the doorjamb and barred her way with his arm. "How much did you get for the photo of Magdalena and Mondragon dancing?"
"That's none of your business, but they're a striking couple, and the publicity will fill the bullring. All publicity is good."
"Not all of it. If I took a photo of you without your makeup carrying out a bag of trash, you wouldn't say that."
"No, which is why I never leave home looking less than my best. Aren't you going to invite me in?"
He didn't need to think it over. "No. I'm done, Ana. You have your pass for Sunday, and I don't care who you photograph there. Now I'd like my key." He held out his hand and waited for her to take it off her keyring.
She slapped it into his hand. "It's true, then, isn't it? You are in love with your sister."
He had no idea how to respond when she'd twist anything he said and promptly sell it. He stepped back and closed the door before she could do more than sputter. She was a beautiful woman, but it was a lovely fa?ade, and she was hollow inside. She was more his father's type than his, and he'd been a fool to pursue her. Too restless now to write, he closed his laptop and got ready to go back to the beach house. Maggie would be there, and he did love her; she'd become his favorite sister, nothing more.
Magdalena wore another new outfit that night, a long sea-green linen skirt with an intricate swirling applique circling the hem. Her white cotton knit top could be worn with the neck high or pulled off her shoulders. She chose the chaste version tonight, with a low brown leather belt with a shiny brass buckle. As she'd expected, her grandmother raised her brows but didn't comment.
They were halfway through dinner when Santos spoke. "We read grandfather's bullfighting journals when we were at the ranch. Father mentioned a memoir. Do you know what's become of it?"
Carmen sent Cirilda a frantic glance, then choked and covered her mouth with her napkin. When she at last recovered, she shook her head. "He spoke of a memoir as a man might speak of one day owning a race horse. It was never written. Now, you must excuse me."
Santos waited until Carmen had climbed the stairs, then asked his aunt, "Is that true?"
"Everything she says is true, isn't it?"
"No," Magdalena interjected. "I'm not a whore."
"Oh well," Cirilda allowed, "that's merely an opinion. Where are you going tonight? I might want to go along."
Fox dropped his fork, but Santos smiled as though she'd be welcome. "I know someplace quiet. You'd probably regard the people as vulgar, but the music is good."
Cirilda finished her wine. "For some reason, vulgar sounds good tonight."
The cafe was long and narrow, with small tables on one wall and the other side left open as an aisle for the waiters. The bar stretched along the end of the occupied wall, and the stage crossed the back of the room. A trio of young men played a guitar, flute and violin. Their music was soft and sweet, often melancholy. The conversations at the tables were conducted in low whispers.
Santos and Fox sat opposite Maggie, and Cirilda was on her left. Feeling slightly claustrophobic, Maggie looked for the exits and was relieved to find one at the rear and another exit door close by on the opposite wall. When Santos noted the direction of her glance, she smiled. "It's always a good idea to spot the exits. There are two plus the front door. No one ever expects a fire, but in a small cafe, they do happen."
"After a few drinks, everyone grows careless," Cirilda remarked. She asked for a martini. Maggie took a glass of white wine. Santos requested his favorite beer and insisted Fox order a soda.
"I like their music," Maggie said. "You must know a great deal about Barcelona's night life, Santos."
He nodded. "Unfortunately, many places have forbidden my return." He waved to an acquaintance near the stage, then leaned back against the wall.
Cirilda glanced around the cafe as if searching for someone. She bit her lip, finished her martini and summoned the waiter to request another.
"Have you been here?" Maggie asked.
"Years ago, and it was a different crowd. I don't know these people."
"Where do you usually go?"
Cirilda shrugged. "Private parties, but they've become a bore."