The Snow Gypsy(23)
On her way back to the tent, she paused at the paddock to admire the horses. There were some magnificent ones, including a black stallion with an arched neck and an impressively muscled body. The wind from the sea streamed through his mane and tail, and the sun gave his coat an iridescent sheen, like the plumage of a raven. She couldn’t help thinking of how Nathan would have loved such a horse. She could almost see him on the stallion’s back, whooping for joy as he rode out onto the marshes.
She was ducking down to get back into the tent when she caught sight of Jean Beau-Marie loping across the field.
“Bonjour!” She waved, trying to catch his attention. Gunesh joined in, barking loudly.
Jean changed direction. But he gave Rose no word of greeting as he reached them—just a curt nod. He glanced from her to the tent and back again. Gunesh jumped up at him, tail wagging. Jean put out his hand, stroking the dog’s head absently, as if his mind were a million miles away.
“Where did you disappear to last night?” she asked.
He didn’t answer her at first. He bent down to take the Afghan’s head in both hands, nuzzling its nose with his. When at last he replied, he didn’t look up. “That Spanish guy said he was your boyfriend.”
Rose clicked her tongue. “Well, he isn’t. I don’t have a boyfriend—not that it’s anything to do with you or him!”
“You’re right—it’s none of my business.” He shrugged as he got to his feet. “I’m sorry. That’s not why I did what I did yesterday. I wasn’t trying to . . .” He met her eyes fleetingly, then turned as if to go.
Rose realized that without meaning to, she had hurt him. She reached out, catching his arm as he moved away from her. “You don’t have to apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s just that I . . .” She hesitated, at a loss to explain how she felt. She’d made it sound as if she didn’t like men—which was not true. But there had to be a chemistry—the sort of smoldering desire she had felt when Cristóbal had kissed her last night.
What she had just told Jean was not a lie: Cristóbal could hardly be described as a boyfriend—not after just one kiss. But just remembering it made her burn inside. She knew that if he had lingered a moment longer, it would have turned into something she might have regretted in the cold light of morning.
“I understand,” Jean said. The wistful look had turned to one of resignation. “You are grieving, as I am grieving. When your heart is full of sorrow, there’s no room left for love.”
His words made her feel even worse. To agree with that sentiment would be very wrong, tantamount to using the death of her parents and the disappearance of her brother as excuses for her lack of interest in Jean as a potential lover.
Was there something wrong with her, that she could still be drawn to a man when the loss of her family was so raw? Cristóbal’s effect on her was like the pull of the moon on the sea: magnetic, irresistible, and immensely powerful. The urge to kiss him had come from somewhere deep inside—some ancient, instinctive part of her that had blotted out everything for a few magical seconds.
“That man you saw me with last night—he’s with the Granada Gypsies,” she said. “He has a cousin—the dancer the men spoke about—who knows the village my brother described in his letter.”
Jean’s face brightened. “So you have something to go on—that’s good.”
She told him about her plan to show Lola the photograph.
“And if she doesn’t recognize him? What will you do?”
“Go and find the village in the mountains. Ask around. Someone there must remember him.”
It might not be as easy as that. Cristóbal’s warning echoed inside her head.
“You should go to Saint Sara—ask for a blessing.”
She nodded. “I already have. That’s how I came to meet Lola—we were both in the shrine, lighting candles.”
“Then she’s smiling down on you. Will you join the procession this afternoon?”
“Yes,” Rose said, “I will.”
It took Rose a while to find her way back to the wagons with the pomegranates hanging in the doorways. The field seemed even more crowded, as if new arrivals had come during the night and squeezed onto whatever patch of ground they could maneuver into.
She wasn’t sure which of the wagons Lola would be in. She bent over Gunesh, fiddling with his collar, trying not to look as if she was watching the women cooking over campfires and the men weaving baskets on the steps. She was hoping to see someone she recognized from the day before, someone who would know who Lola was and where she could be found.
Suddenly she felt something hurtle against the back of her legs, almost knocking her over.
“?Tienes un perro!” You have a dog!
It was Nieve, bright eyed with excitement at the sight of Gunesh—whose head was several inches taller than hers.
“Can I stroke him? Will he bite?”
Rose smiled. “He won’t bite—as long as you’re gentle with him. His name’s Gunesh.”
“That’s a funny name.”
“In a country called Turkey it means sun.” Rose pointed to the sky. “It’s because he’s all golden and shiny.”
Nieve nodded. “What’s this?” Her fingers, buried in Gunesh’s fur, had found the collar of blue beads around his neck. Hanging from it was a silver filigree pendant in the shape of a hand.