“Wait a minute,” Santos asked. “There’s a bar on the top floor with a great view of the basilica, and you can see Augustín’s memorial statue from there. This might be your only chance to see it.”
Maggie looked up at Rafael, who gave her a thin-lipped warning glance not to ask what he’d prefer for a headstone. “Yes, I would love to see it.”
The bar was open only in the evenings, but Santos walked through the dark room and drew them to the large windows overlooking the plaza. “We can’t get any closer than this with today’s crowd, but you can see it’s a magnificent work in bronze.”
It was a life-sized statue of Augustín, dressed in his suit of lights. While there was no bull following him, he was shown defiantly turning away and trailing his cape. It was a classic gesture of a brave matador, and even when viewed from a distance, clearly a masterpiece. It was only the fantasy of what Augustín created in the bullring, however, not the man who’d written poems to a woman he couldn’t forget. Reality was what truly mattered, but when she looked at her own life, the truth was too sad to bear.
“Where are they burying Father?” she asked.
“Augustín’s monument is in the family plot, and while Father will be buried there, the city plans to create a monument for him elsewhere.”
“Something modern perhaps?” she asked.
“We’ll be able to select the design. I’ll send you copies of the proposals when they’re ready.”
“I’m surprised Father didn’t design one himself.”
Santos gestured toward the exit. “He wasn’t much of an artist, but we talked about it. He saw death coming and left little unplanned.”
A shiver shot down Maggie’s spine. Her father might have known death was lurking nearby, but he couldn’t have known it would wear her face.
They returned to the ranch before Mrs. Lujan and Refugio and their footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. Maggie carried the envelope of photos up to her room and looked longingly at th
e bed, but she’d never be able to sleep. Rafael came up behind her and rubbed her shoulders.
“I found a good trail for a walk yesterday. We need to be outside where we won’t suffocate on our own thoughts. Change your clothes and come with me.”
“Give me a minute.”
She waited until he’d walked into his room before peeling off her black dress. She hung it in the closet and doubted she’d ever wear it again. She pulled on jeans, a shirt and shoes good for walking. She didn’t dare sit, because she wouldn’t have been able to stand up again, but she wanted out of the confines of the house as badly as he did.
He led her down the path angling off from the stable. It bordered the fence for a hundred yards before being blocked by a gate secured with twisted wire. It was easily opened, and they continued down the overgrown path.
“Santos told me he used to go riding with Miguel. I’ll bet this was the trail they followed, but it doesn’t look as though anyone has passed this way in a long while.”
He took her hand so they could walk side-by-side along the groove worn into the dirt. An oak tree with wide branches provided a shady spot to rest, and using it for a backrest, he sat and pulled her down between his outstretched legs. “Lean back against me.”
It was so easy to relax with him, and she rested her head on his shoulder. “This is a pretty spot. I wonder if the family used to come here for picnics.”
“Maybe. I didn’t think to bring food. Are you hungry?”
“No, not at all. Sitting here and doing absolutely nothing is perfect.”
“Good, then just listen and let me talk. There hasn’t been time for me to really show you Barcelona. As long as you’re in Spain, we ought to visit Madrid too, and Toledo is on all the tourists’ itineraries. We have to spend more time dancing. I don’t want you to go home with nothing but sad memories of your father. I don’t want you to go home at all. Will you at least consider staying here with me?”
She licked her lips. “I’m sorry, but I can’t make any serious plans today. Please don’t be angry with me.”
“I couldn’t be angry with you even if I tried.”
“Thank you. I just feel numb, but I love listening to you talk. You have the most wonderful voice. You ought to do recordings for audio books.”
“Do I sound different than any other man?”
“Yes, there’s a deep richness to your voice, but I don’t suppose you can appreciate it yourself. You said something about dancing?”
“Yes, we need to spend a lot more time dancing, but if we went out tonight, all the tabloids would criticize us for partying so soon after your father’s funeral.”
“Before coming here, I’ve never had to worry about how my actions would look to others.”