Once there, she had ordered him to get out of the car and forced him to follow her up the path to the walkway over the dam that runs along the west end of the lake. Bécquer had soon joined them, coming from the southeastern shore. There had been no exchange of words between them, Ryan told me, sounding puzzled. They had stood in silence, facing each other for a moment, and then Beatriz had lifted Ryan and thrown him over the rail. After the shock of the cold water wore off, Ryan had tried to swim ashore but the gates were open and the current pulled him toward the gap. His voice trembled as he told me how he had panicked when he realized he could not beat the pull of the water. Luckily, Bécquer had come to his aid and dragged him to the shore.
I told Ryan that Bécquer had fired Beatriz because she had stolen from him, and Beatriz had kidnapped Ryan to blackmail Bécquer out of telling the police.
I could see this explanation, as close to the truth as I could make it, didn’t convince Ryan entirely, but he had not argued. Not then anyway.
I had no idea what I would tell him if, after he had time to think it over, he was to question Beatriz’s or Bécquer’s impossible strength, apart from suggesting he ask Bécquer and trusting that Bécquer could charm his way out of Ryan’s doubts. Except that I couldn’t do that for I didn’t want Ryan to see Bécquer ever again, and that brought me to an impasse I had no clue how to overcome.
• • •
The next day started earlier as Madison missed her bus and I had to drive her to school. When I came back, I found the coat I had left at Bécquer’s house hanging from the coat rack and my purse and an envelope that had not been there before sat on the table by the front door. My heart skipped a beat when I noticed Ryan’s name on the envelope written in Bécquer’s ornate gothic style. Inside (yes, I looked) there was a check and a thank-you note, also handwritten. I put the envelope back and went to the kitchen where I could hear Ryan typing.
“Did Bécquer come?” I asked him, trying and failing to sound casual.
“No,” Ryan said, his eyes never leaving the screen of the laptop set before his bowl of cereal. “Matt did. He brought back your things and my check for last night.”
“Are you going to accept it?”
“Why not?”
“Because you didn’t play.” And the check is incredibly generous, I thought, but didn’t say for I couldn’t admit to having opened his correspondence.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Ryan said, crunching his cereal loudly. He swallowed. “Besides, Bécquer will be offended if I don’t.”
Something in the way he said Bécquer’s name, a note of respect and trust I had heard only rarely in the voice of my students over my many years of teaching, warned me Ryan would not take well to my request to stay away from Bécquer. Yet, I had to ask.
Ryan stopped his typing and met my stare. “Stay away from Bécquer? Why should I?”
“Because … ” Why indeed? Apart from the fact that Bécquer was immortal and could lose control and kill him without even trying, or that Beatriz had kidnapped him the previous night and could do it again, I had no reason. No reason at all to keep him from seeing Bécquer. And my real reasons I couldn’t share.
“Please, Ryan. Do as I say,” I finished lamely. “You don’t understand but — ”
“No, Mom. It’s you who doesn’t understand.” Ryan’s voice had the steel determination that over the years I had learned to recognize as the beginning of an impossible-to-win battle of wills.
“Listen to me, Ryan. You don’t know Bécquer. He — ”
“You’re wrong, Mom. I do know him. Bécquer is cool. He saved my life.”
“Yes. I was there last night, remember?”
“I’m not talking about last night.”
“What do you mean?”
“Forget it.”
“Ryan. If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask him.”
“Oh, so it’s all right for you to talk to Bécquer, but not for me?”
“Don’t change the subject. What do you mean when you say he saved your life?”
“It’s no big deal. I OD’ed once, and he took me to the hospital.”
I dropped on a chair by his side, for my knees felt like rubber and I would have fallen otherwise. “You were using drugs in his house?” I asked in a voice so high-pitched I barely recognized it.
“No. Of course not. He wasn’t with me when I used. I was hanging out with friends.”
“Where?”
“What does it matter where? It was a party. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t remember much. I was high. We all were, I guess. The next thing I remember I was at the ER. And the doctor said I had OD’ed. And Bécquer was there. He was the one who took me to the hospital. He asked me not to tell you.”
“Great. And since when do you do what strangers ask?”
“Bécquer is not a stranger.”
“No, of course not. You have known him for how long? Five seconds?”
“He took me to NA meetings,” Ryan said, ignoring my sarcasm. “I thought you’d appreciate that.”
“He took you to … Why did you never tell me?”
“You never asked.”
I stopped arguing. I knew when I was beaten. Which was about every time I had had an argument with him since he turned five.
I got up and poured myself a cup of coffee. Caffeine was the last thing I needed at the moment, but I was not thinking straight. What other things was I not aware of that Bécquer had done for my son? Was Ryan moving in with him the previous night? Had Bécquer agreed to that, or was Ryan crashing with Matt? Probably, I would never know. I returned his duffel bag to his closet while he was sleeping and put his clothes back in the drawers. My guess was he had not noticed.
“Don’t worry,” Ryan said when I returned to the table. “I have so much homework, I won’t have time to practice with the band, so I won’t be seeing Bécquer for a while in any case.”
“You never told me you were in a band.”
“I did tell you. Shut up and listen.”
“Excuse me?”
Ryan looked up and frowned. “What did I do wrong now?”
“You just told me to shut up.”
“No, I didn’t. Shut Up and Listen is the name of the band.”
We sat in silence. The clicking of the keyboard the only sound punctuating my contradictory thoughts. After a while the sound stopped. Snapping his laptop shut, Ryan got up.
“I’ve to go. My first class starts in half an hour.”
I nodded.
Ryan bent over and kissed the top of my head. “It’s okay, Mom. Don’t worry. I still love you.”
“It’s good to know, baby, for I love you too.”
“I know,” he said.
And after hugging me with his free arm, he rushed to the door.
Chapter Eleven: Bécquer’s Request
I tried to write after Ryan left but couldn’t. The bizarre events of the last twenty-four hours continued to play in my mind — as they had through the long sleepless night I had endured — blocking my creativity. At times elated, at times overwhelmed by the memories, I found it impossible to concentrate on my writing. So, eventually I gave up and went for a ride.
That I ended up in the parking lot overlooking the dam in Lake Galena was not planned, yet it seemed inevitable. Two other cars were there when I arrived. But not Bécquer’s. My disappointment at Bécquer’s not surprising absence was all too real to ignore. Yet absurd.
I locked my car and went down the bank to the gravel strip by the water where Ryan and Bécquer had come ashore.
A heron, white and slender, walked the shore hunting for food. The heron I had described in the manuscript Bécquer had agreed to represent. Was it only the previous morning I had signed my contract with him?
But for the heron, the place was deserted. The boats and canoes that dotted the lake in summer were grounded ashore on the crescent-shaped inlet to my left. And the owners of the cars sitting by mine were nowhere in sight.
Turning my back to the lake, I walked to the bench Bécquer and I had shared the previous night and sat down.
The weather had been unusually mild this past October and the trees had just reached their full autumn colors, but the stunning beauty of my surroundings failed to impress me.
Maybe it was because the effect of Bécquer’s blood had worn off during the night, and after perceiving the world through immortal senses, it seemed dull now that I was seeing it with my human eyes. Maybe it was, plain and simply, because Bécquer was not with me and I wished he were.
Which, again, was absurd.
I barely knew Bécquer. I had met him only on three occasions and always at a professional level. Bécquer was my agent. Only as such had he invited me to his party. Yet, the intensity of his stare when he ordered me to drink his blood, back in his room was filled with the passion of a lover. Or was my memory deceiving me matching my own desires?
I got up abruptly and dashed up the path that led to the dam. The gates were closed now and, unlike the whirlwind of emotions fighting in my mind, the water was still. Neither down at ground level, nor up where I stood on the walkway, did I see any sign of Ryan’s brush with death, nor of Bécquer’s confrontation with Beatriz. As far as the world was concerned, it could all have been a dream.
But it had not been.
Ryan had almost died there the previous night, and I, after knowing Bécquer for less than a day, had become obsessed with him. How stupid could I be? Bécquer was a 200-year-old man who drank human blood and manipulated people’ wills. Yet, hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep his dark stare from my mind or his deep, beguiling voice from haunting my thoughts. And his smile kept coming back, threatening to destroy the barriers I had so carefully erected around my heart.
I had lost my heart once long ago when in my twenties. The irrational thinking that ensued had carried me into a marriage, followed by years of self-loathing, a direct result of my husband’s unrelenting mental abuse, and resulted in a bitter divorce.
I would not lose my heart again.
At least this time I knew I was not the only one to blame for my weakness. My infatuation with Bécquer was too sudden and intense to be real, which meant that, despite Federico’s reassurances to the contrary, Bécquer had charmed me. The solution to this unwanted situation was, thus obvious: I had to break all connections with him.
And the safety of my heart was not the only reason for doing so, for the more I dwelt on the events of the previous night, the more I realized that accepting Bécquer as my agent had been an invitation to disaster. What had happened with Beatriz had not been an isolated incident, an accident that would not be repeated, but a warning of worse things to come. A reminder that if you play with fire, you’re bound to be burned, or, in my case, that accepting Bécquer’s help to get my book published could get my children hurt.
And that was a price I was not willing to pay.
Bécquer, for all his charm and impeccable manners, lived on human blood. How could I ever justify this? And if I didn’t, I couldn’t justify using his non-humans abilities to my advantage, either. Federico had admitted Bécquer used his charm to push his authors. The look of adoration in Richard’s eyes the previous night at the party left me no doubt he was already half sold on buying my book. His reasons had nothing to do with the quality of my writing or the strength of my story, for he had not read my manuscript yet.
Yes, I believed my book was good and deserved to be published, but was I ready to compromise the safety of my children or my peace of mind for this to happen?
The answer was no. Absolutely no.
I had to call Bécquer and tell him I didn’t want him to be my agent, and hope he would agree to rescind our agreement on the basis that he had not played fair with me. The real me, the rational me, would have never signed, yet the previous day, I had done so, willingly, after a slight, almost nonexistent hesitation. This could only mean Bécquer had influenced my decision, and if he had, the contract was not valid.
But the logic of my reasoning was lost on Bécquer.
“I did not force you,” he told me, and, even though the phone I could sense the outrage in his voice at my suggestion. “You knew I was immortal when you signed.”
“I didn’t know you were drinking Beatriz’s blood. I didn’t know you fed on humans.”
“No, you didn’t,” he admitted. Then, after a pause, “Would you come over to discuss this further?”
So you can use your charm to change my mind? “I’d rather not.”
“Federico is here,” Bécquer insisted. “You can talk with him, as you seem to trust him while you don’t trust me.”
“No, Bécquer. I don’t think so.”
“What if we meet in a neutral place? Café Vienna tomorrow at ten o’clock?”
“Are you crazy?” Federico’s angry voice came through the receiver muted, then stronger as he addressed me directly, “Carla, would you mind waiting a couple of days to make your decision?”
I heard Bécquer swearing in the background, just before the line went dead.
I set the phone down, confused. I had practiced my conversation with Bécquer a thousand times while driving home. None of my imaginary exchanges had ended like this. Why had Federico interrupted Bécquer? Why did he want me to wait?
Before I could find an explanation for their strange behavior or gather the courage to call again to clarify my position, the phone rang, startling me.
“My deepest apologies,” Bécquer said after I picked it up. “Federico thought we were engaged for the next few days. He was mistaken. In fact we can meet tomorrow. Please say yes. I promise I won’t influence you, and, if after our conversation you still want to break our contract, I will abide by your decision.”
I said yes, of course. How could I not when he put it that way? Only to realize after I hung up that if I had so easily agreed to his request on the phone, my chance to deny him anything in person was close to nil.
• • •
I was early the next day for my meeting with Bécquer. It had been a conscious decision. Being first, I thought, would give me an advantage, or at least, save me the embarrassment of walking the length of the room under his stare.
The place was almost empty when I arrived — too late for the morning rush, too early for lunch — and in no time I was sitting at one of the tables by the window, my espresso forgotten in front of me, watching the door. As I waited, I questioned the wisdom of my decision for every time the door opened my heart jumped in my chest and the mantra I had chosen to repeat to keep me calm lost a little of its effect.
Somewhere outside the chimes of the town hall clock sounded the hour. Any moment now, I thought, but I was wrong. Bécquer was not the next person to come in, nor the following one. By ten thirty, my mantra had changed from “I’m in control” to “He’s not coming,” and my nerves stretched to the point of breaking.
I was considering leaving when the door opened, once again, and Federico appeared in the doorway. Federico, and not Bécquer, my mind registered, whether with disappointment or relief I was not sure.
My first thought was that Bécquer had sent Federico to drive me to his house and, bracing myself to resist such a request, I waited for him to come over. But Federico stalled by the door. Holding it open with his body, he was maneuvering a wheelchair through, when one of the baristas, a girl with ginger hair, as natural looking as Madison’s bleached blonde, rushed to his aid.
I imagined the man in the wheelchair to be an acquaintance of hers, for despite the long line that had formed by now to order, the girl didn’t return to her post behind the counter, but stayed by the door talking to him.
Across the room, Federico’s eyes met mine. He shrugged, and I nodded and looked away, embarrassed he had caught me watching. Out of the window, the cars coming down Main had stopped before the light. And again, like Sunday morning, a blue convertible was first in line. The roof was down, and I couldn’t see the driver, but the car I was certain was Bé
cquer’s.
“Sorry, I’m late.”
My heart stopped at the sound of his voice, Bécquer’s voice, inside the cafe, addressing me, while his car stood outside. I turned, startled, and met his eyes staring at me. His eyes, dark and serious, at a level with mine, because Bécquer was sitting. Sitting in the wheelchair Federico had pushed through the door.
Bécquer in a wheelchair?
“Bécquer,” I whispered, my voice entangled with too much feeling. “What happened?”
Bécquer shrugged, or tried to, for his neck was encased in a collar brace that limited his movements. “I fell down the stairs,” he said, a wink in his eyes belying his words.
His face, his handsome face, was criss-crossed with pale scars. And as I looked down to hide my shock at his condition, I noticed he held his right arm in a sling against his chest, and the right leg of his dark suit had been cut lengthwise to accommodate the cast.
“My apologies, Carla,” Federico said moving from behind Bécquer. “To get a wheelchair took us longer than anticipated.”
“And it was totally unnecessary,” Bécquer said. “I could have walked.”
“You could not,” Federico said, a note of frustration in his voice.
Are you crazy? Federico had asked Bécquer on the phone the previous day when he offered to meet with me. Now I understood why.
“I would have waited,” I told Federico, “had I known.”
Bécquer scowled. “No. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t have believed me had I told you. In fact, you still don’t believe me, and you are looking at me.”
He was right. While my eyes had taken in the details of Bécquer’s condition, my mind refused to admit it, for Bécquer was immortal and immortals heal immediately. Were Bécquer’s disabilities real or was he pretending to be disabled to manipulate me?
Bécquer swore, making no secret that he had read my thoughts. “Do you really think so poorly of me?”
He tried to stand as he spoke, but managed only to hit the cast against the floor before Federico stopped him. “If you don’t sit still, I’ll take you home.”
Immortal Love Page 9
