Rafael next door. A bathroom connected the two rooms. He waited for Mrs. Lujan to leave, then walked into Maggie's room.
"Don't worry about hanging your laundry in the bathroom. A woman's lingerie makes beautiful decorations."
He hadn't been wearing any underwear last night, and she doubted he ever did, unless he wore embroidered briefs for the bullring. "Is there fancy sequined underwear for matadors?"
"No, wouldn't they be uncomfortable?"
"Would a matador notice?"
He moved up behind her and looped his arms around her waist. "Enough. I'll be a Gypsy dancer for you, nothing more."
She relaxed against him. They were already moving in a dream world, and last night she'd been desperate to enjoy it. She wasn't the least bit sorry either. "All right. Mrs. Lujan was expecting us. Do you suppose there's something for lunch?"
He spread teasing kisses along her neck. "Whatever you want."
She patted his hands and stepped away. "I was thinking along the lines of soup or sandwiches."
"Later, then?"
She took his hand and backed toward the door. "You'll be dessert."
Maggie took the delicious vegetable soup offered for lunch, while her male companions went on outside with a promise to return later for the thick roast beef sandwiches Refugio, the cook, would have waiting. She sipped the soup slowly to savor the vegetables freshly picked from the garden. The bread was still warm from the oven and tasted awfully good too. Once finished, she sat back and hoped her earlier black mood had been due at least partly to hunger. Now fortified, she asked Mrs. Lujan where she might find whatever materials Augustin had gathered for his memoir.
"Do you have your grandmother's permission?" the housekeeper asked.
Her heart fell. "I didn't think to ask her."
"Good." Anita led her into the den at the end of the house. Bookshelves lined the walls, but windows on three sides flooded the room with light.
Maggie would rather not have had a view of the bullring, but there were no draperies to draw. "I won't take anything," she promised. "I'd just like to get a sense of the man."
The housekeeper pulled open the deep lower drawer on the desk and took out a tin box. "He kept it all in here. He'd take out everything, sit here all day doing little or nothing and then put it all away. He must have thought he'd have more time to work on his memories."
"Thank you. I won't make a mess."
"I trust you," Anita replied. "Would you like coffee or tea, something more to eat?"
"No, thank you, I'm fine."
"So is your young man," the housekeeper answered with a wink. She closed the door on her way out.
Maggie laughed in spite of herself, but Rafael was most definitely fine, from any angle. She opened the box and found not a collection of letters and notes, but three journals. She checked the dates and sat down to skim through the first. Augustin had written in Spanish rather than Catalan and the bold downward strokes of his handwriting were easy to read.
Unfortunately, the book contained only a list of bullfights and who'd been on the bill with him. He'd written a brief assessment of each man's performance, including his own. There were photographs tucked between the pages, and all had the subject's names and the date neatly printed, but they were of other matadors and men who'd worked with him rather than family.
Augustin had apparently been the meticulous sort, but there was no other hint to the man's personality. She couldn't help but wonder if he'd been the one to send Miguel to the University of Arizona, or if Carmen had been behind the effort to separate their son from the sweetly innocent Rosa Sanchez.
She opened the second journal expecting more of the same, but Augustin's first sentence stunned her. "Live in the center of your life." She repeated it several times wondering if it was his philosophy or an affirmation he'd read somewhere. There was a drawing of a man standing in a circle that could have been a bullring. It was a carefully made sketch rather than a stick figure, and she flipped through the journal looking for more of his artwork.
The drawing of the woman was at the end of the book. She was dancing, spreading a full skirt and looking over her shoulder. She was smiling as though gazing at the man she loved, but the name Augustin had written was Simone rather than Carmen.
A loud shout from outside drew her to the window, but the ranch hands gathered around