driving home. None of my imaginary exchanges had ended like this. Why had Federico interrupted Becquer? Why did he want me to wait?
Before I could find an explanation for their strange behavior or gather the courage to call again to clarify my position, the phone rang, startling me.
“My deepest apologies,” Becquer said after I picked it up. “Federico thought we were engaged for the next few days. He was mistaken. In fact we can meet tomorrow. Please say yes. I promise I won’t influence you, and, if after our conversation you still want to break our contract, I will abide by your decision.”
I said yes, of course. How could I not when he put it that way? Only to realize after I hung up that if I had so easily agreed to his request on the phone, my chance to deny him anything in person was close to nil.
I was early the next day for my meeting with Becquer. It had been a conscious decision. Being first, I thought, would give me an advantage, or at least, save me the embarrassment of walking the length of the room under his stare.
The place was almost empty when I arrived — too late for the morning rush, too early for lunch — and in no time I was sitting at one of the tables by the window, my espresso forgotten in front of me, watching the door. As I waited, I questioned the wisdom of my decision for every time the door opened my heart jumped in my chest and the mantra I had chosen to repeat to keep me calm lost a little of its effect.
Somewhere outside the chimes of the town hall clock sounded the hour. Any moment now, I thought, but I was wrong. Becquer was not the next person to come in, nor the following one. By ten thirty, my mantra had changed from “
I was considering leaving when the door opened, once again, and Federico appeared in the doorway. Federico, and not Becquer, my mind registered, whether with disappointment or relief I was not sure.
My first thought was that Becquer had sent Federico to drive me to his house and, bracing myself to resist such a request, I waited for him to come over. But Federico stalled by the door. Holding it open with his body, he was maneuvering a wheelchair through, when one of the baristas, a girl with ginger hair, as natural looking as Madison’s bleached blonde, rushed to his aid.
I imagined the man in the wheelchair to be an acquaintance of hers, for despite the long line that had formed by now to order, the girl didn’t return to her post behind the counter, but stayed by the door talking to him.
Across the room, Federico’s eyes met mine. He shrugged, and I nodded and looked away, embarrassed he had caught me watching. Out of the window, the cars coming down Main had stopped before the light. And again, like Sunday morning, a blue convertible was first in line. The roof was down, and I couldn’t see the driver, but the car I was certain was Becquer’s.
“Sorry, I’m late.”
My heart stopped at the sound of his voice, Becquer’s voice, inside the cafe, addressing me, while his car stood outside. I turned, startled, and met his eyes staring at me. His eyes, dark and serious, at a level with mine, because Becquer was sitting. Sitting in the wheelchair Federico had pushed through the door.
Becquer in a wheelchair?
“Becquer,” I whispered, my voice entangled with too much feeling. “What happened?”
Becquer shrugged, or tried to, for his neck was encased in a collar brace that limited his movements. “I fell down the stairs,” he said, a wink in his eyes belying his words.
His face, his handsome face, was criss-crossed with pale scars. And as I looked down to hide my shock at his condition, I noticed he held his right arm in a sling against his chest, and the right leg of his dark suit had been cut lengthwise to accommodate the cast.
“My apologies, Carla,” Federico said moving from behind Becquer. “To get a wheelchair took us longer than anticipated.”
“And it was totally unnecessary,” Becquer said. “I could have walked.”
“You could not,” Federico said, a note of frustration in his voice.
“I would have waited,” I told Federico, “had I known.”
Becquer scowled. “No. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t have believed me had I told you. In fact, you still don’t believe me, and you are looking at me.”
He was right. While my eyes had taken in the details of Becquer’s condition, my mind refused to admit it, for Becquer was immortal and immortals heal immediately. Were Becquer’s disabilities real or was he pretending to be disabled to manipulate me?
Becquer swore, making no secret that he had read my thoughts. “Do you really think so poorly of me?”
He tried to stand as he spoke, but managed only to hit the cast against the floor before Federico stopped him. “If you don’t sit still, I’ll take you home.”
Becquer moaned. “It’s not my fault. She doesn’t believe me.”
“Give her time,” Federico said, in Spanish now and somehow I knew he had checked to be certain nobody in the cafe could understand our mother tongue, before he added, “After all, for someone who is supposed to be all powerful, you are quite a sight.”
“Thank you for reminding me,” Becquer answered in the same language. “Are you trying to cheer me up or push me to despair?”
“Neither. Just let Carla adjust, then ask her what we discussed at home and, please, be quick. Immortal or not, you should be lying down, not driving around.”
They stared at each other for a moment in silence and I knew they were talking mind to mind. But, to my regret, I could not hear them. I didn’t need any immortal’s powers, though, to feel Becquer’s simmering anger and frustration with his condition. In the end, it was Becquer who looked away, and Federico’s tight grip on the armrest of the chair eased.
With a sigh of relief, Federico turned to me. “Your espresso has grown cold,” he said unexpectedly. “And I blame myself for it. May I get you another one?”
I looked down at the cup, still full, in front of me, and shook my head. “It’s all right. I like it cold.”
Becquer raised an eyebrow in mock disbelief, and I felt myself blushing at being caught in a lie.
Federico smiled. “Please, oblige me.” With a last, warning look at Becquer, he went to join the line.
I followed him with my eyes, reluctant to face Becquer just yet, this sulking, wounded Becquer whose sorry state had already broken my defenses. How was I to deny him anything in his condition?
I shouldn’t have come, I thought for the thousandth time.
“Carla?”
“Do you still want to terminate our contract?”
I nodded, not really listening, for my mind was still struggling to make sense of Becquer’s situation. “How? I mean, who did this to you?”
Becquer only stared.
“Beatriz,” I whispered.
It was the only explanation. But Becquer denied it. “Beatriz is gone, Carla. You don’t have to worry. She won’t harm your children. And I assure you my present disability will not interfere with my role as your agent.”
“That’s not why I asked.”
“Out of pity then? Please don’t. I’m immortal remember? I will heal before the week is over. And, in the meantime, would you reconsider your position and give me a chance at being your agent?”
He raised his left hand as if to stop me from answering, while he continued, “I’ve already queried several of the editors as a follow-up to our conversations at the party. If I were to withdraw your manuscript now, it would be unprofessional on my part and awkward for you or another agent to resubmit to them. So before you decide to rescind our contract, please realize that doing so would harm my credibility and yours.
“As for your fears, I assure you they are unfounded. Beatriz is gone and I already gave you my word that I won’t talk with Ryan without your permission.”
