Bécquer swore with an old-fashioned Spanish word I had never heard spoken. “Why didn’t you send Matt?”
“Because Federico insisted he wanted you to go.”
Like a boy told he must do his homework before playing, Bécquer sulked. “Is that why you came? To tell me this?”
Beatriz nodded. “I called your cell first. But, as usual, you left it at home.”
“I don’t need a cell phone.”
“You better go,” Beatriz insisted. “It took me a while to find you. Federico’s plane will be landing soon. And he hates waiting.”
“Yes, he does, doesn’t he? Even more than he hates me.”
“Federico doesn’t hate you.” Beatriz’s voice was firm as if talking to a stubborn child. “He — ”
“Then why does he do this to me? Now, I won’t have time to arrange things for the party.”
Beatriz took a step back as if urging him to follow. “You don’t have to worry about that. I told Matt to set the lights and decorations after you left this morning, and I double-checked with the catering service. I thought you were too busy this year to care for such trivial matters.”
Bécquer stared her down. “I appreciate your concern,” he told her, the stiffness of his body saying otherwise. “But you know I like to attend to the preparations in person.”
“You can always change the decorations if they are not to your liking.”
“Of course.” He looked at his watch, a flash of gold on his wrist. When he continued, the anger was gone from his voice, “But you were right in asking Matt to do it. If I am to get Federico, I will just make it in time before the first guests arrive. Which reminds me.” He turned toward me. “I have not invited you yet. Have I?”
“No, I don’t think you have.”
“How rude of me! I host a party for my authors and publishers every year for Halloween. I would be thrilled if you came.”
“Thank you for the invitation, but — ”
“The party starts at six,” he interrupted me. “Don’t worry about the directions. I’ll send Matt to pick you up. Expect him around five-thirty.” Then again, he addressed Beatriz. “Please remind him if I forget.”
“One more thing,” he said to me. “Please, don’t mention my — condition. My other authors do not know.”
He smiled when I agreed and, after grabbing his briefcase, wrapped one arm around Beatriz’s waist and whisked her away.
I watched them go — he, dark and tall, she swaying slightly on her high heels — their closeness bothering me in a way that it shouldn’t have.
When they reached the door, he opened it for her with his free hand, his other never leaving her waist, and as she stepped outside, their bodies touched.
Beatriz looked back over her shoulder and glared at me, her pale blue eyes slits of cold hate, her lips closed in a tight line. Then she was gone.
I sat back.
I was breathing hard, I noticed, and my heart was beating fast. What had just happened? Was Beatriz jealous of me, as Bécquer had suggested, jealous that I’d take her place? Or was she warning me that Bécquer was hers? But he wasn’t, was he?
“She’s my personal secretary,” Bécquer had told me. How personal? I wondered now. Had he meant that they were lovers? And what if they were? Why should that bother me? But they were not, could not be for she was close to my age and he was … almost 200 years old.
I closed my eyes for a moment to calm myself. What was I thinking, worrying about Bécquer’s private life instead of worrying that he had a life at all, as he, by all logic, should have been long dead? Unless none of this had happened. Unless I had imagined he’d stopped time for us. Unless his claim that he was Bécquer had been a lie.
Outside the window, coming down Main, a blue BMW convertible waited at the light. While I watched, the roof rolled back and the sun poured inside the car, on the black hair and pale skin of the man who claimed to be Bécquer. I held my breath, afraid that he would burst into flames. Across the distance, Bécquer smiled and, in my head, I heard his laughter, a clear laughter of childish joy. Before I could react, the light turned green. With a slight movement of his hand, he shifted gears and disappeared in a blur of blue.
His acknowledgment of my reaction did nothing to assuage my fear because, as far as I was from the window, no human eye could have seen me. And so I knew that Bécquer was Bécquer as he claimed, an immortal that could step out of time, and I, by signing the contract, had just bound myself to him.
I took a deep breath. The smell of coffee now overpowered the other scent, lemon with a hint of cinnamon, that Bécquer had left.
Steam still rose from the second espresso he had brought me. I picked it up and swallowed the coffee in one gulp, burning my tongue. But caffeine did not change how I felt. The fear remained.
Unfortunately, as Bécquer had mentioned, in the States, you can’t get brandy in a café. And that was what I needed now, a shot of brandy in my coffee. Or, even better, a shot of brandy straight. I needed a drink.
Chapter Two: Madison
“Good for you!” was all Madison said when I told her I had an agent.
Her headphones back in her ears, she resumed her typing, while talking simultaneously to the heads of her girlfriends trapped on the screen.
“He invited me to his party,” I said.
Not surprisingly, I got no answer.
“MA-DI-SON!”
“What?”
“Close your laptop and look at me. We have to talk.”
“About what?”
I just stared.
“I have to go,” Madison spoke to her laptop, and then snapped it closed. “I was busy,” she said, pulling off her headphones.
I ignored the challenge in her voice. For all her attitude, and unlike her brother at her age, she at least obeyed me. For the moment that was enough.
“Have you decided whether you’re going to your party tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you have decided, or yes you’re going?”
“Yes, as in ‘I need a ride to the mall to buy a costume.’”
“Today?”
“It’s your fault, or have you forgotten you won’t let me wear the one I have?”
“I can’t take you to the mall. My party is at six.”
“You’re going to a party?”
Her surprised disbelief irked me, for it implied this was as rare an event as finding her in a good mood. Which was, in fact, the case.
“Yes, I am. I just told you. My agent invited me.”
“Then, you’re the one who needs to go to shopping. You have no costume.”
“It is not a costume party.” I frowned. “At least I don’t think it is.”
“You don’t know? Really Mom, you need help.”
“Okay. I’ll take you to the mall. You’re right. I need a dress.”
“Cool!”
Madison jumped from her bed and, in one of those sudden changes of mood I could never predict, sauntered over the piles of clothes scattered on the floor and hugged me. “I love you, you know?” she said.
“Yes, I know.”
“Now, about tonight,” I said as she started digging into her closet. “I will ask your brother to give you a ride at eight.”
Holding a pair of jeans small enough to fit a Barbie doll, she turned to me. “Are you kidding? He’ll be too stoned by then to drive.”
“Madison! Ryan has been clean for a year.”
“If you say so. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather ask Abby if her mom can drive us.”
I left her texting on her cell, and headed for my room. But her words about Ryan haunted me. Was she badmouthing her brother out of jealousy for all the attention he had gotten over the years by misbehaving, or had she seen something I’d missed?