The Spanish Daughter(43)

The hostess in me was telling me to offer him a drink, but Silvia’s stern eye warned me not to dare.

“Well, why don’t you wait for him in the kitchen?” I said, dismissive. With that maid whose name nearly escapes you. “Come on, querida,” I told Silvia, and guided her to the dining room without another glance at Juan.

With every one of my steps, I felt more ashamed of myself. I couldn’t believe I’d spoken to him that way when all these years I’d been eager to see him again and feel his arms around me.

But he’d been so cold.

My throat was scratchy. I’d ruined everything.

“Who was that?” Silvia said, and I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

I shrugged, horrified to feel my eyes watery and burning. I would not cry in front of Silvia.

“Just one of our neighbors.” Speaking hurt my throat more.

“Why haven’t I met him?”

“He was gone for a while, traveling I think.” I didn’t want to get into details, not with her. Not when I saw the way she’d looked at him, even if now she was pretending to be uninterested.

“Well, he seemed a little rude.”

Even Silvia had noticed.

“He’s not very polished,” I said. “His mother died when he was young and . . .” Why was I justifying Juan to her? Juan was not Silvia’s business. I did not want to make him her business so she could have an opinion of him, just like she had about everything else. “Anyway, what were you saying about the flowers? Personally, I love daisies.”

She twitched her nose. “Daisies? But they’re so plain.”

Good, I’d diverted her attention. Now, what was I going to do about Juan? I had to make it up to him. Later. After Silvia left, I would talk to him. I grabbed the pitcher of lemonade sitting in the cupboard and removed a couple of glasses from the cabinet. I should have offered Juan a drink. Maybe I still could? I had to get rid of Silvia so I could go back to him. What if this was just a quick stop and he wasn’t staying in town?

Oh, why couldn’t Silvia stop talking? I handed her a glass. Then filled my own and took a long drink. I peeked at the door behind her, calling Juan in my mind. I wanted to see him again. In fact, I could feel my legs tingling to go back to the parlor.

Silvia took a small sip.

“Maybe we should take a drink to Juan?” I said.

“Who?”

Oh, yes, I’d failed to introduce them. What was wrong with me? One glance at Juan and I’d turned into custard.

“The neighbor.”

“Oh, him. No, don’t bother, he didn’t even introduce himself.”

Silvia was right. Juan hadn’t even made an effort to greet us properly, but what could be expected of him? He’d never been conventional and his father had been a madman. But he sure was handsome. Had he gotten married? I’d forgotten to look for a ring. That would explain his indifference, though.

The door burst open and my father entered the room. I expected to see Juan behind him, but Papá was alone.

“Silvia, what a pleasure to see you here, ma belle!”

“Don Armand!”

“You will join us for Angelique’s party?” my dad said in his thick French accent. Over twenty years in Ecuador and he still sounded like he’d just stepped off of the ship.

“Of course, Don Armand. I will be delighted! In fact, your daughter and I were just planning all the details.”

“Papá, did you see Juan? He was waiting for you in the parlor.” Could he possibly have gone to the kitchen, like I’d suggested? Oh, why had I said such a stupid thing?

“What Juan?”

“The only Juan we know. Our neighbor.”

“Oh, he’s back?” He turned his attention back to Silvia and complimented her on how the olive of her dress matched her eyes so well.

I excused myself and headed for the kitchen. Rosita was alone in there, preparing the dough for empanadas.

“Have you seen Juan?”

“Last I saw he was in the living room.”

I darted outside but there was no sign of him. I could go to his place, but that would be too undignified and besides, what would I say? Why didn’t you wait in the kitchen, like I told you? He would think I was insane. And maybe I was losing my mind a little. I couldn’t even understand what I was feeling. All I knew is that I hadn’t expected to see Juan again. Not today, anyway.

I stared down the road that led to his house, wishing things could be as simple as they were before he’d left.

*

The guests were gathering downstairs already. My hands trembled as I put my sapphire earrings on. Silvia had been right. Blue suited me. My mother had agreed blindly with all of Silvia’s suggestions, not caring much for terrestrial affairs herself.

My mother came from humble origins. She was one of eight siblings, and all of them considered her the luckiest girl in El Milagro, her hometown, to have found a rich foreigner to marry her—that was the lie they told everybody. The truth was my father already had a wife in Europe, but both of my parents acted as if his real wife was nothing but a long-lost relative.

I couldn’t understand what my father saw in my mother. She was plain looking and not too bright, but she treated him like a god. She never argued, but simply joined her hands in prayer when he said something offensive. Such servitude, such blind loyalty was not easy to find. My father liked that she forgave easily, that she wasn’t demanding. There had been only one instance that I knew of, one offense in their lukewarm life that my mother didn’t tolerate. And he’d suffered for his extramarital indiscretion with one month of silence from my mother. Eventually, they’d reached a truce.