Clad in his classic black outfit with a new silver bolo tie and Stetson in hand, Fulgencio Ramirez stood at the front door. Before his knuckle could strike upon the wood, the door swung open.
There stood Carolina Mendelssohn, as radiant as she’d been the night of their first date, in a black fitted dress cut right above the knees, a string of pearls adorning her tender neck, her hair tumbling onto her bare shoulders.
Fulgencio had to remind himself to breathe. Standing in the doorway, her shadow fell across him, seeping into his very soul.
“I brought you some roses.” He gallantly extended his arm toward the giant rosebush.
“I saw.” Her lips curved upward gently at the corners.
As they stood in the foyer, he helped her with her long black coat. Her soft perfume in the air. Her curls brushing against his hands.
Her eyes glimmered as she looked up at him. His wavy black mane. His angular features. His thick mustache trimmed and neat. “Let’s take my car,” she said.
“What’s wrong with the truck?”
“You told me about that steering wheel.”
She invited him to drive. It just would have seemed too strange any other way. Fulgencio Ramirez was a driver, not a passenger.
Of course, always the gentleman, he opened the door for her. There was no way he could avoid the sight of her taut legs tightly wrapped in black nylon.
As they backed out into the street and began to pull away from the house, Fulgencio did a double take, glancing into the rearview mirror. For a flash he could have sworn he glimpsed the silhouette of an older gentleman standing in the doorway to the house.
Rubbing his eyes and shaking his head, Fulgencio focused on the road ahead. Her car was a recent model Nissan Maxima, silver, unassuming. He marveled at the smoothness of the ride, the responsiveness of the engine.
“These new cars feel different,” he remarked.
Carolina laughed, “You’re a dinosaur, Fulgencio Ramirez.”
He had made reservations out on La Isla del Padre, the beach they had frequented in high school, and Carolina opened the car’s sunroof so the stars could shine down on them. Neither of them said anything, but they both were reminded of those evenings driving back from the island in the splendor of their youth, Little David asleep in the back seat of Mr. Balmori’s car.
“It’s like a convertible, but it isn’t,” Fulgencio mused, fascinated by the opening in the car’s roof.
“Where have you been all these years, Fulgencio?” She chuckled.
“Waiting for you. Waiting to live again.”
He felt her angle a little closer toward him. In the olden days, the front seat of a car was designed like a bench, he thought. She could have slid over and cuddled up against him then. But now a gulf yawned between them, plastic cup holders and all. They called it a console. Modernity wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
They dined in an elegant room overlooking the Laguna Madre, the narrow bay separating the island from the coast, candlelight flickering across their faces. Like two young lovers out on their first date, she picked at her food demurely, and he swallowed her whole with his ravenous eyes.
“So,” Fulgencio ventured, shifting in his seat, “do you think we’ll do this again?”
She examined the sparse salad arranged like minimalist artwork on her plate. “I don’t know. We’ll see.”
He frowned, sensing her pulling away. “What’s wrong, Carolina? Why do you close yourself off from me?”
She stared at her plate.
“Have you still not forgiven me? Is that it?” he asked. “Because that I could understand. Tell me if it will take more time.”
“I don’t know, Fulgencio. Maybe some things just can never be forgiven . . . or forgotten.”
He could feel her distance growing, tumbling forward into the wake of her receding tide. This is how he had felt over and over again during the past weeks. Every time it seemed he was creeping closer, she would flee. What was holding her back? Could there be another dimension to the maldición, a secret clause in fine print that had somehow eluded Brother William?
“Are you afraid, Carolina? Are you worried I’ll hurt you again?”
She looked up at him, her eyes glowing in the shadows of the warmly lit room, “No. It’s not that.”
“What is it then?” Fulgencio rubbed his temples, taking a sip of red wine. “Is it our age? Do you think we’re silly trying again after all these years?”
“No, Fulgencio. Just drop it.” She looked away. “Some things are better left unsaid.”
Fulgencio felt as if he were jammed up against a wall, searching frantically for a crack to stick his fingers into and pry through.
“We’ve spent time together. We’ve talked,” Fulgencio struggled. “I feel like we know each other better than we ever did in high school, but still something is holding us back. It’s something inside of you. Sometimes I’ll say something—like the day I was telling you about El Chinito—and you’ll leave the room without an explanation. Other times, I see your eyes drowning in sorrow. And I know . . .” Fulgencio’s tone hardened, “I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Fulgencio, really,” she whispered as heads turned in their direction, “this is not the time or the place. Pass the wine bottle,” she said curtly.
He deftly poured more wine into her glass. “Talk to me. Why did you marry Miguelito if you never loved him? Why did you never leave him if you didn’t love him . . . if you didn’t even care enough to bear his children?”
She drained her wine glass and wiped the corners of her lips daintily with her linen napkin. She rose deliberately, looking straight through him, and glided from the room into the night.
Fulgencio slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the table and followed her, leaving the waiter in his wake with their steaming entrees in hand and a puzzled expression on his face. All heads turned, following their abrupt exit.
Outside, it was nippy in the spring Gulf breeze. Carolina stood on a dock, leaning over the wooden railing, looking out over the bay, her golden mane flowing in the wind. Hearing his footsteps falling heavily on the planks, she whirled around, freezing him in his tracks.
Her eyes resembled a pair of shattered honey pots, as the tears welled within the broken glass and the golden fluid spilled out. The wall was tumbling, cracking. Melting. He braced himself for the deluge.
“You want to know, Fulgencio? You want to know why?”
He was gripped by both fear and anticipation, clutching anxiously at the brim of the hat in his hands.
“Let me tell you why, Fulgencio. I wanted to spare you the pain that I’ve lived with each and every day and night for the last twenty-some years!”