“I’m not great with words, but I discovered I can say a lot with a photo,” shrugs Daniel. “Each roll is an adventure, waiting for the images to be developed. My mom supports it but my dad doesn’t.”
“No?”
“Nah, he wants me in oil. He needs to steer everything. When I was fifteen, I was too small to play American football. Dad feared I wouldn’t be able to hold my own so he enrolled me in boxing—anything to get me away from cameras and art. I was good at sparring and loved the technique behind it. But now that I’m a lot taller he’s suddenly decided he doesn’t want me boxing either. He says it’s not a good college sport.”
“Which college will you attend?” asks Ana.
“Well, I’m supposed to go to Texas A&M, but just between you and me, I’ve been accepted to journalism school,” says Daniel. “I’m competing in a photo contest, and if I win, the prize money would fund the journalism program. But my parents aren’t exactly in the know about that yet.”
Ana nods.
“Now that you know my secrets,” says Daniel, grinning, “it’s only fair that you tell me one of your own.”
Ana lowers her voice and gives a quick glance over her shoulder. “My secret,” she whispers, pausing to pull out the suspense, “is that I’m very good at keeping secrets.” She laughs and leans back in her chair. Daniel throws a piece of bread at her.
Keeping secrets. He’s noticed. When he asks Ana questions, she quickly diverts. Their discussion sways like a dance. He steps forward with a question. She pivots back, holds for a moment, then moves in closer with a question of her own. Despite her caution, Ana has enthusiasm that’s natural, a shine underneath.
She leans in, changing topics. “Tell me, why do Americans love ice?”
Daniel leans in, challenging her earnestness. “Tell me, why do you ask such difficult questions?”
“Stop,” laughs Ana. “I’m being serious, señor.”
He shrugs. “I guess ice is just one of those things you get used to.”
Ana nods. “I imagine there are many lovely things to get used to in Texas.”
Daniel rocks back on the chair, looking at her expression of solemn curiosity. He wishes he could photograph it.
Ana opens her mouth to ask something else but changes her mind.
“What?” Daniel grins.
“I love reading American magazines and newspapers. It helps my English. I recently read something in a magazine. What does this mean?” Ana’s brow creases as she recites. “‘Rustproof aluminum shelving . . . controlled butter-ready.’” She lets out a tiny exhale when she reaches the end.
“Those sound like features of an American refrigerator,” laughs Daniel. Ana smiles and laughs too. He looks at her. They’re close in age. She’s easy to talk to, but she’s holding back. He thinks of Ben’s comments. What about the people of Spain? What is life like under a dictatorship?
“Ana, do you always work so late?” he asks.
“No. I stay overnight two days per week. Sometimes I babysit for the guests who—” She stops speaking and quickly begins to clear the dishes. “Let’s get you back upstairs.”
Daniel looks toward the door. Why did she halt the conversation?
They head up the staircase side by side. Daniel tries to catch her eye, but Ana stares straight ahead. “I feel like I’ve told you a lot about Texas. I’d like to know more about Spain,” he says.
“I’m not really the person to ask. The concierge can be of great help, though,” says Ana.
They arrive at the lobby and Daniel is certain—Ana is exactly the person to ask. She’s full of questions. Is it curiosity or is she gathering information? Regardless, he feels more comfortable with Ana in one day than he did after months of dating Laura Beth. There’s something inside Ana that’s natural and fun, but she’s roping it in. Is she following hotel rules, or someone else’s? Or maybe she’s following the master in Spain that Ben spoke of.
Fear.
23
There’s so much Ana wants to say. So much she wants to ask. Is she being rude? He’s a hotel guest. Should she apologize for not answering his questions? She thinks of the swallowed note, of Julia’s warnings, and decides to say nothing. She must remain silent.
Silence is so tiring.
“Now that you’ve found your way out of the basement”—she points down the hallway—“perhaps you’d like to visit the Rendezvous Room, Señor Matheson? It’s the hotel’s nightclub. It’s open until four a.m.”
“I’m not really interested in a nightclub.”
“Are you sure?” Ana smiles. “Nick is probably there.”
“Don’t you mean Señor Van Dorn?” jokes Daniel.
Color drains from Ana’s face. She stares at her feet. “Yes, of course. Señor Van Dorn. My apologies.”
“Ana, I’m joking. You call Nick by his first name. I want you to call me by mine.”
She stares at his boots, unable to meet his eyes.
“Ana, I wasn’t reprimanding you. You know that, right? I was only kidding.” He reaches out and touches her arm.
A desk clerk approaches. “A telegram has arrived for Señora Matheson.”
They both reach for it.
“Your mother asked me to deliver it to her room,” explains Ana, pulling the telegram in her direction.
“I have a key. I’ll put it in their room,” says Daniel, tugging it back toward him.
Ana’s breath quickens. “But your mother, she was very insistent. She might call from Valencia for the message.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll give it to her.”
Ana struggles to find words. “It felt like it might be important.”
“Then you can definitely trust me with it.” Daniel pulls the folded paper into his possession. “Thanks for everything, Ana. And please know, I was only joking.”
Ana nods slowly, watching Daniel make his way across the lobby with the telegram. He reaches the elevator and gives a wave. The fleeting sensation of fun from the basement disappears. The gold elevator doors close, leaving Ana with her one and only companion.
Loneliness.
24
They’re looking at 20 116, Puri’s favorite, the girl she calls Clover. Sister Hortensia grimaces. She stands next to Clover’s bassinet, arguing with a doctor. Across the room, Puri changes a baby’s diaper and strains to hear the conversation.