From Barcelona, with Love (24 page)

“My mother died when I was born.”

“I'm sorry. Then I guess you didn't learn manners after all, so you
can
run away.”

He was laughing at her. He stepped back, half bowing in a courtly gesture. “Señorita Vida.”

“
Vida
!” Rodolfo bustled toward her, beaming. He always loved a party and this promised to be a good one. “There you are, and you've already met Jacinto.”

“Vida was thinking of leaving,” Jacinto said. “I'm trying to persuade her to stay.”

“But you can't possibly leave. You are to stay and have a good time,” Rodolfo ordered. Then to Jacinto, “My Vida is a little shy but she bakes the most delicious bread. Thank you,
querida,
for the loaf, we shall all taste it at dinner. Which, of course, is simplicity itself, as it always is out here in the country. Ah, and of course you brought Amigo.”

He called to a passing helper, “Please take Amigo to the kitchen and make sure he gets some of that chicken he likes, and make sure also to chop it finely.”

He turned back and smiled at Jacinto as the dog padded off to the kitchen. “I'm afraid Amigo's teeth are not what they once were.”

“He's old.” Bibi came to her dog's defense. “How lovely the women look,” she said, glancing down at her market-stall blouse that had looked so good in the top half of the cheval mirror.

“Let me take your shawl.” Jacinto's hand was on her shoulder. “It's such a warm night I'm sure you don't need it.”

She turned to look at him. Their faces were almost touching and she caught his faint citrusy scent. There was something very masculine about Jacinto: tall; maybe too lean, thin face all cheekbones; a glimpse of tattoos on his forearms, on his neck; dark eyes that if it were not so “romance novel” she would want to describe as piercing; a lank mop of dark hair falling over those eyes; and a mouth … well, she'd better not go there. She felt that sudden thud in the pit of her belly, the sudden thrill of sexual attraction.

He was casual in narrow black pants and a loose black shirt with the sleeves rolled. He wore a gold signet ring on his right pinkie, a small diamond stud in his left ear, and no watch. He was obviously a man for whom time did not matter.

She turned quickly away … she didn't want to think about that mouth. And anyhow why was he always
smiling
?

“Come,
querida,
let me introduce you to everyone,” Rodolfo said, and telling Jacinto he already knew everyone anyway, he took Bibi by the arm and walked her over to where the half-dozen women guests stood, decorative as wild birds amongst the solid hunting-lodge antiques that had been in Rodolfo's family for generations.

They eyed her speculatively, smiling practiced social smiles, surprised when Rodolfo said she was his cousin and lived nearby in her own castle.

“Your
own
castle?” the woman from Paris said, astonished. “But what on earth do you do all day? Out here in the wild?”

“Ohh, I bake bread.” It was the only thing Bibi could think of to say.

“How
interesting,
” the Monaco blonde in black said, still smiling her social smile.

“Vida also writes songs,” Rodolfo told them. She threw him a pleading look but he added, “I'm hoping after dinner she and Jacinto will play for us.”

“
Entertainment,
” another blonde from Monaco, this one in very short red silk, complete with an all-over golden tan, commented.

All Bibi wanted was to collect her dog and get out of there. She excused herself and drifted, almost invisible, it seemed in this crowd, toward the windows.

“You're not having a good time,” Jacinto said, at her elbow again.

“I don't know anyone here. I lead a quiet life. I'm not used to parties.”

He came to stand in front of her.
Ohh God, she should not have come, he was too clever, he was too curious. Too sexy.

“Why don't you take off the glasses?” he said.

“I need them.”

“I heard William say you didn't.”

“Then he was wrong.” She was damned if she was going to take off the glasses. “Besides, my glasses are none of your business,” she added, nervous.

“Sorry. It's just that you look like the before picture on the makeover. You know what I mean, the country lady turns into…”

“If you're thinking Cinderella, think again,” she said sharply. “I like the way I look, I like my dog, I like living here.”

“In your castle.”

She turned away, drained her cocktail, did not answer.

“I'll bet it's haunted.” He leaned into her, whispering.
“Ghosts from the past.”

“It is,” she said, taking another cocktail from a passing waiter. She knew she shouldn't but she was nervous. She took a gulp then stared down into the glass wishing she were anywhere else but with this singer with his rock-star hair and questioning blue eyes and who anyway was standing far too close to her. She took another gulp.

“
I
am the only ghost at my castle,” she said. “
I
haunt it. All by myself.”

For a long second his surprised eyes locked onto hers, then William came up and said, “Dinner is being served, friends. Please look for your name on the table in the little silver-bird card holders. A different bird for each person. We're serving local food tonight, so expect some surprises. Pleasant ones I hope.”

Jacinto was seated in the place of honor on Rodolfo's right, with the golden Monaco blonde on Rodolfo's left. A dark-haired Amazon of a woman who said she was from Sweden was placed on Jacinto's left. To her relief, Bibi was seated at the other end of the table between William and a pleasant older Englishman who only wanted to talk golf, a game about which she knew nothing, so she just listened and made an appropriate gasp of admiration whenever one seemed appropriate.

Amigo wandered out from the kitchen and settled at her feet, and local girls circled the table bearing platters.

Bibi's bread had been cut into crusty chunks and put in linen-lined baskets. There was sweet, almost white, unsalted local butter in iced silver dishes, melting now because the night had turned so warm. Bowls of a chilled tomato-and-fig soup were already set at each place; her bread was passed around; a white wine poured, a local vintage, flinty and inexpensive and obviously, Bibi thought, watching the sun-glossed women avoiding the bread and pulling faces as they tasted the wine, a far cry from the pricy vintages they were accustomed to. She had been accustomed to expensive wines herself, to the good Bordeaux and the granite-crisp white Burgundies, as well as the Californian Two-Buck-Chuck—the Charles Shaw—that was better than its title led you to believe, and that was the very same wine she had been drinking with Brandi, the night she was killed.

Caught up in the memory, she put down her spoon, suddenly not hungry.

“More bread, my dear?” The nice Englishman to her left was inquiring. “I can recommend it, it's delicious.”

“Why, thank you.” She managed a pleased smile. “Actually, I baked it myself.”

His bushy brows rose in astonishment, “Well, now, I can't say that I've ever met a woman who baked her own bread before. Tell me, my dear, what other talents do you possess?”

“She composes,” William said, from her other side. “Wonderful songs. You'll hear, after dinner.”

Bibi shook her head. “Oh, no, I couldn't, I wouldn't bore you with that.”

“My dear, if they are as good as your bread and as good as William says—and I know him to be an honest man—then I'm sure I'm not going to be bored.”

“We'll see,” she said, giving William a warning glare, but he merely smiled back at her.

The Englishman turned to speak to the Amazon from Sweden and William turned to speak to the sun-kissed beauty whose short red dress exposed her long golden thighs all the way to the top.

Bibi looked out over the suddenly-still parkland. The breeze had dropped and a spear of lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the forest like a rock concert stage. Lighting men ought to take lessons from nature, Bibi thought, as she counted, waiting for the rumble of thunder that would follow. They said you could calculate the storm's distance by a minute for every second counted. She got to nine. Still pretty far away. Perhaps William and his weather forecaster were correct and the storm would head for the Sierras instead of Rodolfo's. With a sudden ache of longing, she wondered what her daughter was doing right now. Had she had friends over for supper? Did they watch TV and eat pizza? Had they danced their crazy wild dances? Had she missed her mother…?

She looked up and met Jacinto's intense gaze.

“Don't be sad,” he mouthed down the long table.

Bibi wondered how he had known.

The soup bowls were whisked away and the main course of local lamb, slow baked with plums and served with truffled wild rice and
migas,
tiny pieces of bread fried with sweet peppers and morsels of chorizo. Lightning flashed. Bibi counted to eight this time. The Monaco women picked at their food. Rodolfo went round the table pouring red wine into the heavy greenish glasses.

“A Rioja,” he said, nodding, pleased at the murmurs of approval. “I thought it would go well with the lamb, and our local specialty, the
migas.
”

Forked lightning suddenly speared into the ground and the entire sky turned white, as sheet lightning flashed, then flashed again, and again. A spatter of rain crossed the parkland and a wind shook the trees. Then all the lights went out. The candles flickered dimly in the hurricane lamps.

“Not to worry,” Rodolfo said, cheerfully continuing to fill glasses. “The generator will pick up in a minute.”

“What a shame,” Jacinto said. “Everyone looks so lovely in the candle light.” He was looking at Bibi as he said it and she put a hand up to her hair, nervously adjusting the tortoiseshell mantilla comb. It slipped and her long hair came tumbling down over her shoulders.

Thunder roared directly overhead, a wind whooshed across the terrace, sending the half-full glasses crashing, and the women shrieked and leapt to their feet, running for the French doors and the safety of the big room.

“Good thing we'd finished our main course,” William said, calmly rising. “We'll move into the dining room. It was all set up anyhow, just in case.”

Jacinto had Bibi's elbow and was hurrying her into the house. “You look wonderful with your hair down,” he whispered.

She clasped her wind-swept hair with her free hand and glared at him. “There's no need to hold on to me, I won't blow away.”

“Like the Monaco woman, you mean.” And despite her need to keep him at arm's length, Bibi laughed, because just then the wind had lifted the Monaco woman's skirt, and blown her, her bottom showing, toward the house.

Everyone reassembled round the dining room table. The women cowered nervously as the thunder crashed overhead, sounding like a jet taking off.

“More wine,” Rodolfo called as William closed the windows.

Jacinto took the chair next to Vida.

Somehow she'd known he would.

“You intrigue me,” he said, and he meant it. “You're a mystery woman. Who knew until the wind blew it down that you had such wonderful long silky hair?” He touched a strand that lay across her forehead. He pushed it gently back, looking at her, and she smiled.

“Can you really be
smiling
?” he asked, sliding an arm round the back of her chair.

She leaned away from him. “I was.”

“You don't like me? I wonder why. Most women do.”

“I don't even know you.”

“So why not let's practice getting to know each other. It's normal at a party, don't you think?”

Salads were put in front of them, simple greens touched with dark olive oil and a hint of balsamic vinegar. Cheeses were passed around.

“Try this one.” Bibi pointed out the Torta del Casar. “You'll like it.”

“If you don't know me how do you know I will?” He was looking at her and not at the cheeses. She was all big brown eyes behind those tinted glasses.

“I just know,” she said simply. And somehow she did, she knew Jacinto was like her.

Dessert was brought, a local concoction of raspberry and cheese and honey called Tio Pichu, “Uncle Pichu,” served in rough pottery bowls with delicate English Georgian silver spoons.

Then everyone took their cups of thick dark coffee and retreated to the big room again, settling into the deep sofas and high-backed chairs, or on big cushions on the floor. The thunder had moved on though lightning still flashed and rain still splattered on the terrace. From the open French windows came a sweet fresh breeze.

Jacinto picked up his guitar. He perched on the edge of a chair next to the piano, and began to strum softly.

“Ahh,”
Bibi heard the women murmur appreciatively, but Jacinto wasn't singing one of his own songs, he was singing Leonard Cohen's “Hallelujah,” quietly, movingly.

Drawn to him, Bibi took her own guitar and went and sat at his feet, picking up the melody. When he'd finished there was silence, then a spatter of applause, then he launched into one of his own songs about being young and knowing your world would never change … until suddenly one day it did …

When he'd finished, he turned to Bibi. “Please, play one of your songs for me,” he said, speaking so quietly only she could hear. And quietly, she began to play a melody.

He leaned toward her, listening intently. “Why don't you sing it for me?” he asked.

But Bibi refused. Instead, she spoke the words, just for him to hear. Like all her songs the story was simple, yet not so simple. It was about knowing who you really were. She'd called it “Just Be…”

“Remember me…” the lyric began: