The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,78
her fill before she says that she’s exhausted of the whole business and much prefers her brownstone apartments and friends who aren’t part of Mrs. Astor’s Four Hundred.
We dress for the opera, the occasion calling for me to wear one of the Worth gowns from my old life when my mother hoped I would marry well. The pink color suits a girl far younger than I am now, but the fabric is fine, and no one is really looking at me, anyway.
“Don’t look now, Grace, but it appears you have an admirer,” Aunt Emma whispers in my ear.
I only half pay attention, my focus on the opera and the soprano’s soaring voice. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s a man in one of the boxes across from us, and he cannot keep his eyes off of you. I don’t think he’s turned his attention to the stage once.”
“He’s probably someone who knew me before and is surprised to see me here considering how infrequently I come to these things,” I whisper back, my attention on the stage. “Or he thinks I am someone else and is mistaken. You’re missing the opera.”
Aunt Emma waves me off. “The show taking place in front of me is far more interesting, I assure you. Besides, the performer they had in the role last week was much better.”
A woman in the box next to us turns quite noisily and fixes us with a stare and an unspoken admonition to quiet down.
I wrench my attention back to the stage, the music swelling over me. I lean forward, tears filling my eyes.
I’ve never been particularly musical, as several piano teachers and one particularly beleaguered choral master can attest to, but there’s something about the passion and emotion of the opera that draws me in every time. Perhaps it’s the way human stories play out on a different stage from the one I live and work in.
Aunt Emma leans in to me once more. “He’s very handsome, Grace.”
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. She means well, and I love her dearly, but I’ve never shared her interest in social intrigues—particularly when they’re aimed at me.
“Perhaps he’s looking at the next box over. The Davenport girl is the talk of the season.”
“He’s not looking at the Davenport girl.”
She lifts her fan to wave to whatever man she’s describing.
I turn my gaze to offer a silent apology to the poor gentleman she’s decided to torment, who’s probably just hoping to enjoy his night at the opera.
I nearly drop my opera glasses instead.
Rafael Harden is seated at the box across from ours.
I haven’t seen him for months, not since that day at the Junta meeting, and Aunt Emma wasn’t wrong—he isn’t looking at the stage at all, but instead is studying me with his lips quirked in that smile of his that makes it hard to tell if he’s laughing at me or not.
I incline my head in a nod of acknowledgment, my cheeks heating under his gaze. It feels strange seeing him out in society like this, his presence more suited to work and Junta meetings. This is a vestige of my old life, and one I’m not entirely used to sharing. I feel silly in the formal gown; the innocent pink color and floral pattern makes me feel more like a debutante than a journalist.
And then my gaze shifts, and I realize he isn’t alone; a stunning blonde is seated beside him.
I duck my head, embarrassed to be caught staring.
Then again, I suppose he was staring first.
“Do you know who that is?” Aunt Emma whispers.
I nod, hoping Rafael’s gaze is directed back to the stage and no longer trained on our box.
“They say he’s richer than Croesus,” she adds. “How did you meet?”
“He’s a friend of Hearst’s. He’s at the office sometimes. He’s given me information on a few stories.”
“And here I worried you’d bury yourself in your work and not have time to meet a man. Is he a friend of yours?”
“We’re acquaintances. Occasional friends,” I add belatedly, feeling a bit uncharitable not acknowledging the strange friendship that has sprung up between us.
“We’ll see him at intermission,” she predicts.
“I doubt it. It’s quite the crush tonight, and I’m sure others will want his company.”
“Oh, he’ll come,” Aunt Emma replies. “No man looks at a woman like that unless he’s set her in his sights.”
“I hardly think . . .”
The words trail off as my eyes connect with Rafael’s across the opera boxes.