He shrugged. “That’s easy enough.”
Santos dried his hands. “Come on, let’s go.”
They took the elevator to the parking level. As they approached Santos’s SUV in the underground garage, Maggie noted his smooth stride. “Your leg’s nearly healed now, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I could have fought today, but I wasn’t sure. It was better to give Rafael a chance, since you’re so impressed with him, although I’ll never understand why.”
“It’s the way he dances,” she answered, which was only a miniscule part of the truth.
“I’ll bet that isn’t all,” Fox wondered aloud.
“That’s enough about him,” Santos insisted. “There’s a marina not too far from the beach house that should have sailboats for sale. If I don’t find one, I’ll rent a boat for the afternoon.”
Maggie was elated to do anything to keep her mind occupied. “I’d like to learn to sail. I’ve sailed on lakes in Minnesota with friends, but I wasn’t doing the work. I suppose I could take a class.”
“You could, but the best way to learn is to sign on to my crew,” Santos assured her.
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Inspired, Santos and Fox began making up sea chanteys as they drove down the coast, and while she hadn’t expected to spend the afternoon laughing, with their silly words and tunes, she could live in the moment and soak up the fun of the day.
Rafael would have the picadores and banderilleros who usually worked with Santos rather than the men who’d worked with him last Sunday. They had at least seen each other if not spoken, and he assured them at the end of the day they’d receive a bonus to their pay. They went with him to look at the bulls, and he appreciated their advice. He’d been excited last week, eager to show what he could do, but today, his mood was reserved.
The huge Miura bulls were a menacing black and circled each other slowly in the pen, stirring the stink of manure. Bred for courage and strength, they weighed more than one thousand pounds. Their eyes held a vicious gleam. Rafael was certain they regarded him just as closely as he studied them. He understood why Augustín had kept such detailed records of his fights. He would have to buy a journal and keep his own account before the fights in Spain blurred together as the ones in Mexico already had. A journal would also save him from having to rely on arena signs to know where he was.
José Arredondo was a picador, who’d ride a padded horse and use his steel-tipped lance to weaken the bull’s shoulder muscles. “Watch the one with the bent horn. See how he swings his head? He may come at you from any angle.”
“And the others?” Rafael asked.
“None of the others look as dangerous, but we’ll see more when they enter the ring.”
Nothing could be done if he drew a bull that ignored his cape and charged him. He’d just have to fight it as best he could. He’d fought such a motley assortment of bulls in small towns in Mexico. These beasts were easily twice their size, and the famed Miura bulls were the most dangerous in the ring. The two men fighting with him also observed the bulls with their men. Both were in their early twenties and had been fighting for years. They joked with one another and seldom glanced his way. When they drew their bulls, he was relieved not to have drawn the one with the bent horn, but the two he’d drawn were the largest of the lot.
He went up into the empty stands and went over each of his moves. He knew how to make spectacular passes with his cape and how to kill with a forceful thrust, but after working most of his life to earn his place here, he’d expected to have a greater sense of pride. He dressed there at the ring. He donned his shirt and vest slowly and smoothed his embroidered pants to remove every wrinkle. Once clad in his sparkling black suit, he walked into the arena with the other matadors, banderillos and picadores and saw his mother again dressed in red and waving a handkerchief to catch his eye. Her two sons were with her, the taller lad, maybe nine or ten, appeared bored with the afternoon, while the younger boy jumped up and down beside her, his face lit with joy.
Rafael gave them a nod. He’d once been that awe-struck child, but this afternoon, he felt certain the solemn boy was the smarter.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Maggie and Fox sat on the end of the dock as Santos talked with a man anxious to sell his nineteen-foot Flying Scott. She’d been surprised the sailboat was priced cheaper than a used car and also by how knowledgeable Santos had proved to be. Clearly he didn’t make hasty decisions but managed his money well.
She focused her thoughts on the sparkling Mediterranean and sighed. “I love the ocean.”
“Then why do you live in Arizona?” Fox sent her a quizzical glance and raised a hand to check his spiked hair. In a T-shirt and shorts, he looked younger than his sixteen years.
“An excellent question. There’s a beauty to the desert too.”
“If you say so. I should have thanked you for offering me a place to live, but I’ll be fine with Santos. A friend from school invited me to visit the family estate in Exeter. I’d like to spend the rest of the summer with him and go on to school in the fall. Then I’ll be out of everyone’s way.”
“You’re not in the way, Fox,” she assured him. “I’d like to come visit your school. Do they have a family weekend?”
He looked at her askance. “You’d come with the matador?”
“Sure, why not?”
Before Fox could answer, Santos joined them. “We’re taking the boat out.”
The owner walked away from them along the dock. “Is he trusting us to sail it back?” Maggie asked.