At long last, the clock struck the hour and Maria Teresa began to gather the people who were participating in the angelito. Before she could follow everyone to the dining room, Marcos went up to Alba, who was drinking brandy from a faceted crystal goblet. “Will you come outside with me for a moment?” he asked quietly, half afraid to look at her for fear she would realize how nervous he was.
She nodded, and he led her outside, past the couples promenading arm in arm along the veranda and into the garden, where the shadows cast by the jacaranda tree would afford them some privacy.
She was radiant even in the moonlight. The cold evening light danced on her beaded dress as they made their way to the back of Maria Teresa’s garden, their fingertips barely touching. They came to a stop underneath the tree’s spreading branches, and Marcos could tell Alba was remembering the last time they’d stood thus, only a few days before.
“Thank you for joining me out here,” Marcos said, taking her by the hand. “I wanted to give you your last present.”
On cue, something white drifted lazily down from the tree’s branches, accompanied by the occasional leaf.
Alba looked up and saw Mrs. Herrera’s youngest two boys, who were up in one of the branches, shaking a bag full of the paper snowflakes Maria Teresa had helped Marcos cut out earlier that day.
As they caught on her hair and landed softly on her shoulders, she let out a surprised laugh. “What is this?” she asked, her eyes bright.
“You said you wanted snow for Christmas.”
She caught one in her hand and said, laughing, “But this is paper.”
“There are limits even to this angel’s powers.”
The sound of her laughter drifted out into the night.
It was curious, he thought abstractedly, that after all that had transpired between them he should feel hesitant to voice what was only all too evident. Still, he took her hand and cleared his throat—and, instead of his carefully prepared speech, found himself saying, “What about your wish? You can still claim it, you know, even though the deadline has officially passed.”
“I don’t need it,” she said.
“You don’t?”
“It seems to me that the time to talk of wishes—even Christmas wishes—has passed. I suggest we talk about proposals instead.”
“Oh?” His heart gave an odd little jump.
“I propose, for instance, that we don’t waste another minute.” She lowered her voice until it was inaudible to the boys in the branches and said, as if confessing a sin, “I love you, Marcos. I have for years and I’ve never stopped, not for a minute. Letting you go was the most difficult thing I ever did and I’ll be—I’ll be damned if I do it again.”
Marcos had never heard her swear. Biting his lip to keep from laughing at the guilt-stricken expression she wore, he took a moment to control the impulse then said, “Miss Reyes, are you proposing marriage?”
“I suppose I am,” she said. “Does it suit you?”
“Splendidly.”
She hesitated. “There is one condition: I have to continue taking care of my mother. I can’t hand her off to someone else, not even for you.”
“I wouldn’t want you to,” he murmured. “I didn’t have the opportunity to do right by your father when he fell ill; I hope you’ll allow me to help with your mother. I have the means now to give her every comfort she’s ever wanted and even better—she likes it when I read to her far better than when you do.”
Alba laughed again. The sound sent a tendril of warmth curling around his stomach. “Only because she likes to look at your handsome face,” she said. “I doubt she hears a word you say.”
It was Marcos’s turn to laugh. “Anything else?”
“I propose we never spend another moment apart.” By this time, they were so close their bodies brushed against each other’s ever so slightly. The touch sent a small thrill of pleasure through him, though it was tempered by the giggles that floated down from the branches of the tree.
Keeping in mind their audience, Marcos smiled at Alba and laid a finger against her lips. He would kiss her later, and kiss her well, but for now, that small touch was enough to convey to her all that was to come. “That, I think, was my Christmas wish.”
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And don’t forget to check out A Summer for Scandal, book one in the Arroyo Blanco series.
When Emilia Cruz agreed to accompany her sister to a boating party, she had no idea that the darling of the literary world would be in assistance—or that he would take such pleasure in disparaging the deliciously sinful serial she writes under a pseudonym. No one save her sister knows she’s the author and to be found out would mean certain scandal.
Stuck on his long-awaited second book, Ruben Torres has begun to edit in secret a gossip paper whose literary reviews are as cruel as they are clever. The more he writes about the mysterious author of a popular serial, the more papers he sells…and the more he is determined to find out her identity before anyone else can.
About the Author
Lydia San Andres lives and writes in the tropics, where she can be found reading and making excuses to stay out of the heat.
For questions, comments and information about new releases, follow Lydia San Andres on Twitter and Goodreads.
A Season for Wishes Page 5
