were apart, however, her common sense took over with a desperate wail.
At dinner that night, Carmen took one look at Maggie in her colorful new outfit and shook her head. "Don't come to my table again dressed as a Gypsy."
Cirilda regarded Maggie with a condescending smile as though she expected no better than outlandish garb from her niece. Fox sent her a beseeching glance, and unwilling to abandon him at their opinionated grandmother's table, she took her seat.
"I regard them as resort clothes, and this trip is a vacation for me," she responded with forced sweetness. "Full skirts are also perfect for dancing flamenco, which I love."
"You're beautiful as always," Santos interjected, but he was unusually subdued and offered few comments to warm the frosty mood.
As they ate raspberry sherbet for dessert, Cirilda mentioned an artist who was extending his modern artwork into a clothing line, and Carmen promptly denounced it as a certain failure. "Why is that?" Maggie asked, just to be perverse.
"He is known for using huge splotches of bright colors. One of his paintings is a striking accent in an office foyer. On a woman, it will look like she's crazy and wrapped in an old awning."
"I suppose it would depend on the style," Maggie added.
"He has no background in fashion design," Carmen insisted.
Maggie was sorely tempted to comment until her grandmother finally ran out of criticism for the artist, but Santos changed the subject before she could speak.
"What should I wear on Sunday, the red traje de luces, or the green?"
"Red," Carmen replied with her usual fervor.
"I rather like the green," Cirilda posed.
"What's Mondragon wearing?" Santos asked.
"Black." Maggie replied, grateful she wouldn't have to see him wearing it. "I won't be going on Sunday. I'll stay here with Father."
Carmen laid her fork across her plate. "When Santos is featured, we all go, without fail."
"I'm not going on Sunday," Maggie repeated. "The mere thought of a bullfight is too much for me. I wouldn't be able to reach my seat without fainting."
"And yet you sleep with Gypsies." Carmen shook her head in dismay and left the table. Cirilda waited a moment, perhaps contemplating an equally rude remark, but apparently thinking better of it, she followed her mother from the room.
Santos finished his wine. "We can't let this be the end of the evening. Do you want to go to the Caves? We can slip in a side door and remain in the shadows where no one will see us."
"Do I have to dance?" Fox asked.
"Not unless you want to," Santos assured him. "Please say you'll go, Maggie."
"I'd be happy to go anywhere tonight, but are you sure we can stay out of the tabloids?"
"The tourists won't know us, remember. Mondragon might be there."
Maggie doubted it, and he wasn't, but early the next morning Carmen came into her room and threw a new tabloid on her bed. "I cannot wait for you to leave this house." She slammed the door on her way out.
Maggie sat up, shoved her hair out of her eyes and read the latest story. She and Santos were shown seated at a table at the Caves, leaning close together and laughing, which was taken as blatant evidence of their romance. Fox was a shadowy figure in the background and not mentioned. The headline read: Where's Mondragon?
The tourists might not have recognized them, but Santos had forgotten everyone who worked at the Caves would. Someone must have used their cell phone without attracting any notice, and all the photo really proved was that she and Santos had been there. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Her father's world was so different from her own. It was also Rafael's world, which was even more disturbing. Unfortunately, there was no way to combat the tabloid's absurd assumptions other than to ignore them. She tossed the paper on the floor and went back to sleep.
When she got up later, she thought her father might appreciate a more colorful guest at his breakfast table and put on her new outfit. When she opened her door, Rafael was waiting down the hall. He came toward her carrying the tabloid featuring the photo from the Caves. His dark scowl only peeved her now.
"Is it impossible for you to stay at home?" he asked in a sarcastic whisper.
Maggie grabbed his hand, drew him into her bedroom and onto the balcony where the wind would catch their words. "Why should I when my grandmother regards me as a whore? Cirilda