A Love for Rebecca Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 by Mayte Uceda

  Translation copyright © 2015 Catherine E. Nelson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Un amor para Rebeca by Kindle Direct Publishing in Spain in 2014. Translated from Spanish by Catherine E. Nelson. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2015.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503948143

  ISBN-10: 1503948145

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary-Soudant

  To my mother, for who she is

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  PROLOGUE

  BREAKING BARRIERS

  THE TRIP

  THE PROPOSAL

  A TRIP AND A WEDDING

  THE BEGINNING

  A PASSIONATE ENCOUNTER

  NEW FRIENDS

  DARING DÉCOLLETAGE

  THE CELTIC FESTIVAL

  THE DRUMMER

  DISCUSSIONS

  LOLA THE LAMB

  THE COLOR OF HIS EYES

  ON THE LEFT

  WAR DRUMS

  WHO BELIEVES IN TRUE LOVE?

  INVERNESS

  WATER OF LIFE

  SPANISH TORTILLA AND SCOTTISH WARNING

  ANYTHING FOR A KISS

  LOCH NESS

  URQUHART CASTLE

  I WILL NEVER LEAVE YOU

  COME WITH ME

  FIREFLIES AT NIGHT

  THE RETURN

  CONFESSIONS

  CONSPIRACY

  THE END OF THE DREAM

  THE REUNION

  WEDDING BELLS

  THE LETTER

  THE END OF THE LINE

  TAKING STOCK

  MATT

  UNEXPECTED NEWS

  ENCOUNTER WITH THE PAST

  REDEMPTION

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  What many people call love consists of picking and choosing a woman and marrying her. They choose her, I swear, I’ve seen it. As if you have a choice in love, as if it weren’t a lightning bolt that breaks your bones and leaves you staked to the ground in the middle of the courtyard.

  Julio Cortázar, Rayuela

  PROLOGUE

  La Rambla, Barcelona

  May 3, 2006

  “Read your palm, dearie? One euro to know your future.”

  Rebecca smiled to herself as she paused in front of the gypsy woman who blocked her path. She looked into her purse and pulled out a coin.

  “Ignore her,” said her brother, Enric, pulling her by the hand.

  “Wait. I want to see what she says.”

  She held out the money, and the woman caught hold of her hand.

  “What do you want to know?” the gypsy asked, with an unsettling grin. “If you will find true love, perhaps?”

  Rebecca giggled, and her brother snorted impatiently.

  “I’ve already found it.”

  The woman furrowed her brow as she stared intently at the lines of Rebecca’s open hand.

  “No, my dear, you haven’t. But you will.” She twisted her face in exaggerated concentration, as if this would help her better see the future. “Although . . .”

  “Rebecca, let’s go!” Enric tugged again on Rebecca’s hand, and Rebecca shrugged as she smiled a good-bye to the woman.

  The gypsy shook her head and clucked her tongue as she watched the girl leave. Then she turned to the next passerby.

  “Read your palm, dearie? Just two euros to know your future.”

  BREAKING BARRIERS

  Barcelona

  June 25, 2006

  A cloud passed over the sun in the blue Barcelona sky. Annoyed, Rebecca opened her eyes; the errant cloud had interrupted the pleasant warmth on her face. It was particularly annoying since she’d only just closed her eyes to fully savor the warm caress of sunshine on her skin. She’d already begun daydreaming about the summer ahead, the first summer break after she graduated from college, full of plans and future projects.

  She turned to look at her friends. Lola was writing in her notebook, and Berta was leafing through a newspaper from back to front, the way she always did.

  The three friends had known one another since high school, but they were nothing alike. In fact, they were so different that no one would ever have guessed their friendship would last.

  If their personalities were likened to salad ingredients, Berta would be the olive oil, the healthy golden liquid. Calm and confident, she always knew what to do and say. She was the wise one, and Lola and Rebecca listened to her advice.

  Rebecca was like the cherry tomatoes, decorative and easy to grow. She was pretty, naïve, and impressionable. She was raised in a traditional Catholic family and went along through life without much fuss. She respected her parents’ decisions and never showed any sign of rebellion.

  And then there was Lola, the one capable of perking up any dish. She was the salt that brought out the flavor, the zest to banish the bland. Raised in a liberal setting, she was the life of the party, the one who told the best jokes and got the most boys. She wasn’t the prettiest—nature had chosen that gift for Rebecca—but she knew how to make the most of her exuberant nature, which, combined with her spontaneity and sharp wit, created an explosive cocktail with often-surprising results.

  Despite all that, however, Lola was the only one who was single. Berta was in a stable relationship with Albert, who was preparing to apply for a government job as a court clerk, and Rebecca had been with Mario, the only son of her father’s law partner, for two years.

  The morning passed quickly. The three had met outside the Alpha Building on the university campus to enjoy the much-deserved rest that follows final exams. Lying on the grass in the pleasant summer weather, they chatted and relaxed in the sunshine. When the sun got too hot, they hopped on their scooters and rode the short distance home.

  Rebecca lived in the exclusive Pedralbes neighborhood, near the monastery. She opened the entrance gate with the remote, parked her scooter in the driveway, and went inside.

  Her little sister greeted her with typical childish enthusiasm; she threw herself on the floor and latched onto Rebecca’s leg, clinging with such force that Rebecca couldn’t move. Rebecca wondered how a seven-year-old girl could be so strong.

  “That’s enough, Inés!” she protested. “Let go of my leg or we’ll have to eat lunch right here in the hallway.”

  “We will?” Inés exclaimed, throwing her head back and looking up at her sister. “Can we eat here, really?” Her eyes got big. “On the floor?”

  Baudelia, who helped with the housework, appeared in front of them with a frown. “Come now, little one, leave your sister alone,” she said, grabbing hold of Inés.

  Inés disappeared down the hallway under Baudelia’s arm, her legs flying—along with a string of new expletives she had learned at school the previous term. If Inés had been a little older, her mother would have been sending her straight to confession with Father Arnau, Rebecca thought.

  As Rebecca entered the living room, the first thing she saw was Ernest Descals
’ La Moreneta. The painting of Our Lady of Montserrat hung in a heavy golden frame, directly in front of the door, right in the middle of the wall.

  Her mother and brother, Enric, were talking in a corner of the room. They were so absorbed in their conversation that they didn’t hear her come in.

  “Hi,” she said.

  They looked up, startled.

  “Oh, it’s you, Rebecca.” Her mother smiled hastily and dropped the conversation with her son. “How was your morning?”

  Elvira Brañanova was from Lugo, in northwest Spain. Though she was not a beautiful woman, she was elegant, with blond hair and green eyes. Her younger daughter had inherited her light hair; Enric and Rebecca, the color of her eyes. Elvira had met Víctor Bassols during a Catholic youth retreat in 1979, and the following year, on a rainy spring morning in Lugo, they had said “I do.” An economist by training, Elvira had sacrificed her career to dedicate herself to raising her family. No one dared question whether she regretted it. In keeping with her strong religious and moral convictions, she believed that raising children could not be delegated and that she was obliged to face the task dutifully and with integrity. It was the only way to ensure her children would grow up to be of good character and firm values.

  “I was with the girls,” Rebecca replied.

  “And how are they? Did they pass all their exams?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  The conversation was brief; Rebecca saw that her mother was tense and flushed. She didn’t say anything but knew something had happened with Enric. After her mother left the room, Rebecca went over to her brother with a questioning look. He shook his head to silence her question.

  More childish curses could be heard through the walls. When Inés threw a tantrum, there was no calming her down.

  Rebecca heaved a sigh. Enric was three years older. He’d studied law, just as their parents had wanted. He had always been hardworking and disciplined, and he’d earned excellent grades. Upon graduation, he had joined the prestigious financial law firm of Caralt & Bassols.

  Their father had been Josep Caralt’s student at the university. When the renowned law professor had asked for a leave of absence to open a firm, he had counted on his most brilliant disciple, Víctor Bassols, and later his own son, Mario Caralt, to build the firm. Josep Caralt offered his expertise, and Víctor brought his youth and fighting spirit. Víctor’s dream had always been for his own children to work for the firm someday. Enric had already been an associate for two years now. Rebecca, following her parents’ wishes, also entered law school. But after two disastrous semesters, she’d been allowed to quit and study education. She’d always wanted to be a teacher and couldn’t stand the business of law.

  As they were setting the table for lunch, her father arrived. Víctor Bassols’ bearing was that of a man from a good family. He was self-assured—an essential quality in a good lawyer—and always meticulously dressed. His dark hair, held in place with a touch of gel, was graying at the temples.

  He greeted his family with kisses all around, and they sat down to lunch. Baudelia came in with a large serving bowl of vegetables in one hand and a small bowl of soup in the other; doña Elvira had soup every day, no matter how hot it was outside. As the housekeeper set the soup down, a little bit spilled onto the tablecloth.

  “Baudelia, why did you fill the bowl so full?” Elvira said.

  “I’m so sorry, doña Elvira. You always ask for seconds, so I thought it was better than coming back later.”

  “Fine, let’s begin. It’s already late.”

  Baudelia escaped to the kitchen, scolding herself for being so awkward. Doña Elvira had told her a thousand times, but Baudelia always forgot. Baudelia had begun working for the Bassols family fifteen years ago. She was from Cochoapa el Grande, one of the poorest towns in Mexico. She stood barely five feet tall and wore her straight black hair pulled back in a braid. Despite frequent reprimands from her doña, she was very fond of the family. In fact, she considered them her only family. There was nothing left for her in Mexico. At seventeen she had married a man ten years older whom she barely knew. After eight years of marriage and a beating that had left her half dead, he had walked out, blaming her for not having given him children. The Bassols family worked with several charities and, through Father Juan—a priest who worked in depressed areas of the world—they were able to offer Baudelia the opportunity to begin a new life.

  It was unusually quiet at the table, a clear indication that something was going on. Enric didn’t utter a word during the meal. His mother never looked up from her soup, but her flushed cheeks clearly showed her displeasure.

  The only one who seemed to be enjoying lunch was Inés, who never stopped talking about a new girl who’d arrived at school just a few weeks before the end of the term.

  “Her name is Nelly,” she said, “and she has really white teeth. Well, all but these two,” she clarified, pointing to her upper incisors and revealing the food still in her mouth. “She’s the only one in my class who’s lost any teeth. Xavi’s lost a few, but that doesn’t count ’cause he doesn’t go to our school. Nelly has colored ribbons in her hair and a Hello Kitty backpack, and her mom is from Tangerina—”

  “You mean Tanzania,” corrected Rebecca, who had spoken with the woman once.

  Inés nodded. “Yes, but her dad is from where Uncle Anton lives.”

  “Galicia?” her father asked.

  “Uh-huh. Daddy, what color are Galicians?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued: “Because Nelly isn’t black or white; she’s white-black and she’s a really pretty color. Mommy, how come I’m not black? I want to be black so I can have teeth as white as Nelly’s and hair full of ribbons. Miss Olga told us that in Africa it’s really sunny and that’s why the people who live there are black. If I stay in the sun a long time, can I look like Nelly? Nelly says she’s like that because they never put that stuff on that you always put on me when you take me to the beach. So don’t use any more of that lotion so I can be dark like Nelly and my teeth can shine like hers.”

  Her father chuckled quietly at her chatter. “Well, it might interest you to know your mother is Galician.”

  “Ohhhh.” Inés’s eyes widened.

  “Come on, child,” urged Baudelia, who was clearing the dishes. “Eat your nopalitos. You know, where I’m from in Mexico, women cover themselves all up so their skin will be white.”

  “Besides,” her mother added, “no matter how much sun you get without sunscreen, you’ll never be dark like that little girl. Do you remember what happened to your friend Erika last summer when her mother forgot to put sunscreen on her?”

  “She got all red.”

  “Exactly. And later her skin peeled off. If I don’t put sunscreen on you, the only color you’ll turn is red from a sunburn, and sunburns really hurt.”

  “But you could put colored ribbons in my hair . . .”

  “Well, yes. We can do that.”

  “I’ll do it for you,” offered Rebecca.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise. But now finish your veggies. The rest of us are waiting on you.”

  While their children helped Baudelia clear the table, Elvira asked her husband to join her in the study. Enric looked after them anxiously. When the table was cleared, he went straight to his room.

  Rebecca followed. She knocked and waited. After a long moment, her brother opened the door.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, taken aback when she found him filling a big backpack with clothes.

  “What do you think? I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving? Where are you going?”

  “I’ve rented an apartment close to the office.”

  Rebecca couldn’t hide her dismay.

  “Do Mother and Daddy know?

  “I talked to Dad this morning, and I just told Mother.”

  �
��But why? What happened?”

  “I can’t stay here forever. I’ve got a job. I can support myself.”

  “Maybe you can’t stay forever, but it’s better to be here with your family until you start your own, isn’t it?”

  “You sound just like Mother!”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Don’t you get it?” He raised his voice. “I’ll never have a family of my own!”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I am saying it! I’m saying it because I’m fed up! I’m twenty-five years old and . . . tired of pretending.”

  “What about Carla?”

  “We broke up.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I’m not attracted to her. Got it?”

  Rebecca looked at him with concern. Enric had never spoken to her this way; he’d always been an attentive and loving brother. She found his behavior unsettling. He noticed and tried to calm down before continuing.

  He took her hand, and they sat together on the edge of the bed. “Look . . . I’ve tried,” he said more calmly. “I’ve always done what our parents asked because I’ve blindly followed their beliefs. I know Carla is great . . . but I can’t keep dating her or I’ll hurt her.” He paused a moment and licked his dry lips. “Mother thinks I can be cured, that I just need someone like Carla . . . She doesn’t understand it’s not a sickness.”

  “But you don’t have to give up,” she countered. “Some people manage to live a normal life. They might have to work really hard, but in the end they can do it—”

  “Don’t go there, Rebecca. What do you want? For me to marry Carla and make her unhappy?”

  “But why would she be unhappy? You’re—”

  Enric jumped up. “I don’t love her!” He began pacing the room.

  “You’ll learn to love her . . .”

  “Is that what you’ll do?” He stopped and stared at her. “Learn to love Mario?”

  “I do love Mario!”

  “That’s what everyone’s made you believe. Soon you’ll get married, and then you’ll never know what true love is—a love that takes your breath away; that makes you think you’ll die if you can’t be with that person. Remember what that gypsy told you? Mario isn’t the love of your life.”