stop that.”

  “What?” I ask innocently enough.

  “Stop doing that to me. You’re making it very difficult for me to resist you.” He brings the bag to me, drops it at the foot of the bed, and then takes a quick step back as if trying to steer clear of my grasp.

  “So, then stop resisting,” I say, swinging my legs out from under me with the clear intent of chasing him down, if need be. Javier rushes to open the door and then pauses under the frame with a triumphant look on his face.

  “Eva, seriously, get dressed for the beach and meet me on the deck,” he says and is gone in an instant, the door slamming behind him.

  Dammit! Foiled again! I have the distinct feeling that Jean-Luc is aboard the Falcon for the sole purpose of breaking up our impassioned embraces. I am going to have to find some way to get rid of that guy by tonight if I expect to be with Javier as I had planned. That damned Frenchman is not making it easy!

  After I meet him on the deck as he had instructed, Javier takes me on a tour of Marbella. We visit the oldest church in the city, built in the fifteenth century, Ermita de Santiago, in La Plaza de los Aranjos—the Plaza of Oranges. We pass through the Avenida del Mar on our way to the promenade and stop to admire the strange but exquisite bronze Dalí sculptures, each a whimsical and satirical take on the Spanish society of his time. We stroll the rest of the afternoon on the promenade, checking out shops and sampling restaurants, and then lazing on the nearby Playa de la Fontanilla.

  On the beach, we take turns burying each other up to our chins in the sand. Soon two French preschoolers, who have been intently watching us nearby, come over to help me bury Javier. He laughs and speaks to them in their native tongue, and when we’re bored with burying each other, he shows them how to make castles from the wet sand. After a while, their nanny comes over to collect them, saying something in a tone that suggests they are being scolded. There’s a brief, pleasant exchange between Javier and the nanny, and then the children are gone, taking their bell-like laughter with them. We return to our beach blanket, and Javier hands me the sunscreen to reapply to his back.

  “I didn’t know you’re fluent in French,” I say after a few minutes of silence.

  “It never came up, I guess.” He shrugs. “I’m also fluent in Russian and Italian.”

  “Quite the world traveler, I see.”

  “Most Europeans are fluent in at least two languages because we start learning from a very young age. Americans should try the bilingual thing sometime. It’s really quite useful,” he mocks, a smirk on his face.

  “Yeah, yeah. Leave us alone. We’re preoccupied with mastering the basics. You know—reading, writing, and arithmetic. Once we do that well, then maybe we can move on to foreign languages,” I huff, my voice dripping with bitterness.

  “Oh, right,” he says, laughing.

  “You were really good with those kids,” I say, changing the subject.

  “I like kids. I envy them, really.”

  “Why?” I’m shocked. I’d never pegged Javier as the type to admire children.

  “Because they look at the world with pure eyes. They see it as it is, not through filters of preconceived notions and prejudices. With kids, what you see is what you get. There’s just a truth in their innocence that we as adults have lost and will never regain.” He turns around to face me, his eyes searching mine. “The only way to be reminded of this innocence is to always have children in your life. Do you want to have children someday, Eva?”

  I panic. I haven’t really thought about children. I mean, I’m not ready to start a family. But I can tell by the way Javier is staring at me that he’s serious. Honestly, helping to take care of the twins after my mother died turned me off the whole child-rearing thing. Emma and Ethan were incredibly difficult children. They were always sick as babies, not to mention picky eaters, and they never wanted to sleep on a normal schedule. Plus they are, for the most part, complete brats. But who knows? That decision, to start a family, should come much later down the line for me. I decide to be honest with Javier regardless of whether or not he’ll like my answer.

  “I haven’t given it that much thought, really.” When the smile fades from his lips, I blurt, “but, now that I think of it, yeah, I would like to have a family someday in the distant future.” Oops, that didn’t sound too convincing. “I mean, after I’ve gone to college and gotten a good job, and gotten married. You know, the whole traditional thing.”

  Okay, I admit it; I totally bailed on the whole honesty thing. Up until I’d met Javier, I wanted to be a journalist, traveling internationally, and writing about the most pressing of issues. Never once had I considered children a part of that plan. A roguishly handsome, equally worldly husband? Maybe. But children? Never.

  “You’re going to have my children someday,” he says in a tone that, for some reason, sends an unnerving tingle down my spine. The shock must show on my face because he adds, “Don’t worry, we’ll be married first.”

  “Umm, sure,” I scoff.

  I don’t know why his assertion makes me feel so uncomfortable, but it does. I should be overjoyed with the idea that he’s thinking of making such a serious commitment to me; but then again, that’s probably why it feels so strange. We’re both too young to be making those kinds of statements of eternal, undying, happily-ever-after love. Aren’t we? It just does not make any sense that a nineteen-year-old guy is ready and willing to settle down and have babies—especially with me. I mean, I’m not the type of girl who typically evokes those feelings of desperate love in men. As if he’s reading my mind, Javier continues.

  “I can picture them now,” he says, closing his eyes, a smile lighting up his dark features. “Half of them have your pale-blue eyes and curly, red hair. Oh, and those adorable freckles across their pointy little noses. The other half has thick, black hair, dark eyes, and my olive skin tone.”

  When I think about it, I do wonder what our children would look like, being that he’s so dark and I’m so pale. We are polar opposites in the looks department, other than the fact that we’re both tall by average American standards. I have a sneaking suspicion that our kids would likely resemble him more than me, what with those dominant dark traits and all—wait . . . they?

  “How many kids are you picturing there, mister?” I ask with a nervous laugh, only half joking, as I reapply SPF-50 sunscreen to the scorching skin on my chest.

  His eyes flick open and then narrow at me. “I just told you I want to be surrounded by children. I want to have a big family, preferably with you, Eva.”

  “It’s hard to have a large family and work. Just having three children in our family was like being raised in a zoo. It was completely crazy at times. Thank God for Grandma Winnie being there full time to help take care of us.” This guy obviously does not come from a big family or he wouldn’t be saying he wants one, but how should I know? He’s been so tight-lipped about his family, that I don’t even know if he has any siblings.

  “Well, we won’t have to worry about that, Corazón, because you won’t be working. You’ll stay at home and raise our children.” He shrugs and lies back on the blanket, placing his mirrored aviators back on his smug face. Reflected in them is the horrified expression on my face. Did he dare just tell me what I would be doing with my own future, with my own life?

  “Excuse me?” An unfamiliar emotion rips through me, and I am rendered momentarily speechless. If I had to put a label on it, the closest description for how I’m feeling would be betrayed. I guess I’ve taken for granted that Javier always has my best interests and desires in mind. This directive that I should be a housewife is proof otherwise, because I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to stay at ho
me, raising a gaggle of kids. I’d made it clear to him that I am looking forward to having a career.

  “My children will not be raised by a nanny,” he says, not daring to look me in the face.

  “Oh, really?” I scoff. “Are you planning on winning the lottery to afford this bunch of kids you’re dreaming of raising on a single income?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got that covered.”

  “What? Is Uncle Rey going to die and leave you everything?” I laugh, as if it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard—although I guess it isn’t entirely impossible. After all, Uncle Rey did pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to charter the Maltese Falcon for a week.

  “Something like that,” he says, sighing. I feel the heat again in my face, and I know it’s not from the sun, but the result of sheer anger at the way he’s trying to pacify me.

  This conversation is going absolutely nowhere, and it’s ruining our otherwise good time. I decide to be the bigger person and end this argument. Besides, the subject isn’t even pertinent to what is going on at the present time. It’s a conversation to be had somewhere in the distant future. I inhale a deep breath to steady my voice.

  “Let’s just drop it, okay?” I say, moving to lie down next to him. I place my hand under his stubbled chin and turn his face toward mine. I remove his aviators and see the glint in his eyes; his lips turn up in a playful smile. “This is a conversation for another time. Not now. I just want to enjoy you. No philosophical or life-altering discussions tonight. Okay?”

  “As you wish, Corazón,” he says, grinning like a fool.

  I lean in to kiss him, but he grabs me around the waist, pulling me over him and pinning me down on the blanket. I squeal with delight and then laugh hysterically as he assaults me with kisses up and down my neck and tickles me in that super-sensitive spot directly above my bellybutton. We carry on like this for a few minutes until I hear a loud, throat-clearing “Ahem!” directly above us. I groan, knowing immediately who it is. I turn my head slightly to the side, and I am faced with the skinniest pair of neon-white legs I’ve ever seen. My eyes follow the pasty, hairless sticks upward to find Jean-Luc—wearing red Speedos and nothing else—standing over us, pouring with sweat and looking like an emaciated snowman melting in the spring. He has something strapped over his shoulder.

  “Monsieur de la Cruz,” he starts, ignoring my sighs of annoyance. “It is fifteen minutes until sunset, and I have brought what you requested.”

  I look up and the sun is a burnt-orange orb dipping dangerously low over the darkening, watery horizon. Where has the day gone? I groan with disappointment at the fact that our last day together is almost over.

  Javier nudges me and says under his breath, “Calm down. I’ve got a surprise for you.” He stands up and dusts the sand off his legs. “Merci beaucoup, Jean-Luc.”

  The Frenchman pulls what I realize is a guitar strap over his head and hands the instrument over to Javier.

  “I will be off duty the rest of the night. Marie will attend to your needs. Bonsoir.” Jean-Luc tilts his head toward Javier and then bolts off down the beach to the pier, where he meets up with a beautiful young woman. He takes her hand, and the two head in the opposite direction of the marina, back toward the promenade.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Jean-Luc was your personal bodyguard, here to protect you from my endless advances.” I laugh, but Javier simply shrugs and sits down on the blanket next to me. “So, what’s this all about?”

  “I wrote you a song,” he says, strumming the guitar as he tunes it by ear.

  “You wrote me a song?”

  “Yes, it’s called ‘Corazón,’ and it’s in Spanish,” he replies mischievously, because he knows I’m not fluent in Spanish. I burst out laughing at the idea, but slap a hand to my mouth when a frown knits his brow.

  “Sorry, I just hope I can understand it,” I say, giving him an apologetic face.

  “Oh, you will. Don’t worry,” he says, his face taking on a look of concentration as he begins picking and strumming the guitar. The first word he sings is Corazón, which puts a smile on my face. I’m surprised by how strong and lovely Javier’s tenor voice is; how he easily manages the falsetto notes of the song. I recognize Spanish words and phrases like amor, por siempre, vida juntos, and otra vez. Although I can’t translate the song directly into English, I understand its meaning quite well. Javier is singing about our undying love and how we will be together again. How oceans and time cannot break us. Our love is a rose, which when cultivated, will blossom into a thing of beauty for all the world to envy.

  He strums the final chords and looks up at me through thick, black lashes, his eyes darker than ever in the early twilight. “I’m too far gone now, Corazón. I never want this to end.”

  I am overcome with a wrenching sensation of extreme longing. I’m already starting to feel the heartache I know I’ll inevitably face tomorrow. I begin to open my mouth to tell him that we can just run away together, tonight. Run away and get married and have those ten kids, or however many he wants. I’m willing to do it to avoid the crippling heartbreak I know is coming for me tomorrow. But then a raucous, startling roar of cheering and applause rises from behind us, catching me off guard, and I realize we have a group of spectators on the beach. He always seems to attract a crowd wherever he goes, which is beyond frustrating at times, but particularly now. He jumps up and playfully bows to his admirers, then grabs me by the hand, pulling me up next to him.

  “Let’s go. Time for dinner,” he whispers, but his voice is urgent and somewhat nervous.

  We hurriedly pack up our things and head back to the Falcon hand in hand, as the spectators continue to cheer and applaud Javier’s musicianship. A young man says something to me I can’t quite decipher as we walk by, but Javier waves him off.

  “What’d he say?” I ask, knowing by the smirk on the guy’s face that it probably wasn’t proper.

  “Oh, just making recommendations as to how you could repay me for the serenade,” he says, grinning sheepishly.

  “What?” I exclaim, glaring over my shoulder at the man who’s walking away in the opposite direction, still laughing. “Well, I—”

  I don’t know why I feel so offended. All afternoon I had been devising inappropriate ways to thank Javier for this trip. I’m sure whatever that man was saying couldn’t come close to the improper scenarios playing out in my mind. The very idea that some stranger could think that I would be so willing—oh, wait—he was probably one of those voyeurs from across the marina. I feel my cheeks grow hot with the resurfacing humiliation.

  “Ugh!” I bury my face into my hands, wishing the world would just go away.

  “Don’t worry, Eva,” Javier says, pulling me closer to him. “You’ll never see those people again. It doesn’t matter. I promise.”

  “I know, but it doesn’t make the humiliation sting any less.”

  “Come on, I’ll race you back,” he says playfully, obviously trying to cheer me up.

  “You have an unfair advantage: your legs are longer,” I say, smiling up at him. “What do I get if I win?”

  “Guess you’ll just have to try to find out,” he replies in a confidential tone.

  “Well, I don’t know . . .” I hesitate, then take off sprinting for the marina with Javier chasing behind me yelling, “Cheater!” Just before I reach the dock at the far end of the marina where the Falcon is moored, Javier grabs me from behind and scoops me up into his arms, causing me to yelp.

  “Put me down!” I squeal, but instead he twirls me around until I’m dizzy. When he stops spinning, he’s panting from the physical effort and all our laughing.

  “Don’t you know I’ll never let you run away from me?” he says and kisses my nose. I simply smile, basking in his affection.

  Javier carries me back to the Falcon and instructs me to get ready while he takes care of some last-minute dinner details. After I take a long, hot shower, effectively washing away the anxiety of the
day, I don a turquoise-blue, gauzy, strapless Matthew Williamson dress that Javier bought for me on our trip to Barcelona. I slip on a pair of silver, strappy heels and my mother’s coral necklace, which is the only memento I have left of her. I allow my hair to air-dry into the thick ringlets that Javier loves, while I apply my makeup. He prefers the wild curls, which is humorous to me. I think that with the out-of-control curls, I look like I’ve stuck my finger in a light socket. But somehow the curls look right with this blue goddess-style gown.

  Javier looks spectacular at dinner. He’s wearing a black sports coat and pants, with a black button down. His skin is newly tanned from our day on the beach. His teeth are especially white contrasted against what I’d call an eight o’clock shadow. He looks so darn grown up—and so darn sexy.

  During dinner, we discuss Italy and other countries we’ve visited, while enjoying a meal of fresh seafood: oysters, shrimp, and octopus. I savor watching his expressions as he talks about these places. The way his face lights up while he’s talking gives away which countries he loves most. I catch him staring at me, and the look of pure contentment in his eyes makes my heart swell.

  After a dessert of lemon tart, we retire down to the suite. Before he can shut the door, I jump on him, wrapping my legs around his waist. He carries me to the bed as he unzips my dress. He lowers me down on the bed, pulling off my sandals, and tugs the dress down over my feet, tossing it to the floor. I lean back on my elbows, completely aware that the only clothing covering me are a pair of lace panties, a sheer strapless slip, and my mom’s coral necklace.

  His eyes ravish my body as he pulls off his jacket and kicks his shoes aside. He unbuttons his pants and shirt and tosses them to the nearby chair, as I bite my lip in anticipation. He places his hands on my thighs and moves my legs apart, sliding himself into place over me. He kisses my forehead first, then my nose, and finally, tenderly, my lips. The lemon-tart taste lingers in his mouth, and I pull him closer to me, feeling his weight and heat over my entire body as I kiss him back. My breathing has increased to a level that is borderline frantic—fast, shallow, and needy.