Roses Collection: Boxed Set

by Freda, Paula

  Incredulous at first, awakening slowly to the fact that the dancer captivating his clientele was not Elena, Esteban moved forward along the narrow path between the occupied tables until he reached the edge of the dance floor. In the semi-dark his face was a menacing and forbidding mask. His stygian gaze slowly transfixed on the fourth finger of the dancer’s left hand where a slim gold band dotted with tiny diamonds, gleamed, reflecting the spotlight. His jaw muscles tensed. The sleek, unctuous notes of the violins and the clash of the cymbals absorbed his muttered oath.

  An impulse, a crazy, unreasonable impulse, born of jealousy and humiliation, drove Doreen to divest herself of her clothes and don the stripper’s costume. Her action was to be retribution directed at Esteban for his insincerity and infidelity. She wanted to humiliate him as he had humiliated her, to make him equally jealous as the clientele eagerly and expectantly watched her tug at the veils and remove them one by one while she lent her form to the erotic beat of the music, dipping and swaying seductively. She was a natural. Though not attempting to imitate Elena, she let the music’s rhythm dictate its own choreography. And she was doing well judging by the intrigued stares on the customers’ faces.

  In the semi-light Esteban’s eyes were black swirling pools of tar and pitch, his mouth a thick grey line twisting slowly into a scowl, yet she felt no fear, not yet. Her emotions had strangely numbed and she was too busy keeping tempo with the music. She drew the veil from across her mouth; she was down to the veiled cape. The music paused. The drums rolled. From between the two sides of the veiled cape she extended her hand. And with her fingers she dangled the g-string, tantalizingly loose.

  Her gaze riveted upon Esteban. With slow, enticing movements she advanced toward him. When a yard of space remained between them, a second spotlight illumined Esteban. His expression was now controlled. Only his eyes permitted a glimpse into the fury churning within. He allowed his mouth to grin, but his eyes could not lie. Doreen dangled the g-string seductively. Then quickly flicking her wrist as she remembered Elena doing, she tossed the infamous garment to Esteban. He extended his arm taut with suppressed rage and caught it. Immediately his fingers twisted about the skimpy garment in a death grip.

  Laughter and general good cheer erupted from the clientele as Esteban brought the g-string to his lips.

  In imitation of Elena, Doreen’s smile and her painted eyes propositioned Esteban outright. His returning look was dry as sun-scorched gravel. The second spotlight was extinguished and a second drum roll drew all eyes to Doreen alone.

  Up to this moment her incensed ego had defied all sense of shame or propriety. But years of strict refined upbringing with Christian morals taught to her by loving, upright parents and reinforced by her own basic decency, would not allow her to go further. She should have returned to her original spot on the dance floor, instead she remained where she was. The man operating the spotlight might have questioned, but he followed her cue and kept the light fixed on her. Cymbals clashed. What Doreen counted on as she parted the veils was Esteban’s tall, dark, forbidding figure obstructing the audience’s view. The sighs of disappointment were clearly audible, along with the scraping of chair legs against the floor as customers bolted upright, moving chairs and craned their necks in vain trying to catch a glimpse of the body beneath the veils. Doreen rejoined the two sides of the cape. Esteban had not even looked. His gaze raked across her face with bloodcurdling contempt.

  The performance was over. The lights came on in the restaurant at the same time awareness flooded into Doreen’s numbed emotions. The chef had come out of the kitchen. The waitress who had served her a few weeks earlier was also watching. Her mouth still hung open. Rafael was poised a few feet away from Esteban, a terrified look on his face, the stance of his body clearly stating his intention to hold Esteban back if he tried to kill Doreen.

  Her revenge was complete. Before the night was over, the staff would be buzzing with the news of what Señora Pereira had done. Her marriage was doomed and from the rage on her husband’s face, she might be doomed as well. Despair, remorse, chaos, all converged on Doreen at the same time. A wild look entered her eyes. She met the cobra head on. "See Esteban, I’m as good as Elena, eh? I’m not as conservative as you both think. I can satisfy your every need just as well as she, and better, no matter what she says. What do you think, Esteban? Couldn’t I be both wife and mistress? Esteban..." Her voice cracked, drifted. A sob caught in her throat. Her head hurt and she felt so tired. She wished she could go to sleep and forget everything. She turned to walk off the floor, but her legs felt so weak. But even this no longer mattered; she no longer mattered to Esteban except to erase her name and her memory from the Pereira ancestral records so that future generations need not know of her existence and her insult to the... What was she talking about, and why was she standing here in this skimpy veil? She turned back toward the audience who were now hushed and watching, at last alert to the fact that what was happening on the dance floor was no longer a performance. "What’s wrong?" she asked, sensing a disturbance in the room. Why was the expression of the tall, lean man in the black suit suddenly so concerned? His eyes were widening as though he had just learned something very important. Doreen shrugged. It didn’t matter.

  The last image she received before her vision began to blur was that of woman in a grey satin robe standing on the sidelines, rubbing her jaw. She vaguely remembered punching her. The man in the black suit was looking at the woman with such hate. What could that woman have done to him? Doreen squinted as the blurring increased. The world about her was beginning to fade. But that was all right because she was too weary to care any longer. The ground slipped from under her feet and she crumbled to the floor.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The veils clouding her mind were gone and her memories restored. She was grateful to her brother's ward for leading her into the garden behind Esteban's study and prompting her to eavesdrop on the conversation about herself between Esteban and her brother Mark. She continued to lie quietly under the covers in the Master bedroom, watching. Esteban asleep in the wing chair by the unlit fireplace a few feet away. He looked exhausted, drained. Was it guilt, or fear of his family's honorable name suffering because of her actions. Perhaps he unconsciously sensed her watching him, for he repositioned himself slightly, unaware that his movement caused his jacket to slip off the chair's back and slide to the floor. Was it guilt or tainted pride that had made him unbutton his collar and loosen his tie to hang carelessly on either side of his shirt front. His arms and hands were draped tiredly over the sides of the chair. The crispness was gone from his white trousers as though he had not changed for many hours. She watched him and felt resentment flare, but now she remembered why. She turned her head away with loathing. She could no longer bear to look at him.

  During her amnesia these past few months he had treated her with infinite kindness and affection, asking nothing and giving her more of himself than ever in the past. How easy to fall in love with him all over again, were it not for his affair with Elena. The stripper’s name tasted bitter and Doreen renewed her pledge to leave Esteban and Panama, and return home to the States with her brother as soon as she felt strong enough. .

  The door opened softly and her brother entered followed by Cybelle and Rosaria. All three were in robes. Doreen beckoned to them. Mark hurried to her bedside. Cybelle and Rosaria each perched near the foot of the bed.

  "Dios gracias! You have returned to us," Rosaria cried joyfully.

  "How do you feel," Mark asked, clasping Doreen’s hands in both of his.

  "Much better, brother. Cybelle’s ploy has restored my memory. You’re no longer a stranger to me. And I can see the faces of Mom and Dad ... and remember how much we loved them."

  "My dear sister," Mark said emotionally.

  "Give me a hug," Doreen said. Mark quickly complied.

  Cybelle moved closer. "I’m truly sorry," she whispered. "Mark is right. I am an impulsive imp." She bent and kissed Doreen’s
cheek.

  "Don’t belittle yourself. Because of you, I’ve regained my memory. I should be thanking you."

  Cybelle smiled. "I’d rather you put in a good word for me with your brother." She glanced at Mark.

  "You don’t know Cybelle as I do," Mark said.

  The twenty-three year old’s nymph-like features pursed indignantly. She reminded Doreen of a gust of warm wind during a wild summer storm.

  "She’s been forewarned," Mark said. An unspoken challenge passed between the two. A fire burned between them. The air literally glowed with its brightness.

  Mark had always been the organized one in the family. He was also a private man, and after the death of his parents he was content to indulge that privacy in his elaborate colonial mansion on the Hudson. Cybelle’s father, Jacques, had been Mark’s closest friend since college days. Jacques had appointed Mark her co-guardian, in case of his demise. Call it a case of premonition, somehow he had sensed his forthcoming death. Mark kept his promise to his deceased friend. He brought Cybelle to his home and with the help of his housekeeper, suffered with her through growing pains and college years. His conservative bachelor existence was turned topsy-turvy by the rebellious and capricious teenager. Doreen guessed for a long time from his letters, from what he didn’t say, how much he cared for the impetuous imp. The most difficult part for him was knowing that Cybelle had fallen in love with him and for a long time made no secret of it — "a crush on her benefactor" he called it in one of his letters to Doreen. But as Cybelle left her teenage years behind, she too hid her feelings. Doreen wondered why the two of them continued to struggle against their love for each other. Perhaps Mark hoped that some younger worthier man would capture his ward’s heart.

  "Have patience with my brother," Doreen whispered into Cybelle’s ear.

  If eyes could twinkle, hers would have glittered. She bobbed her head in agreement, disturbing the chocolate brown waves of hair framing her elf-like face.

  Rosaria, normally gregarious and effervescent, a gypsy moth, was strangely silent. "Rosaria, what is it? You’re so quiet." Doreen asked.

  "I do not wish to disturb the serenity in this room. Grandmother is always telling me that I will soon be a bride and must learn to restrain my conduct, if I am to be a good wife to Manuel."

  "That’s right, the wedding, how soon?

  "Now that you are well, very soon."

  "Rosaria, don’t try to change yourself too much. It’s your vivacious self that Manuel’s loves."

  Rosaria leapt from the foot of the bed. "Mi bonita cuñada, what would I do if I lost you. Without your intercession I would not be engaged to Manuel who I love desperately." She hurried to Doreen’s side and hugged her tightly." Esteban stirred and Mark said, "That’s enough excitement for now. Doreen needs her rest. And we’re disturbing Esteban as well. We’ll see Doreen later at breakfast." He escorted the two girls out into the corridor.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rosaria and Manuel were married two weeks later in front of the Golden Altar in the Church of San Jose.

  The wedding was an expensive and modern affair, Rosaria’s entourage worthy of a royal princess. Doreen, her gown a sheath of amber silk, acted as her Matron of Honor. Esteban in white and black, was Best Man at the bridegroom’s own request. Ramon struck a handsome pose in a similar tuxedo. He accompanied a dark-eyed, raven-haired bridesmaid who was bedecked in a gown of soft yellow tulle underlain with silk of a darker yellow. He and his beautiful companion were first among several ushers and bridesmaids, similarly dressed, and the traditional file of padrinos – godfathers, sponsoring the young couple.

  Rosaria’s white bouquet was composed of Holy Spirit orchids. Her wedding gown of white tulle over silk bore a veil and train yards long, necessitating youthful trainbearers. A relative’s child carried a gilded satchel containing the arras, the thirteen coins which Manuel was required by tradition to bestow upon his radiant bride.

  After the vows were made and the rings exchanged, the Padre blessed the couple, admonishing them that happiness is not found, it is earned. "Love in its physical aspect is a transitory thing; it can smother in daily toil and strife. For this reason, its mental and spiritual sides must be daily renewed through mutual effort," he explained. "When the romance wanes, and the sexual gratification becomes routine, then your minds and your spirits must assert themselves, must join as your bodies joined. Your thoughts must blend; your hearts commiserate, consort and harmonize. You must be as two lonely people reaching out and clinging to one another, and facing forward as you climb the rocky, slippery path of life.

  "As the body’s natural healing process races to the aid of an injured member, so must each of you race to the aid and support of the other when he or she is injured, whether physically, mentally or spiritually. Stand straight and honorable, and achieve the happiness, the unity and the peace of mind and soul which you instinctively seek."

  Doreen wondered how the Padre’s advice applied to Esteban and herself. The sexual side of their marriage had not waned. On the contrary, it had intensified. It was the mental and spiritual aspect of their marriage that fell short of the mark.

  After the ceremony, the party returned to the villa where a lavish reception awaited them. The evening was cool, the grass underfoot and the foliage of the jacaranda and palm trees dewy with the rain that had fallen earlier. As they had for the betrothal, music, wine and liquor flowed freely, and the foods served combined to create an elegant display of savoir vivre. Everyone enjoyed themselves thoroughly, Doreen and Esteban included.

  Toward the end of the evening, Doreen noticed someone watching her from a woodsy area of the grounds. Upon closer inspection Elena confronted her. "What are you doing here?" Doreen demanded. "What do you want?"

  "To meet Esteban, after you have retired," she said, sneering.

  "You’re lying. Esteban would not be so foolish as to flaunt his relationship with you openly at his own sister’s wedding. Why do wish to torment me?"

  "Then he has not denied the fact that he is still in love with me?"

  "No, not exactly. But I’ve been ill, and we’ve shelved the subject temporarily. He’s remained by my side."

  Elena laughed. If you believe your illness has changed matters, then you are foolishly mistaken."

  Doreen did not reply. Elena’s words stabbed at her heart.

  "You have nothing to say?" Elena gloated. "But then what can you say," she added triumphantly. "In that case, perhaps you will return the parts of my costume you absconded with that evening. My work clothes are tailor-made, and I have only a limited supply. Esteban is generous with his charms, but frugal with his expenditures.

  Doreen shook her head, a sob congealing in her throat. "I don’t ... know where the costume is. When I woke, it was not in my room. I’ll ask. If I find it I’ll give it to Esteban." She felt ashamed of her weakness in not standing up to Elena, but she had no fight left in her. Only a plan to leave Esteban and Panama in a few days. She moved to escape the woman’s disruptive presence.

  The stripper grabbed her arm. "Look for it now. I want the g-string." Her fingernails were sharpened to a point and painted blood red. And they were having an eerie effect on Doreen. She felt herself sway. Her vision blurred and darkened.

  "Por los santos, what are you doing here?" Esteban’s voice resounded through the darkness. Doreen felt the sheer magnetism of his presence.

  "I came to retrieve the g-string."

  "Doreen does not have it." Esteban said. "I burned it. Besides, you have others. Kindly remove your hand from my wife and leave as you came."

  Though she could not see clearly, Doreen sensed that Elena must have scowled before leaving their presence.

  "Doreen, what did she — Doreen, querida! What is it?"

  An anguished sob burst from her throat. Esteban’s arms closed about her with concern as her legs buckled. He lifted her and carried her into the house and up the stairs to their bedroom.

  "Do not be afraid, querida," he
said, placing her on the bed. "The doctor is one of our guests. I will go and fetch him immediately." He was gone before she could advise him to the contrary.

  The doctor ordered bed rest, assuring that her eyesight would clear by morning. The blindness was caused by an attack of nerves.

  Mark and Cybelle stayed with her for a while. Rosaria and Manuel had left earlier for their new home that Manuel himself and his father had built on the Pereira’s huge estate. As Esteban had promised, Manuel was free to continue in their employ for as long as he wished.

  Once again Esteban kept vigil at Doreen’s bedside. Doña Maria also came into the room. The old woman was very tired and remained no longer than it took to assure herself that there was nothing seriously wrong with her granddaughter-in-law. When Mark and Cybelle had retired, Esteban helped Doreen prepare for bed. "Has your vision returned?" he asked, when they were both ensconced under the covers.

  "It’s fuzzy, but it seems to be clearing."

  "Then perhaps we may believe the doctor’s prognosis." He kissed her gently on the forehead.

  "Esteban, I must know the truth. I can’t let it go any longer. I won’t condemn you, but I can’t go on just guessing. Tell me in earnest, is Elena your mistress?" Doreen waited, her emotions straining on hold, for his answer. Esteban turned and propped himself on his elbow to gaze down at her.

  "Mi querida, mi mujer, I swear to you on my honor, on the honor of all the Pereiras, Elena never was and never will be my mistress."