Sincerely yours,
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
Although it was my understanding that most contracts are signed by mail, his tone, courteous and professional, gave me no reason to refuse his request. But my trust of his word was not the only reason I accepted. The truth was I wanted to see him.
His hold on me had increased, not decreased, as the week passed. Several times, I found myself driving toward his house while running an errand, or after dropping Madison at school or at one of her friend’s house. I had always stopped in time and turned around. I couldn’t start to imagine my embarrassment had I made it close enough for Bécquer to sense me and my pathetic crush. For crush was the only word to describe this yearning for a person I had met only four times. And having a crush at my age was ridiculous. Crushes were for teenagers, not for mothers of teens.
Madison might be only fifteen, but she, certainly, had more sense than I did.
“I don’t fall for guys who have no interest in me,” she had told me some weeks earlier. “What would be the point?”
“There is no point,” I’d told her. “But you don’t choose whom you love.”
“I do,” Madison said, so stubbornly certain that I gave up trying to explain.
But I knew by experience that reason had nothing to do with love. I had fallen for Bécquer against all common sense and, hard as I tried, had not been able to forget him. And against my better judgment, I wanted very much to see him again.
Besides, the meeting was to be the following Saturday, which was the weekend Madison would be grounded. And any excuse to leave the house was welcome, because nobody knows better than a grounded teenager how to make life miserable for everybody else.
Chapter Fourteen: The Contract
There were two cars already in the parking space in front of Bécquer’s house when I arrived. A yellow Jeep and a green Honda Civic.
Almost two weeks had passed since the Halloween party, which meant Federico would be gone by now and Matt, I knew, kept his car in the garage. My understanding was that only Richard would be there today. I remembered Richard had mentioned he didn’t own a car for he didn’t need one in Manhattan and had taken the train to Princeton to come to the party. Maybe he had rented one today. If he had, a Jeep seemed an unusual choice for a rental. Was his the Honda Civic then?
As for the other, it had to be Rachel’s, I thought with a pang of jealousy that had no reason to be there. Bécquer had asked me to be his blood giver and I had refused. That he had chosen somebody else was inevitable, that I hurt because he had was illogical.
My hurt also validated my decision. Even if I had agreed to give him my blood, he might have taken the girl as his lover, which would have been even more painful for me. I had done the right thing. By staying away from him I would eventually forget him. I just needed more time. I would have plenty of time from then on, considering I didn’t plan to see him again.
Yet this thought that was supposed to reassure me only added to my distress.
How had this happened? Since when had my desire to see Bécquer overcome my wish to sell my manuscript? Today my dream would come true. I was about to sign a two-book deal with one of the most prestigious publishing houses in the country. I should be elated, but I was not. I was upset and apparently jealous because a young, pretty girl had caught Bécquer’s attention.
I tore my eyes from the small sedan blurred by the raindrops streaming down my window and, forcing myself to bury this futile yearning for a man who was not human and thus forbidden, I turned off the ignition and stepped outside.
Behind the curtain of rain that fell unrelenting from an overcast sky, Bécquer’s house loomed in front of me, its impressive mixture of modern architecture and Pennsylvanian charm more apparent now without the orange lights that had framed it on Halloween night.
Holding my umbrella with both hands to fight the gusts of wind that threatened to yank it away, I dashed across the gravel expanse, and climbed the stairs to the porch. The door opened before I knocked and a young woman appeared in the opening. Although her face was in shadows, my suspicions were confirmed when I recognized Rachel, the red-haired girl from Café Vienna.
“Come in,” Rachel said, moving brusquely aside. “Bécquer is waiting.”
It sounded like a reproach the way she said it, as if she was accusing me of making him wait. But I wasn’t late, I knew, and as if to prove me right, the antique clock sitting in the hall sounded the hour.
Without glancing back, the girl disappeared into the great room. She obviously meant for me to follow but I hesitated as I considered the puddle forming in the wooden floor underneath my umbrella.
“Excuse me,” I called to her. “Could you tell me where to leave this?”
The girl stopped and turned and for the first time she met my eyes.
She was young. Younger than I remembered. Ryan’s age was my guess. Or maybe she seemed younger because, unlike at Café Vienna, she was wearing no make-up. And in her pale, freckled face her eyes showed red. Not flashing red that would have marked her as immortal, but red and swollen, as an indication that she had been crying. In fact, she seemed about to burst into tears at any moment as if my question had pushed her over her limit.
“It’s all right,” I hurried on, “I’ll leave my umbrella outside.”
I grabbed the doorknob but, before I could turn it, a young man materialized by my side.
“Please give it to me,” he said. His deep baritone voice was surprisingly gentle as he addressed the girl. “Don’t worry, Rachel. I’ll take care of this.”
He was young, mid-twenties probably, with broad shoulders and muscled forearms his tight sweater couldn’t conceal and, unlike Rachel who seemed overwhelmed by emotion, his manners were brisk and efficient.
After he relieved me of my coat and umbrella, he offered his hand. “I’m David,” he said.
“Carla Esteban.”
David smiled. “Rachel will take you to Bécquer’s office,” he told me. “And Rachel?” he called as the girl waited for me to join her. “Try to smile.”
If anything, Rachel seemed even more distressed by the young man’s attempt to lighten her mood. Tears welled in her eyes.
Had Bécquer tired of her already? But that didn’t seem right. If he had, he would have stopped charming her and she would have forgotten him. Bécquer was not cruel that way, or so Federico had led me to believe.
Not knowing what else to do, I offered the girl a tissue. She thanked me and, after drying her eyes, slid it into the pocket of her jeans and started again across the great room with the grand piano at one end, and through the door that led to the corridor where I had followed Beatriz after she injured Bécquer the night of the party. But instead of turning toward the library, Rachel stopped before the door directly across and knocked.
“Come in,” Bécquer called from inside. Bécquer’s beguiling voice invited me in. I felt like fleeing, but it was too late. It had been too late for a long time. Probably since the moment he had told me he liked my book the first time I ever met him.
In my struggle to keep my feelings at bay, I almost missed the quiver in the girl’s voice when she announced my arrival.
“Thank you, Rachel,” Bécquer said. “You may leave now. But please come back in half an hour for I will need you to make some copies.”
Rachel nodded, and then turned and left.
From behind the massive mahogany desk where he sat, Bécquer stared at me.
“Please come in,” he said and smiled. The smile lit his handsome face, which was paler than I remembered it and somehow thinner. But his eyes, dark on mine, did not smile.