Marcos replied to something Carlos said and lifted his cup to his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he drank. Alba took a sip from her own cup and wondered what it would be like to kiss him again and taste the spicy blend on his nicely shaped lips. Her own were tingling, and very warm—if anyone had asked her, she wouldn’t have been able to say if the effect was caused by the tea or the thought of kissing Marcos.
Unconsciously, she lifted the tips of her fingers to her mouth—and realized she had been staring at him, and that he’d noticed. Carlos had rejoined his wife on the other side of the room and all of Marcos’s attention was hers. She dropped her hand as if it had been scalded and, resisting the urge to sit on it for good measure, blurted out, for lack of anything else to say, “Did your girl like her gift?”
“My girl?” he asked blankly.
“The one you were shopping for the other day, at La Gran Via.”
“Oh.” He gave her a look that warmed her even more than the tea had. “I hope she did, but I won’t know for certain for a while yet.”
“I’m sure she’d tell you, if it were posible for her to do so, that your gift was one of the best that she has ever received.”
“Would she?” he murmured.
Alba had no doubt that anyone who happened to glance at her at that moment would be able to see the heat spreading through her limbs as she remembered the kiss they’d shared in the darkened theater. She felt flushed, and endeavored to change the subject to something that would not make her feel quite so warm. Setting her teacup on the table, she said, “Has Miss Bustamante enjoyed her time in town?”
“Rather more than I thought she would,“ he said, gesturing to the other side of the room, “I think that she’s taken a liking to Alejandro.”
Alba followed his gaze. Alejandro and Miss Bustamante were talking quietly by the window, a little apart from the rest of the group, their heads bent close together. Silhouetted against the wooden shutters, left open to let in the last of the day’s light, they looked like a painting by Terrero. As she watched, Alejandro reached out and clasped Miss Bustamante’s hand in his. A quick glance at the opposite corner showed her that Miguel had noticed the exchange, and was gripping Nicolas's guitar as though he meant to snap it in two with his bare hands.
“Poor Miguel,” Alba said, adding a bit tactlessly, “and poor Miss Bustamante, for that matter.”
“You don’t approve of Alejandro?”
“He’s an incorrigible flirt. He’s sure to drive her to distraction.”
“What about you? Do I drive you to distraction?” Marcos leaned forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees, watching her intently.
Alba wanted to touch him but propriety prevented her from doing it, at least in public. She settled for letting her lips curl into a smile as she said, softly enough to make him lean even closer to hear her over the sound of clapping, “You always have.”
CHAPTER FOUR
HANDS IN HIS pockets, Marcos strode down the bustling street. It was the week before Christmas and it seemed like everyone in Arroyo Blanco had ventured out to make their preparations for the holiday. He was stopped here and there by old acquaintances and friends of his parents’ and as he spoke to them, he could feel himself slipping back into the person he was when he was home— a milder, more good-natured version than the harried businessman he’d been in Chile.
Arroyo Blanco had changed a great deal in the years he’d been gone. Only that morning he’d passed by the place where the old haberdashery used to be and found it gone, a bustling construction site in its place and a sign announcing an upcoming Gentleman’s Clothing Emporium fixed to the front. Even Mr. Molina’s pharmacy—which had looked exactly the same for the last half century—had been modernized.
He was skirting a cluster of housewives gazing at a display of costly apples and grapes—which had to be imported and were usually only to be found in the days leading up to Christmas-- when a familiar laugh caught his attention. It had come from the milliner’s shop. The glass storefront was crowded with merchandise, but a clear space to the right allowed him a glimpse of Alba. She was standing in front of a mirror with a tiny confection of ribbon and feathers perched on her head, laughing as Maria Teresa peered out from an ridiculously large hat.
Even though he’d been trying to keep out of her sight, Marcos had snuck a glance at her face when the usher had led her into the box at the theater and she’d realized her favorite opera was about to be performed. For a brief, unguarded moment, her expression had looked as unreservedly delighted as it did now, without any of the sorrow that had settled in it after her father’s death.
Moving up the sidewalk before anyone could accuse him of peeping, Marcos stopped in front of the adjacent shop, which happened to be the bookseller’s, and began to page through the books on a cart just outside the door as he waited for Alba and Maria Teresa to come out of the milliner’s.
He didn’t have to wait long; the two of them emerged almost five minutes later, so engrossed in conversation they didn’t see him standing a few meters away. Marcos put down the book he’d been flipping through, just in time to catch Alba by the elbow as she stumbled over a loose stone.
“Oh,” she exclaimed as he steadied her. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Are you all right?”
“A little embarrassed at my clumsiness, but mostly fine,” she said, reaching up to adjust her straw hat. It was much plainer than the one she’d been wearing inside the shop, devoid of decoration save for a dark blue ribbon around the band, but its simplicity suited her.
Reluctantly, Marcos released her arm and stepped back. “Where are you two headed today?”
“To Mr. Zapata’s,” Maria Teresa said. “Why don’t you come with us? We could use your help with our packages—Alba's left her basket at home and it’s devilishly uncomfortable juggling all these boxes.”
“I’d be happy to. I was headed that way myself,” he lied, falling into step with them.
Marcos relieved Alba of the assorted bundles she was carrying but refrained from taking Maria Teresa’s, knowing it wouldn’t be long before she found a reason to leave them alone.
Sure enough, they were halfway to the confectioner’s when Maria Teresa suddenly remembered she was expected elsewhere and hurried away before either Alba or Marcos could say a word. They exchanged an amused glance.
“Not at all subtle, is she?” Alba said.
“Not a particle,” Marcos agreed. “But I can’t say I’m sorry she’s gone. It’s been too long since I’ve had you to myself.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but it looks like you can’t have me quite yet.” She nodded at the couple hurrying their way. “The Molinas want to say hello.”
The Molinas were friends of Marcos's grandparents. They greeted him enthusiastically, exclaiming over his long absence as Mrs. Molina enveloped him in her thin arms. Marcos did his best to look pleased even though all he wanted was to put them off. But nothing, not even Alba, could have persuaded him to be rude to kind, old Mrs. Molina, who’d knitted him socks and plied him with sweets and fussed over him as much as his own grandmother had.
Finally, after what felt like an age and a half, the Molinas went on their way and Marcos was once again alone with Alba—or as alone as they could be in a crowded street.
It was just as well. Marcos wasn’t sure that he could trust himself to keep his hands off her. He hadn’t been able to, at the theater.
He hadn’t planned to do it. In fact, he hadn’t planned on coming into the box at all. But when the music started, he’d decided that it would be harmless to peek in and make sure she was enjoying herself. Once he had stolen inside and had caught a glimpse of her long neck and the curve of her cheek, gilded with the light coming from the stage, he’d been overcome with the sudden urge to touch her, to reassure himself she really was there in front of him. And then she’d bridged the distance between them and it had been all he could do to kee
p from getting carried away.
Touching her—kissing her—had only left him wanting more.
Realizing he had marched on ahead, he slowed down and waited for her to catch up, forcing his lips into an easy smile. “What are you getting at Mr. Zapata’s? Something for your angelito?
“Not this time. I’m buying sweets for my nieces and nephew. Papá always did this time of year and they’ll be expecting it.” She turned her head away, but the catch in her breath gave her away.
He touched her arm with his free hand and she gave him a grateful smile. “How old are they now?” he asked.
“Seven, five, and the little one’s two. She’s a regular tyrant. Rules the household with an iron fist and woe on anyone who displeases her.”
“Just like her mother, then,” Marcos said. If he’d suffered plenty of physical blows at the hands of Alba and her wooden sword, then Alba’s older sister was responsible for a different kind, which were mostly delivered in the form of sharp scoldings after he and Alba had been caught making mischief.
Alba laughed. “I’ll be sure to tell her you said so.”
Marcos pretended to shudder in fear and pushed open the door to the confectioner’s, holding it until Alba walked through. The skirt of her dress brushed his legs, and Marcos was sorely pressed to keep from sweeping her into an embrace as the faint scent of ylang-ylang rose again from its folds, discernible even over the sweet, warm fragrance emanating from the shop.
Mr. Zapata welcomed them with obvious delight. He’d come to Arroyo Blanco almost thirty years before to visit a distant cousin and had found it so agreeable he’d never returned to his native Spain. He had just come into the front room from the back, holding a tray full of carefully arranged polvorones.
“You’re just in time to try my new recipe,” he said, extending the tray so they could reach it over the counter.
Marcos and Alba each picked one, and their eyes met as they bit into the crumbly shortbread.
Marcos was sure they were remembering the same thing— at the start of the Christmas season, when the aguinaldos began, Marcos's mother would make a large batch of polvorones and keep them in an enormous glass jar near the entry for carolers. The year they were both eight, they’d taken advantage of a moment in which both his mother and the housemaid were busy with Pablo—who had slammed his fingers in a drawer and was wailing loud enough to wake the dead— to steal the jar and hide under the back porch, where they’d held a contest to see who could eat the most polvorones. Marcos had managed sixteen before his stomach started to ache, but Alba had eaten an impressive twenty eight…and had been promptly sick into the bushes.
The experience hadn’t made either of them adverse to the sweet. Marcos finished his and assured Mr. Zapata that it was the crumbliest, sugariest polvoron he’d ever had, and Alba put in an order for two dozen.
Mr. Zapata beamed and gestured to the display of marzipan figurines. “And have you seen our mazapan?”
They were fashioned into different shapes, some topped with almonds and some without.
“I’ve a few young friends who would like those,” Marcos said, thinking about his cousin’s boys, who would be at his family’s Christmas celebration. “I’ll take twenty, and some penny candy as well.”
Alba requested an assortment and rounded out the order with with several bricks of turrón. As Mr. Zapata started wrapping everything up, Marcos turned to her and found her looking a little wistful as she gazed at the display, no doubt filled with thoughts of her father.
Marcos nodded at the tray of polvorones and said, “I’m half tempted. Aren’t you?”
“Not a bit,” she answered, and he was pleased to see some of the sadness melting away from her expression. “Though I am rather curious to see if you can best my record.”
“I might be persuaded to try,” Marcos said, smiling down at her. She returned the smile, and he noticed the smear of sugar on the corner of her lips. His hand rose without his thinking about it and he brushed the sugar away, wondering if she would taste as sweet as the polvorones. His first impulse was to find out. But Mr. Zapata had finished putting together their orders and was tying the bundles together with twine.
Reluctantly, Marcos stepped away from Alba and took their packages from Mr. Zapata.
The street was still crowded when they emerged from the confectioner’s shop. It was half past six—the faint notes from the clock tower’s bell were still hanging in the air—and the sky was beginning to darken. The street lamps flickered on and in a second, the swiftly growing twilight was softened by a dim yellow glow. The electric lights cast patches of warm light on Alba’s face and illuminated the tiny curls that sprang from her face like a halo. Marcos could still remember how she’d fussed over her hair when she’d first been allowed to put it up, peeking into shop windows to make sure it was tidy and taking far too long to arrange it in the morning. He’d never told her he liked it better down. He used to comb his fingers through it to help her pick out twigs and leaves that had gotten caught among the tangles, and tug at the curls that formed at the ends. He’d started to take it down the night of the opera but propriety had stopped him; if he had another opportunity, he wasn’t sure anything short of an earthquake could pull him away.
“Shall we take these home?” Marcos asked. He’d asked Mr. Zapata to deliver his orders to his parents’ house the next day, as his arms were filled with Alba’s bundles and she would find it quite impossible to carry them all herself.
“No, I—I’m going to Cristina’s for dinner.” She fumbled with her boxes and looked a little flustered, then lifted her eyes to his. “Why don’t you come with me? Cristina will be happy to see you and the children are always great fun.”
“I’d like that,” Marcos said. “I’d like that very much.”
*
Cristina hadn’t been surprised when Alba had arrived with Marcos in tow. In fact, she had murmured something that sounded like “About time,” and asked the housemaid to prepare another place at the table. Dinner had been an informal affair; afterwards, Cristina and her husband had watched in amusement while Marcos turned himself into a pony for the benefit of Cristina’s youngest and consented to have his hair petted and pulled, his mouth stuffed with lumps of sugar, and his jacket wrinkled by countless rides around the room.
Alba had perched on the sofa beside her nephew, a copybook on their laps as they went over the sums he had been assigned that day, and she could hear the girls shriek with delight every time Marcos neighed and snorted. It reminded her of the way he used to come around after dinner and would entertain her and Cristina with wild stories while her parents rocked in the front porch and a clear soprano voice rose over a chorus of crickets and frogs. He would stay until her parents went back inside the house, murmuring about bedtimes, pretending to leave and then stealing back to whisper more stories to her under the hibiscus bushes, long after they were both supposed to be in bed.
Since her visit to the theater, Alba had begun to think about playing her father’s recordings again. Cristina’s eldest girl would love In The Night—at eight, she was dreamier and quieter than Alba had been and she was uncommonly fond of music. The entire opera, in fact, with its fanciful storyline and colorful costumes was sure to appeal to her.
When he had finally been rescued from the girls’ not-so-gentle attentions, Marcos dropped on the sofa beside Alba, his necktie askew and his face red. He nodded at the copybook. “Are you doing his sums for him like you used to do mine?”
“I never did that,” she said primly, aware of the children’s eyes on them. “I was always a model of propriety.”
Cristina snorted, but refrained from commenting. Marcos grinned at her, and the two of them shared a look that made Alba shift uncomfortably in her seat.
“It’s true, you know,” Marcos told the children. “You aunt was well-behaved little girl. She never took the headmistress to task over the egregious lack of advanced mathematics being taught
at the Young Ladies’ Institute.”
“Or tried to cross a river on a raft made from branches and a plantain-leaf sail,” Cristina put in.
“And when it rained, she never—”
“Stop, stop,” Alba said, laughing and holding up her hands. “Don’t reveal all the secrets of my scandalous youth.”
But Marcos and her sister spent the following half hour maligning Alba's character, to the children’s delight and their father’s amusement. Finally—but not before they had destroyed Alba's reputation as a prim old aunt—the hired girl appeared in the doorway to remind them it was high time the children were in bed.
There were immediate protests, the most vocal coming from the youngest, and Cristina might have had a rebellion in her hands if Marcos hadn’t said, “Off to bed with you, you little monsters, or I won’t tell you about the time we dug up your grandmother’s backyard because we were convinced that there were secret diamond mines underneath the house.”
As Alba and Marcos stood in the entrance, gathering the parcels they had hidden from the children and laughing over some of Alba's more outrageous exploits, Cristina came up to Alba and handed her some wrapped leftovers to take home to their mother and said, too quietly for Marcos to hear, “Don’t you dare let him go again.”
Alba squeezed her sister’s hand. “I don’t intend to.”
A companionable silence fell over Alba and Marcos as they started the walk to Alba's childhood home, their arms heavy with parcels. They crossed the park and turned right at the Consistorial Palace. Two streets down, they made another right into the street where Alba had grown up, which was quiet save for the sound of the breeze rustling through the trees. They had walked this way countless times when they were growing up and not a lot of things had changed since then—fallen orange petals still spread like a carpet under the jacarandas, a riot of hibiscus still bloomed in Mr. Valdez’s front yard, and the same little dog yapped at the Garcias’ gate, now perhaps with less enthusiasm than before.
A Season for Wishes Page 3
