by Phoebe Conn
Carmen would have struck Maggie a backhanded blow had the physician not moved quickly to block her way. “What did you do to him?” she cried. “We left him with you for an afternoon, and now he’s dead. What did you do?”
Fernanda wailed even louder. Maggie stood, but she had no real defense. She had killed him. She’d been terrified someone would die that afternoon, but she’d never expected it to be her father.
Fox waited in the background. He caught Maggie’s eye and nodded. When he could make his way past Carmen, he came to her side. “What does she think you did?” he whispered softly.
Maggie had no idea but guessed the truth probably wasn’t among her grandmother’s suspicions. Cirilda was weeping softly, and Dr. Moreno ushered her and her mother across the hallway into another private waiting room.
Fernanda wiped her eyes on a tissue and hiccupped. “You’ll tell her we did all we could, won’t you?” the nurse asked.
“Yes, I will. She’s mad at me,” Maggie replied. “She won’t blame you. Do you have a supervisor who should be informed?”
Fernanda nodded and dissolved in another bout of tears. Maggie sat down again to hug her. “It all happened so fast, and you came running when I called.”
“I should have been with him,” the nurse moaned. “But he was only watching the bullfights. He wasn’t doing aerobics.”
The three of them hadn’t moved before Santos came limping into the room. He was still wearing his red suit of lights. His right calf was bandaged, and his blood-stained pink sock drooped around his ankle.
“You were hurt?” Maggie asked, panicked anew.
“The bull’s horn scraped my leg as he went down. It’s nothing. I was told father had been brought here. Where is he?”
“He died,” Fox said before Maggie could supply a more compassionate response. “Dr. Moreno is across the hall. He’ll tell you what happened.”
Santos’s dark tan paled. “He’s dead?”
Maggie nodded. “We were watching the corrida, and he was so proud of you. He was stricken suddenly and rushed here, but he couldn’t be saved.”
Fox showed Santos across the hall. When he opened the door, Maggie could hear Carmen and Cirilda sobbing, and indeed, their hearts were broken. She gave Fernanda a comforting squeeze and stood to pace. Before she’d taken three steps, Rafael entered the small room. He was also still dressed in his traje de luces. They’d left the house so quickly, with such tragic results, she’d forgotten he’d have to fight a second bull.
“Santos told me Miguel was here, but as I walked in, I overheard someone say he’d died. Is it true?”
Fernanda took several gulping sobs and nodded. “We fought to save him but failed.”
“He saw your first fight,” Maggie told him. “He was impressed, just as you’d hoped he’d be.”
Sadness softened his features. “You were with him?”
“Yes, I wanted to see you, even if I couldn’t bear to watch your whole fight.”
Rafael braced himself against the doorjamb. “And he just died?”
“He had a massive coronary,” Fernanda interjected. “There was nothing any of us could have done.”
“I understand.” Rafael straightened up and came on into the room to embrace Maggie. His embroidered suit was rough against her skin, and he smelled like sweat and the bloody dirt of the bullring, but his warmth felt awfully good. She took his hand and pulled him down into a chair and sat beside him. “They may let you see him if you wait.”
He laced his fingers in hers. “I’d rather remember him as he was the last time I was with him, but I don’t want you to be alone.”
“Thank you,” Maggie replied, but she knew he’d idolized Miguel and would surely curse her name if he learned the truth. The truth would also break his heart, and she’d never reveal he might have been specially groomed to be an organ donor.
Fernanda at last gathered her resources and went to contact her supervisor. Fox returned from the other waiting room and sat down with them, but he looked as detached as Maggie felt, and she couldn’t blame him. He’d never felt part of the Aragon family, even if her father had adopted him, her grandmother and aunt hadn’t welcomed him. Maybe like Santos, they’d met too many of Miguel’s temporary women and children to have any love left for Fox.
The news of Miguel’s death spread throughout the hospital and quickly reached the news media. Reporters eager for details crowded the entrance of the hospital. Carmen, Cirilda and Santos sat with Miguel’s body for nearly an hour, as if to reassure themselves he was truly gone. When Dr. Moreno succeeded in convincing them to leave, he hurried Carmen and Cirilda out through the kitchen entrance. Santos came into their waiting room, sank into the chair beside Fox and held his head in his hands. Maggie left Rafael to go to her brother’s side.
He looked up at her and sat back with a weary sigh. “Our grandmother thinks you killed him. That’s as ridiculous as most of her opinions. Dr. Moreno didn’t believe he’d live this long. He should have agreed to a transplant months ago. He was still a young man, younger than Augustín when he died.”
Maggie sat beside him, looped her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder. She had little in the way of comfort to give but felt his sorrow keenly. “He was enjoying the bullfights, and it happened so quickly.”
Rafael rose. “You don’t want to go home if your grandmother blames you. Let’s pick up your things so you’ll stay with me.”
“My place has to be larger,” Santos insisted. “You’ll be far more comfortable there.”
She couldn’t believe Santos would argue with Rafael now. Dismayed, she sat up and looked up at Rafael. “This was supposed to be such a good day for you.”
“It was,” Santos stressed. “He’s now a full matador de toros. Our father would have been proud.”
“He commented on how well you did, Rafael,” Maggie added. That was at least part of the truth.
“And died,” Rafael reminded her.
Maggie shook her head. “Not at that very second. I should call my mother.” She stood, then realized she’d left home without her purse or cell phone. “I don’t suppose either of you carries a cell phone in your fancy suits.”
“No,” Santos replied. “Although I’ve seen matadors who could have used one to summon help.”
“Let me take you home,” Rafael urged softly.
Maggie looked toward Fox, who hadn’t said a word. “Santos, will you give Fox a ride? I’m going to stay with Rafael. I’ll leave my number when we stop by the house for my things so you can give me the funeral details.”
Santos rose and stretched to his full height and found a slight smile for Fox. “I won’t forget you,” he promised.
“I’m all right on my own,” Fox replied with a stubborn grimace. He shoved himself out of his chair. “We better go out through the kitchen too, or we’ll again be tabloid fodder.”
He and Santos led the way, but when they exited through the kitchen’s loading dock, half a dozen reporters and photographers stood waiting. “What were your father’s last words?” someone called.
Santos shouldered by them, followed by Fox, but Rafael paused, and glared at them. “You soulless leeches aren’t worthy to speak his name.”
The reporters shrank away from them, and Maggie felt certain that line would make all the papers, but it would only add to a defiant Gypsy’s reputation and not harm him a bit.
Carmen and Cirilda had reached home and given everyone the news they had dreaded hearing. When Maggie and Rafael came through the rear door, they were surrounded by weeping servants. Tomas blew his nose and approached her. “We were all here, and no one saw you do anything to harm him. Señora Aragon is beside herself with grief. Do not listen to her accusations.”
“Thank you,” Maggie whispered. “But I’ll be staying with Rafael so she won’t be upset unnecessarily.” She and Rafael hurried up to her room. She removed her bag from the closet and tossed in her clothes while Rafael kept watch at the do
or. She didn’t want to wrinkle her beautiful flamenco dress and folded it over her arm. She collected her toiletries from the bathroom and was ready to leave within minutes.
Rafael raised his hand, and she waited until the hallway was clear. She wrote her telephone number on a notepad, and hoping it would be safe in the kitchen, she pinned it on the small bulletin board where Tomas posted his menus. She pointed it out to him as they left. They weren’t in the house more than ten minutes, but as they drove away, she felt as though she’d barely escaped a blistering confrontation with her grandmother. That she deserved whatever ugly accusations the woman threw at her intensified Maggie's anxiety tenfold.
“I could go to a hotel,” she offered, afraid she might break down in hysterics she didn’t want him to see.
“Why? Are you bored with me already?”
She wouldn’t grow bored with him in a lifetime. “No, not at all, but if it’s difficult for you to have me there…”
“No. This is too sad a time for either of us to be alone. Does your mother know you’re here in Spain?”
“No. I meant to tell her when I returned home. She’s told me very little about my father, but I should let her know he’s gone before she reads it in a magazine.”
“Yes, of course. We all knew he wasn’t well, but no one expected to lose him this soon.”
“I believe Dr. Moreno did.”
“I didn’t know my father, and Miguel was so kind to take an interest in me. Do you think your grandmother would let me speak at his funeral?”
Maggie felt sick to her stomach as she looked out at the passing scene. “Carmen is a bitter, vindictive woman, so I doubt it. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t write something for his children, and she need never know about it.”
“Maybe she’d rather I didn’t attend the funeral.”
“I doubt she’ll want me there, so let’s wait and see what’s planned. Santos will invite us if he can.”
He parked in front of his apartment. “This is a very sad way for your trip to end.”
She left the car rather than ask why he’d given up on convincing her to stay. If all he’d wanted was to become a matador de toros, he’d gotten all he needed from her. She wouldn’t ask that pointed question when the answer could hurt so badly to hear.
He carried her bag up the stairs while she still held the red dress. As they entered his apartment, it appeared even smaller than she’d remembered. “You can’t have a very big closet, but I don’t want to leave my things strewn about your home.”
“Strewn? That’s a good word. Put your things on the sofa for now. I have to get out of this suit; then we’ll decide what to do.”
He sloughed off the jacket and she caught it for him. “You looked absolutely magnificent when you entered the bullring.”
“Better than Santos?” He pulled off his black tie and unbuttoned his ruffled shirt.
“You’re both handsome men. Give up the competition, please.”
He kissed her cheek and went on into the bathroom. He did have a few extra hangars in his closet, and she hung up the red dress and the new green skirt. She hadn’t eaten all day and, feeling faint, went into the kitchen to look in the refrigerator. He had a jar of peanut butter and three apples. She took an apple, washed it at the sink with shaking hands and took a bite.
There was a copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone on the coffee table, and she nudged her bag over on the couch to have space to sit and opened it. She’d read all the Harry Potter books several years ago but couldn’t focus on the printed page now. Instead, she held the book in a tight grasp, as though it were a beloved keepsake. She looked up when Rafael left the bathroom in a lingering cloud of steam, his hair wet. He was clad in his usual black jeans and dark T-shirt. He looked as handsome as always, and she felt so strangely detached she wondered if she’d faded to a hazy outline.
“I loved these books. Are you enjoying this?” she asked.
He sat on the coffee table facing her. “Your father died this afternoon. How can you sit here and read as though nothing had happened?”
Maggie drew in a deep breath and released it in a soft sigh. Filled with an awful mixture of guilt and sorrow, she gave the only excuse she could. “I wasn’t raised here in Spain where people cry and yell about everything. The Scandinavians in Minnesota are much more reserved. Which reminds me, I should call my mother.”
He took a bite from her apple, then got up and went into the kitchen. She searched through her purse for her phone. She checked her watch to make certain it would be daytime in Edina. She didn’t pause to practice how to give her sad news; she just punched in the number.
“Mom?”
“Hello, sweetheart. Is school out?”
Rafael leaned against the sink, watching her. “It will be on Friday, but I left early to come to Barcelona to see Miguel.”
“Really? Well, what do you think of him?”
“That’s too long a story to begin now, but I wanted you to know he’d been ill and died this afternoon.”
“He died?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t take any photos with him. I should have some to send to you. He was as handsome as when you’d known him and just as charming.”
Her mother was silent a long moment. “Then I’m glad you met him.”
“Yes, so am I. I’ll talk to you again in a day or two. I love you, Mom.”
“I love you more.”
“Is Dad there?” She hunted for the right words while her mother called him.
“Maggie! How are you?”
“I’m fine, Dad. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am I didn’t appreciate you more while I was growing up. You were such a good father to me, and I never thanked you.”
“That’s very sweet, but you needn’t thank me for loving you. What did you tell your mother? She’s sitting here crying.”
“My father died.”
“Oh, I understand, then. I better go.”
“Good-bye, Dad.”
Maggie ended the call and looked over at Rafael. “My mother’s crying, which has to be awkward for my stepfather.”
“So she’s not as stoic as you thought. What if I’d died?”
“Stop it! I won’t go there.” She folded her arms across her chest and wished she’d gone to a hotel where she could crawl under the bed and scream until she grew hoarse.
“Because it would make you too sad?” He came back into the living room and again sat on the coffee table.
Unshed tears burned her eyes. “Yes. What is it you want me to say?”
He flashed a hint of a smile. “That you love me.”
The teasing light in his eyes eased her suspicions as to his motives, but this wasn’t the time for tender exchanges. “I’ve known you only a week.”
“A week and one day,” he corrected. “It’s enough time for me. But here in Spain, we yell and cry and fall in love without counting the days.”
She scooped the apple off the table, and he leaned in to take another bite. “It was so easy for Adam and Eve,” she murmured. “There was no one else around.”
“When we went dancing, do you remember the man I told you wanted to borrow money from me?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t. He wanted to meet you, and I told him no.”
She nodded. “Fortunately, we’re a long way from my friends, who I wouldn’t introduce to you either.”
He gave her a light, teasing kiss. “Are you hungry?”
“No, this apple is enough. I feel sick clear through.” She snuggled against him. It felt good to cuddle close, but the scene in her father’s bedroom spun through her mind in a continuous loop. She’d seen right into his soul when she guessed what he’d intended for Rafael. Whether it had been only a wish or a carefully structured plot she might never know, but it was a story she’d carry with her to the grave.
An overwhelming sense of loss washed through her. It was more for the father she’d once dreamed Miguel to be rather than for t
he man she’d recently gotten to know. She closed her eyes to offer a silent prayer of thanks that Rafael and Santos had survived the day. She couldn’t bear years of the awful strain the corrida had caused her today, nor could she pretend she didn’t love them.
If they hadn’t met last week on the stairs, Rafael might not have asked her to dance that night. They might have seen each other when he visited her father, perhaps exchanged a distracted nod without ever speaking a word. They’d have both been at the ranch, though, and perhaps would have gotten to know each other there. But if she hadn’t known him as well as she did, she might have only watched a bit of Santos’s first fight and left her father’s room without asking what his plans truly were for Rafael. He’d probably still be alive, and she’d be making her plans to fly home.
“Rafael? You usually visited with my father in the morning, but the first time I saw you, you’d come to his house in the afternoon. Why?”
He stretched his legs. “I’d gone to pick up my black suit. The tailor is open only in the morning on Saturday. I tried it on to make certain it fit well, and when we finished, he began reminiscing about all the men who’d ordered suits from him. A matador will go through five or six trajes de luces in a season, and he is one of the finest tailors in Spain, so he has plenty of work. He recalled every suit with an amazing clarity. It was a history lesson, and I sat there and listened. He made your father’s suits; that’s why I went to him.”
“Is a matador buried in one of his trajes de luces?”
“If he died young and still fit into one, maybe. If he’s an older gentlemen and heavier, probably not. I don’t know what your father would want.”
“I don’t either. He must have left instructions.” She hadn’t thought of his will, but she’d have to stay until it was read to make certain Fox was cared for. “I’m glad you were there that afternoon. There was something magical about the way we met on the stairs.”
He pulled her close. “Magical? If I’m ever so poor I must tell fortunes for a living, I’ll remember that.” He lowered his voice. “The stranger you meet on a stairway will change your life. How’s that?”
