by Ruta Sepetys
He turns to his father, seated on the small sofa. “How was Valencia?” he asks.
“Wonderful city. Beautiful sea. I would’ve stayed an extra day, but your mother wanted to return for the fashion show at the embassy. Speaking of, you should get dressed. Suit and tie tonight.”
Daniel nods.
Martin Matheson rises from the chair. He stands, looking at his son’s photos affixed to the wall. Please. Just one compliment, thinks Daniel.
Instead, his father starts to laugh. He points to the photo of Nick Van Dorn’s scabbed knuckles. “Pretty undiplomatic for a diplomat’s son. That kid’s a handful, huh?”
Daniel shrugs.
His father clears his throat. “What do you make of Ben, the newspaper man?” asks his dad.
“I like him. Seems like a smart guy. Intense about his job.”
“Most journalists are. They want their story and will do anything to get it. It’s a vicious business. Remember that.” His father makes his way to the door.
The word business reminds him of the telegram. “Say, Dad. There’s something I want to discuss.”
His father stops. “I know.”
“You do?”
He nods, face full of apology. “Dan, I’m sorry.”
His father’s sincerity smooths his annoyance.
“I was waiting for you to tell me,” says his father. “I understand hiding it from your mother. She loves Laura Beth. She’ll be so hurt.”
Laura Beth? His dad thinks he wants to talk about Laura Beth?
“Dad—”
“I know all about it. Someone told your uncle. Laura Beth, she’s just confused. Graduation was overwhelming. You two make a fine couple and she’s from an excellent family. Don’t fret, I’m certain—quite certain—she’ll change her mind.”
A fine couple? They had nothing in common. They only dated a few months, during which she also kissed other guys. Does he know that Laura Beth felt his mom was “too ethnic” and therefore their families weren’t a suitable match?
“It’s okay, Dad, there were problems.”
“Every relationship has problems. Speaking of . . .” His father pauses, as if carefully gathering words. “Daniel, your mother and I have had a bit of a tough time lately. Give her a little extra room if you can. It’s important to her that you’re happy here in Madrid.”
The request takes Daniel by surprise. A tough time? What does that mean? His mind returns to the telegram. He wants to ask questions but something about his father’s expression tells him not to. His dad’s tone, it’s kinder than usual, intentionally easing up on him.
“Okay,” says Daniel.
“Thanks, partner. We’ll leave for the embassy in fifteen minutes.” He exits the room.
Daniel stares at the door. His father can be headstrong and, sure, their father-son dynamic has been tense for the past few years. But things have never been strained between his parents.
What did he mean by a tough time?
38
The American embassy is built of blocky white sandstone. Its posture conveys a mix of durability and refinement. A large red, white, and blue flag, along with its forty-eight stars, salutes above the entry.
“Welcome to the embassy, Daniel. So glad you could join us.”
Nick’s father, Shep Van Dorn, greets them in a formal receiving line at the entrance. Van Dorn shakes his hand and looks to Daniel’s mother.
“Good evening, María. My, you look gorgeous. Are you sure you’re not in the fashion show tonight?”
Ever polished and professional, Shephard Van Dorn is cut from different fabric than his son. Nick stands amidst a group of pretty young women in the corner, and when he sees Daniel, he whistles loudly. The girls laugh at his inappropriate gesture. Nick’s father does not.
“Well, how about that,” laughs Nick. “Cowboy traded his boots for a suit. Lookin’ good, Dan.” Nick’s enthusiasm, fueled by wine, entertains the group through introductions.
“I’ve arranged to bend the rules. They’re going to play some Elvis in the hotel club tonight. You should join us,” says Nick.
Like bikinis, Elvis and his gyrating hips are considered indecent in Spain.
Daniel nods absently and looks around the room. He longs for his camera to capture the tight feel of the event. Although it’s a diplomatic affair with attendees from many different countries, the atmosphere feels distinctly American to Daniel, as if he could be at an event in Dallas.
The young women, wearing crisp taffeta dresses and white gloves, are debutante daughters of American diplomats, moguls, and military officers. They attend colleges like Wellesley and Bryn Mawr. Their dresses are different colors, but Daniel fears their destinies are probably similar. They will make advantageous marriages and be listed within the coveted Social Register in their city of residence. But is that what they really want?
Daniel looks at his mother. He’s grateful that she’s different, that she maintains Spanish customs at home, even though he knows it makes things difficult for her among the Dallas society crowd.
“Your mother, is she descendant from nobility in Spain?” the society writer from the Dallas Morning News asked during his job at the paper.
Attachment to a sovereign title significantly boosts your intrigue in society circles. Some Dallas residents hire genealogists hoping to unearth a long-dead baron in the family who might grant them admission to the right club.
Women in Dallas follow society news like a trader follows stocks. Laura Beth spoke ad nauseam of the forthcoming debutante ball for Henry Ford’s granddaughter. Daniel knows his association with Laura Beth’s family brought a sense of society connection to his mother. It brought him a sense of fatigue, as does the embassy fashion event.
He spots Ben Stahl at the edge of the room, deep in conversation with Paco Lobo. Just as Daniel starts toward them, he’s ushered into the main hall.
Waiting in the large salon are over a hundred chairs, neatly ordered in rows. Daniel seats his mother and takes the aisle chair next to his parents. A host introduces the event and the fashion designers. The lights dim.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” says his mother.
Daniel nods, but disagrees. It must be incredibly hard to be a diplomat. He would be terrible navigating endless formal events and discussions. As women sashay down the aisle in a myriad of dresses, his mind wanders to the pictures taped to the wall in his hotel suite.
The audience releases an audible gasp.
“Stunning,” whispers his mother.
Daniel returns his focus to the front of the room. A young model in a shimmering pink gown has taken center stage. She turns slowly, showcasing the narrow dress, and this time Daniel pulls a breath. The posterior of the dress is missing, revealing the woman’s entire back and waist. The fabric clings to the sides of her slender torso and dips suggestively, meeting in a shallow V just above the sacrum of her lowest vertebrae. Her olive skin is flawless and glistens under the lights. Daniel’s eyes are fastened to her back. He’s desperate to photograph the subtle curve and gentle hollow. She rotates and his eyes travel across her small waist, up to her neck. She glows, as if lit from within. Her black hair is swept away from her face, with a few spiraling pieces left to frame her high cheeks, dark eyes, and full mouth.
She walks down the center aisle.
She turns every head.
She is undeniably beautiful.
And then he realizes.
She is Ana.
39
Daniel leaves his seat before the lights return. The models thread through a door at the front of the room, and he trails their exit. Others have beaten him there. Shep Van Dorn, the U.S. public affairs officer, corrals the media for photos. A designer poses with the women in front of an official photographer.
“Wish you had your camera?” asks Nick, stepping in beside him.
You have no idea, thinks Daniel.
“You know they won’t kiss you,” says Nick.
“What?”
“Here in Spain, the girls won’t kiss you. Proper Spanish girls kiss only on the cheek until they’re married. All dates are chaperoned. They grow up slow here,” explains Nick. “My mom thinks it’s great. Seems strange to me. But don’t worry. There are plenty of eager American girls here to choose from.” Nick drains the glass of sherry, noting Daniel’s gaze. “Do you recognize her?” he asks.
Daniel nods.
“Apparently the model was sick. The dress fit Ana, so they had her wear it. C’mon, let’s get ourselves in a picture.” Nick strolls confidently toward Ana.
“Hey, pretty girl. Well done,” says Nick, giving a well-oiled smile to the camera. The photographer snaps a photo of the three of them.
“Gracias,” says Ana. She gives Daniel a polite smile. “Buenas noches, señor.”
“Hola, Ana. You look lovely.”
“It was all last minute. The dress, the makeup—I was very nervous.”
“You didn’t look nervous,” says Daniel.
“Really?” asks Ana. Her smile widens.
“Really, you looked very comfortable,” agrees Nick.
Shep Van Dorn steers a gaggle of people toward them. “And this showstopper, she’s just a maid at the Hilton, can you believe that?” says Nick’s father.
Just a maid. Ana’s smile retreats.
“What we can believe, Shep, is that sometimes you’re an ass,” says Nick.
The silence is instant, uncomfortable.
Shep Van Dorn gives an exaggerated laugh. “Don’t mind my son. I think Nicky’s sweet on her. But, holy smokes, how could we blame him?” The adults laugh.
Nick glares at his father and shakes his head. He storms off.
“Want some fresh air?” asks Daniel.
“Please,” says Ana quickly. Daniel leads her through a tall glass door into a quiet inner courtyard.
Ana looks at the darkened sky. “I’ve found the answer,” she says quietly.
“What’s that?”
“Why Americans love ice. Here in Spain, we drink wine. But Americans have fancy cocktails that require ice. Gin and tonic, scotch and soda—”
“Ana.”
She turns to him.
“I’m sorry I asked you to work on the photography project. I could tell you were upset. I’ve felt awful about it since yesterday.”
“Don’t feel badly, señor. Your photographs are beautiful. It’s just difficult because—”
“There he is.” Shep Van Dorn leads Daniel’s parents into the courtyard.
“We’re heading back to the hotel, Dan,” says his father. “We have to be up early.”
“Querida, you are simply stunning,” breathes Daniel’s mother, rushing to Ana’s side. “I’m María Matheson.”
Daniel looks from Ana to his mother. “Mom, it’s Ana.”
“So nice to meet you, Ana,” effuses his mother, clearly unaware that Ana is the employee assigned to her at the hotel. “I see you’ve met my son.”
Daniel and Ana exchange looks.
“Nice to meet you, señor,” says Ana to Daniel. He smiles, stifling a laugh.
“And what a shame you don’t have your camera,” says his mother. “I’d love a photo of this gown.”
Mr. Matheson touches his wife’s elbow, eager to depart.
“You were just lovely this evening. So pleased to make your acquaintance, Ana,” says Daniel’s mother. She gives an approving nod before exiting.
How embarrassing. He can only imagine how Ana feels. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry, señor. I’m not in uniform . . . I don’t look like myself.”
“You look exactly like yourself. I’m the one who looks different,” says Daniel, loosening his tie.
She scans his expensive suit. “I think I prefer the jeans.”
“Good. Me too. Do you need an escort home?”
Ana looks at Daniel. She opens her mouth to speak but stops.
“Such a gentleman.” Mr. Van Dorn slaps Daniel on the back. “Kind of you to offer, Dan, but we’ve arranged for the embassy car to take all the girls home.”
Ana stands, motionless. Daniel tries to decipher her odd expression, her eyes.
“So, see you tomorrow?” he asks, hoping she’ll say yes.
She takes a single, deep breath. The way Ana looks at him, it makes him want to reach for her. She turns and hurries away.
Daniel watches her retreat, stares at her beautiful back, and curses himself. He knows he’s just made a mistake but he’s not sure what it is.
40
Ana sees the note, but pretends she doesn’t. The white corner peeks out of her purse pocket, a small arrow purposefully left to call her attention. She tries to determine when it was placed. Was the note already in her purse when she left the hotel?
Her hand runs a path over the green skirt of her hotel uniform. The uniform is the nicest piece of clothing she owns. But suddenly the fabric feels coarse and stiff, so different from the silky dress. The model was sick. The boutique was desperate. They begged Ana’s manager for permission.
It was a fluke. Nothing more. Like Mr. Van Dorn said, she is just a maid. She pulls a faded handkerchief from her pocket and wipes her mouth, careful to remove all traces of the expensive lipstick.
But despite her sister’s warnings, Ana does not regret the evening. She wore a beautiful dress, a dress she could never own. She spoke to a handsome boy alone in a courtyard and was respected by his mother. For a few hours, she felt beautiful. And for that brief moment, beautiful felt possible.
The pavement ends and the car continues onto the dirt road.
“Pull over, please,” says Ana.
“Are you sure?” asks the driver. “It’s dark. It’s no trouble to drive you in.”
“Gracias, but I’d like some air. I’d prefer to walk the rest of the way,” says Ana.
The driver pulls over and Ana exits the vehicle.
A shiny diplomatic car would draw too much attention in Vallecas. Small children would chase it, men would become suspicious, and the women—Ana thinks specifically of the women—the women would run to Julia with questions and opinions.
She wishes she could tell Julia about her evening. Needlework is Julia’s passion. She’s spent years studying the designs and patterns of Spanish designers like Pedro Rodríguez and Cristóbal Balenciaga. Ana would love nothing more than to give her sister every detail of the beautiful gown. But it’s not possible. The event was at the American embassy. Julia will worry.
The black sedan pulls away. Ana walks alone down the dirt road, and when the sound of the engine has entirely left her ears, she grabs the note from her purse.
This will be the end of you.
Ana rips the note to shreds, scattering pieces as she walks. She blinks back the oncoming tears and looks over her shoulder, making certain no one is there. Making certain no one sees the trail of threat crumbs, leading straight to her door.
41
Two thirty in the morning.
Daniel sits at a table in the corner with his camera, observing the crowd. The hotel nightclub pulses with music, conversation, and cigarette smoke. Dead bottles of champagne, with their foil collars wrinkled and torn, laze in sterling coolers. Ben Stahl is tomato-faced with perspiration. He shambles around the dance floor, flaming cigarette in one hand, scotch in the other. His rhythmic moves are disjointed from the music, as if he hears a different song entirely. Ben’s having a grand time, seemingly unaware that he’s dancing by himself. Daniel snaps a picture.
Nick drops into the chair next to him.
“Don’t want to dance, Danny boy?”
“I’m having a fine time with the camera. Lots
of great shots here.”
“In Texas do you have formal dance classes like we do in New York?”
“Two full years,” nods Daniel.
“Do you dance those crazy Texas dances?”
“Best kind. If I have to dance, I’m most comfortable dancing in boots.”
Nick takes a swig from his glass. “So, what happened with your gal in Dallas? Was it serious?”
“She was very serious . . . about trying to change me.”
“Ouch. Good riddance.” Nick laughs.
“Doesn’t matter. There were other problems.” Daniel seizes the opportunity. “And what about you? Your dad said you’re sweet on Ana. Are you guys an item?”
“Nah. I don’t like to be tied down. Diplomats move around every couple years. Why get attached when I’ll just have to leave? Besides, she’s not exactly an accepted girl on the Social Register.”
“So you and Ana never dated?”
Nick sets down his glass. “Why are you so curious about Ana?”
“No reason. She’s assigned to help my family here at the hotel. She seems interesting.”
Nick stares into his emptied glass. A smile suddenly curls at the corners of his mouth. “She is interesting. Actually, Ana lives in a very unique part of Madrid. It’s a great place to take pictures. You should stop by her house.”
“Really? Wouldn’t that be an imposition?”
“Nah, she’d love it. She can’t really socialize at work. There’s always someone looking over her shoulder, you know?”
Daniel thinks back to his exchange with Ana. Maybe Nick is right. She said the hotel keeps her busy. She can’t enter his room without an assigned task.
“Do you have a pen?” asks Nick. “I’ll give you directions.”
Nick scratches information on a cocktail napkin and tosses the pen on the table. “I’m thirsty. You thirsty?”
Daniel looks at the cocktail napkin. “Nah, I think I’ll turn in soon.”
