Maria Teresa had been married for only two years and was an enthusiastic host, which meant that the tables in the terrace were heaped with more food than could be consumed by the fourteen or so people assembled among the assortment of wicker armchairs and carved wooden rocking chairs. Miguel and Alejandro were hovering over a particularly tempting-looking arrangement of crystallized pineapple and papaya; as they argued over who would bring Miss Bustamante a plate, Maria Teresa called the group to order.
Alba found an empty seat, feeling her heart jump when she spotted Marcos. It had done the same thing the day before, when she’d seen him in La Gran Via. He’d been inspecting the contents of a glass case, looking as thoughtful as if he were contemplating an investment rather than a pair of gloves. It wasn’t like him to be so serious but in the short time since he’d returned, Alba had begun to realize that though he looked unchanged, the man who stood before her was not the one she’d known six years before. Then he’d smiled at her, and the time they’d spent apart had seemed to melt away. He had never been classically handsome but something about the easy friendliness of his smile and the way his hair flopped over his forehead, always in want of cutting and too thick to be held back by pomade, drew many a woman’s eye.
The presents had been put into a large basket, which was brought out by Maria Teresa’s two housemaids and set on the low table by the hostess’ chair. The buzz of conversation grew louder as she began passing them around, one at a time so no one would miss out on the fun of seeing the others’ reactions.
Almost everyone had received their gift by the time Alba’s name was called. Her present, inside the sort of tiny box that usually indicated jewelry, had fallen nearly to the bottom. Maria Teresa retrieved it and handed it to her with a glint in her eye Alba found most suspicious.
She made a show of examining the packaging, even though she knew it would yield no clues, as half the fun of angelitos was engaging in misdirection to throw people off your scent. Some girls would wrap their presents as sloppily as possible, to make it seem as though they’d been wrapped by a man, and some men would add all sorts of ribbons and fripperies to make their wrapping looking more feminine. Some even went to great pains to conceal their handwriting. Alba herself had asked her seven-year-old nephew to write Marcos's name on his present. He’d added a drawing of a horse to the front of the card, which Alba thought was a nice touch.
The gift Alba was unwrapping had been carefully, if a bit clumsily, wrapped in ivory paper, a red ribbon tied into a neat bow around it. Alba, recalling the pranks the girls at school played on their angelitos by filling pretty boxes with lizards and frogs and rotten eggs, arranged a pleasant expression on her face and undid the ribbon, leaning away slightly in case something should jump out at her. But nestled inside, on a bed of deep blue tissue, was a folded square of paper.
“Well, what is it?” Maria Teresa asked impatiently.
Alba unfolded the paper, peering at the neat, slanting handwriting. “Only a note. I’m—not sure what to make of it, to tell you the truth.”
“What does it say?” asked Rosa Castillo, putting down her glass of tamarind juice and leaning closer to read over Alba’s shoulder.
“Calle De La Paz, Number 25. Also a time and a date. I can’t even begin to imagine what it means.”
“That’s a street in Ciudad Real,” Miguel said. “My father’s tailor has his shop around the corner, I believe.”
The card was passed around and all gathered proclaimed their unfamiliarity with the address—even Carlos and Nicolas who, like Alba, had lived in the city for years. It was most suspicious.
“A prank, perhaps?” asked Miss Bustamante, looking sympathetic. She had gotten a box of coconut bonbons, which she’d immediately shared with the group without trying a single one, saying that coconut made her ill. Alba was sure she hadn’t seen Miguel’s crestfallen expression; it was obvious to everyone but Miss Bustamante that he was completely smitten.
“I think it sounds like an adventure,” Maria Teresa declared. “And I’ll be very vexed with you if you don’t go.”
The rest of the presents were of a more prosaic nature. Rosa had been given an angel-shaped ornament, and the suitcase-sized box that had been tagged with Alejandro’s name had contained a pair of striped socks, bundled inside such a quantity of wrapping tissue that he looked as though he were floating in a cloud by the time he finally unearthed them.
“Warmest pair I’ve ever had,” he declared, putting them on his hands.
“Maybe your angel should have included an instruction manual,” Marcos said, raising an eyebrow.
“You, my friend, have always been behind the times,” Alejandro retorted. “Didn’t you know that wearing socks on your hands is the latest thing?”
“If that’s so, then I shudder to think where fashionable people are wearing their hats.”
There was laughter. Even Alba joined in, even though she was still puzzling over the note.
It had been a long time since Alba had faced Christmas with anticipation. Anticipation was, after all, for those who had something to look forward to, and since her father had died and her mother fallen ill, the likelihood of fun things happening in Alba’s life had been greatly diminished.
Or so it had seemed.
Now, as she slid her hand into the pocket of her skirt and her fingers met the note’s crisp edge, Miguel and Alejandro’s laughter ringing in her ears, Alba thought that perhaps, despite all the sorrow of the recent years, there might still be some merriment in store for her.
*
The first exchange had gone off without a single prank and it was just as well, because Marcos was sure Maria Teresa would cheerfully murder anyone who ruined her game.
Once the last present had been opened and Maria Teresa, who’d received a tin of Turkish coffee, had promised them some punch made with the excellent rum produced by her family’s distillery, the group separated into smaller clusters.
Marcos found Alba standing by the wooden railing, holding his note in one hand as she absently traced its edges with the other. It was perhaps irrational to feel envy towards a square of paper but at that moment, all Marcos wanted was to feel those fingers caressing him.
“Are you happy with your present?” she asked him as he approached.
He was reasonably sure she was the one responsible for the little statuette, but there was no proving it from the placid way she looked at him. Her brown eyes looked almost black in the deep shade of the porch; in spite of the shadows, he thought he could see a glint of humor in them.
“Ecstatic,” he answered. “It looks just like Principe. Do you remember him? You used to ride him sometimes.”
“I remember him very well,” Alba said, laughing. “I still have a mark from the time he bit me.”
The mark, Marcos surmised, must be on her bottom, as that had been where Principe had bit her. The slim skirts that were in fashion now allowed him to see the curve of it quite clearly thought not, of course, the mark itself. Marcos wanted to see it. He wanted to run his fingers over it, and over the surrounding flesh, and see if his touch could make her skin pebble with goosebumps like his had at the thought of her touching him.
But he didn’t make it a habit to touch ladies’ bottoms. So instead, he crossed his arms and leaned against the railing beside her. “It was in self defense— you did strike him with your wooden sword.” Both Marcos and his younger brother, Pablo, had been clouted with it on occasion, too, as Alba had not been shy about brandishing that particular weapon whenever they displeased her.
“Not very hard,” Alba said, looking guilty. “And it was only because he was the dragon and needed to be slayed.”
“In that case, it was awfully rude of him to keep a knight from her duty. If I recall correctly, Pablo and I played our share of beasts and we both manfully allowed ourselves to be thrashed.”
Alba squirmed and Marcos almost laughed out loud. “I’m not sure I’ll ever reco
ver from that last blow,” he said, pretending to wince at the memory. “You were shockingly strong, you know.”
She was also shockingly beautiful. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she had grown even lovelier in his absence. Her father’s death had somewhat dimmed the light in her eyes, but the new soberness suited her as well as the youthful liveliness that had danced in them before.
A cool breeze swept over the terrace, ruffling the fringe on her shawl and bringing to him the scent clinging to her hair and clothes. As she had when she was a girl, Alba smelled like the ylang-ylang that grew outside his window. It was a scent that carried with it the memory of home, and it made him want to pull her close and press his nose to the hollow of her throat, which was just visible through the lace at the collar of her shirtwaist.
“I had to be strong,” Alba said. “Or you wouldn’t have let me play with you. What was it you who told Pablo I was a pirate in disguise? I always suspected it, but I never could prove it.”
“Only after you helped me build that raft we sailed around the lagoon.”
“A sea-worthy vessel if there ever was one,” Alba said. “Building that raft was my finest accomplishment.”
“Mine, too,” Marcos said, “as it gave me a good excuse to peek up your skirts whenever I asked you to adjust the sails.”
“You wretch!” Alba looked scandalized but she laughed instead of slapping him. As she did, her lips spread open, showing a glimpse of the pearly white teeth beneath, and it was all Marcos could do to stop himself from closing the distance between them.
“I don’t suppose you’ve been getting into any more mischief lately,” he said.
“Not particularly. I’m a bookkeeper now, formally trained and certified. I inquired after an opening at La Gran Via but I won’t hear from them for another few days.”
“So you went through with it after all,” he said softly. “I knew you would.”
“And you? Does your business allow for the occasional caper?”
“Not very often, I’m afraid.”
It hadn’t been a conscious decision, but even before Marcos left for Chile, he had cast aside all he’d loved in his youth as if, if he couldn’t hold on to her, he might as well not hold on to any of the things they’d enjoyed together.
Photography was one of those things. Marcos had been an avid photographer and Alba had been pressed into service more than once, as assistant and subject and everything in between. The photographs of Alba had been some of his finest ones, and he still kept them in his father’s old cigar box. The box had traveled to Chile with him and if the photographs of Alba were worn from almost constant handling, well, six years was an awfully long time.
“Do you still take photographs?” she asked. It didn’t surprise him that her words were mirroring his thoughts. It had been that way between them when they were younger.
“I haven’t much time for it anymore,” he said regretfully. “But maybe I’ll be able to make some time now that I’m home.”
The look she gave him was warm and lingering and it reminded him suddenly of a kiss they’d once shared—their first, if he remembered correctly. She’d traced the outline of his lips with her fingertip, like she was doing now with the card, and he’d felt the warmth of her touch long after she’d gone home.
Their eyes met, and Marcos was struck by the certainty that she was remembering the same moment. “Maybe you will,” she said.
CHAPTER THREE
NUMBER 25, CALLE De La Paz, was a theater.
A lovely small one, tucked into the end of a street that was lined with trees on both sides. There was a tiny park to one side, furnished with a single wrought iron bench on which two girls were sitting, heads bent as they giggled over a book.
Alba pushed open the tall wooden door. The air inside the theater was scented with perfume and flowers. Breathing in deeply, she looked around. There were perhaps some two dozen people milling around the vestibule, chatting with each other and looking through folded programs. So her angel wanted her to see some sort of performance, but he hadn’t thought to provide a ticket.
She went up to the window and was looking for her coin purse when an usher came up beside her. “Are you Miss Reyes?”
Alba nodded.
“Follow me, please.”
He led her up a set of stairs and into a private box. It was empty, save for an assembly of plush upholstered chairs. The usher bade her to sit and slipped away, just at the moment when the lights began to dim.
As she took her seat, the first strains of a song began to thrum through the air. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized the melody. It was Tonight, her favorite aria from an opera written by the Venezuelan composer David Cardenas. Her father used to play her his recording of it every night after dinner as they rocked on the porch. She hadn’t listened to it once since his death though her mother had, on more than one occasion, wistfully asked her if she didn’t miss it.
She’d only seen it performed once, when was fifteen years old. As it had then, the spell of the opera swept over her and she beheld the stage almost breathlessly as the curtain parted to reveal an elegant ballroom in Caracas, full of gilded ornaments and women in the full-skirted silks popular half a century before. Through them strode the tenor, singing about the woman he had once loved. He would catch a glimpse of her in a few seconds and the melancholy melody would grow jubilant.
Alba clasped her hands together and let the music wash over her, so enthralled she was hardly aware of the door to the box opening until someone was standing behind her, whispering, “Close your eyes.”
Even if she hadn’t recognized his voice, she would have recognized him from the sharp, clean scent that rose from his clothes as he sat in the chair next to hers. She felt the warmth of his breath first, and then his fingers as he gently traced the side of her face and the full curve of her lips. Eyes shut, she turned up her face expectantly but he did nothing more than stroke her bottom lip. So, slowly and deliberately, she found his lips in the dark and kissed him.
It wasn’t the first kiss they’d shared, but it felt like it. Alba felt the thrill of it steal over her body, making her heart race and her knees feel weak. It had been this way the first time they’d kissed—and the second, and third, and every time since then—but Alba had almost managed to make herself forget it.
She’d taken him by surprise. His sharp intake of breath was loud enough to draw attention from the other people in the audience so she pressed her lips harder against his, hoping to silence him. His fingers slid into her hair, then hesitated, as if he’d realized he ought not make her hair untidy or everyone would guess what they’d been doing when she exited the box. They retreated, and glided instead over her neck, and over her dress’s modest neckline. Biting her lip to keep from making any more sounds that might carry to the rest of the theater, Alba arched back to allow him access to the pearly buttons that ran from her neck to her waist. But his hands skimmed the front of her blouse and sought out her hands, clasping them as his lips recaptured hers.
The kiss deepened as the tenor’s clear voice began to rise into the crescendo, and just when Alba thought she would grow dizzy with the intensity of it, Marcos drew away, slipping something into her hand—a folded square of paper—and melting into the shadows.
It wasn’t until much later, when the lights were once again glowing brightly and the room was ringing with applause, that she read the note. It was written on the same blue-bordered stationary that had been used for the previous one. It had been folded in half, her name jotted down on the outside and inside, someone with a dashing hand had written, With compliments from your angel.
*
Three days that had passed since Alba's angel had arranged the visit to the theater and she still felt a warm glow in her chest whenever she thought of it. She had taken to carrying the memory of both the music and his kiss like a talisman against the despondency that threatened to overtake her whenever sh
e thought about her father, or about the way her mother seemed to be slipping farther into feebleness with each passing day. She and Marcos had seen each other twice since then, and though neither of them had mentioned their encounter, Alba’s body recalled it well enough. She could feel a tingle working its way up her spine whenever she glanced at him and she was hard pressed to keep from reaching out for him and claiming his lips again.
He had arrived with with Miss Bustamante and an older woman who was introduced as her chaperone. The three of them stood to Alba’s right as they waited on the sidewalk in front of their elderly neighbor’s house, so close he was able to brush the tips of fingers against hers without anybody noticing.
“You look happy,” Maria Teresa whispered from her other side.
“Do I?” Alba whispered back, shading her eyes with her hand to hide their face, even though she knew her skin was too dark to show a blush. She’d told Maria Teresa about the opera but hadn’t mentioned the kiss.
“You do. And I think I know why,” Maria Teresa returned, nodding none-so-subtly toward Marcos.
Alba couldn’t hold back a smile.
Nicolas began to strum on his guitar then, preventing her from answering Maria Teresa, and the group began to sing. After a few moments, the front door swung open and Don Gilberto shuffled into view, moving faster than Alba had expected. His was the first house they would stop at on their route around the neighborhood. Miguel had put together a list of old-fashioned carols for them to sing to him and Rosa had added two of Don Gilberto’s favorite hymns, so it was a good half hour before they went inside.
For the first time in a long time, Don Gilberto’s house was filled with music and laughter and the sound of young people having fun. Don Gilberto, watching them from his comfortable chair by the entrance, was absurdly pleased.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” he told Alba, clasping her hand between both of his own. “It’s very good of you to remember an old man.”
Don Gilberto’s housekeeper had prepared a pot of ginger tea in anticipation of their visit and its fragrance spread throughout the room as she began to pour it out. Alba accepted a cup from a housemaid and handed it to Don Gilberto, who gave her a grateful smile, then took one for herself and carried it over to a cane-bottomed chair that just happened to be right next to where Marcos was sitting. But Marcos hardly noticed, as he was engaged in an enthusiastic conversation with Maria Teresa’s husband. He was drumming his fingers against the arm of the chair in tune to the carol the others were singing, which she knew he only did when he was contented. Alba felt a familiar rush of affection sweep over her.
A Season for Wishes Page 2
