A Love for Rebecca Page 3

  “He took a few days off to finish getting settled,” her father explained.

  Rebecca nodded and didn’t ask anything else.

  Mario slung his satchel over his shoulder and escorted Rebecca out.

  The movie was boring, the only thing of interest being the kisses and innocent caresses stolen in the dark. During their two years of courtship, they had made love only twice. Rebecca knew how deeply disappointed her mother would be if she ever found out about those trysts. Elvira Brañanova was confident she’d instilled strong moral values in her daughter. Nevertheless, this was the one aspect of her life in which Rebecca was not under her mother’s thumb. She was a well-behaved and obedient daughter, but when it came to her own body, she had her own standards. And this was a detail she didn’t want to leave for her wedding night. Mario lived in a large building with four floors that had belonged to the Caralt family for generations. His parents occupied the two top floors and he had the bottom two, so the couple had enough privacy when they felt the need to be alone.

  After the movie, they went to their favorite pizza place. It was Rebecca’s chance to bring up the trip.

  Mario responded positively to the idea. He said he’d be very busy with work during the summer months and wouldn’t have a lot of time to go out anyway. He specifically mentioned an important case that had the potential to really boost his prestige in the firm. He didn’t go into details—not because he didn’t want to bore her; indeed, on occasion he would go on more than he realized about things at the office—but because nothing was for sure yet. If for some reason things didn’t work out, it would be like admitting failure. And Mario didn’t like to fail at anything. He was incredibly competitive and so far had achieved everything he’d set out to do.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked.

  “We drew straws and Lola won. She wants to go to Scotland.”

  “In Scotland, they only know how to do two things,” Mario said as he cut a bite of pizza with a knife and fork, “drink whisky and talk politics. When they start to feel their whisky—and a Scot needs a lot of whisky before he feels it—they start talking politics. Usually they’re all equally inebriated, so it doesn’t matter what they talk about, unless it’s about the English. Then things get crazy and they end up throwing punches.”

  “Have you known many Scots?” Rebecca asked, surprised at Mario’s apparent knowledge of their culture.

  “Only two, cut from the same cloth. And if you think they’re detached and cold like their neighbors to the south, who have tea running through their veins instead of blood, you couldn’t be more wrong. No one’s as passionate as the Scots. Of course, they waste all that passion on impossible goals. They’ll never learn that history is over and done with and it doesn’t do any good to rebel against things that no longer matter to anyone else.”

  Rebecca was intrigued at first, but after ten minutes of listening to a string of anecdotes about barroom brawls his two Scottish friends had been in, her mind wandered.

  While Mario talked, she observed him carefully. He had the habit of gesturing a lot, of reinforcing his points with his hands. His slender, elegant hands were trained for judicial debate and financial transactions. His movements were never brusque, but smooth and measured, used to artfully emphasize what he was saying.

  He looked a lot like his father, except for the bulging middle and the growing double chin of the older man. They shared the same height, bushy eyebrows, and distinctive Greek nose. People said father and son looked even more alike after Mario began working for the firm and started wearing a suit and tie every day. Of course, Rebecca didn’t remember him from before, since Mario had already been with the firm for ten years. She’d known him since she was a young girl and had only started going out with him at her mother’s insistence. Her mother saw nothing but virtue in Josep Caralt’s son. At first Rebecca didn’t feel anything for him, but her mother’s constant pressure on her and praises for him instilled an affection and respect that eventually turned into love. They shared the same goals and spiritual principles that were so important to Rebecca’s mother. The biggest difference between them was life experience. Mario, eleven years older than Rebecca, had a promising future and the unconditional support of Elvira Brañanova.

  The pizza was always good at this place. Rebecca would have preferred eating it with her hands, but she knew that bothered Mario, so they always asked for silverware. Only once in all their previous visits had she allowed herself an act of rebellion. Mario had gone to greet a client at another table, and she had taken advantage of his turned back to eat a slice with her hands. Then she had licked each finger clean with a satisfied grin before her boyfriend and his refined table manners returned to their table.

  Rebecca now was about to serve herself a third slice of pizza. Mario slapped her hand lightly. “No more for you,” he scolded. “You know where that mozzarella will end up.”

  Mario knew her well—her and her metabolism and her body’s tendency to accumulate those extra pounds on her hips and breasts. Once she hit adolescence, her body had transformed into a woman’s, with sexy curves whose provocative shape she tried to hide under loose-fitting clothes. She knew Mario preferred slender women with small breasts and narrow hips. She was far from that ideal, and sometimes she wondered what he saw in her.

  She suppressed her desire for another piece of pizza but was so distracted by her thoughts that she had apparently fallen behind in their conversation. “I’m sorry; what did you say?”

  “I said we could get married this fall.”

  This caught her off guard. Mario had never formally proposed. They had spoken a few times about getting married but had never firmed up plans. Besides, the way he said it—so matter-of-factly and with no preamble—was unsettling. It wasn’t that she expected him to drop on one knee, but still . . .

  “This fall?” she responded.

  “Why not? You’ve finished your degree, and I’m moving up in the firm. I’ve got a big apartment; it’s centrally located, comfortable.”

  “It’s in your parents’ building.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I’ve always wanted a house.”

  “The apartment’s quite spacious,” Mario said. “We can redecorate if you want. It’s a bit outdated now.”

  “I don’t know, it’s just—”

  “I’ll tell my mother to start looking for a restaurant for the reception. If we want a nice place, we shouldn’t put it off another day.”

  “But it’s so sudden . . .”

  He sensed her hesitation and reached across the table to take her hand in his. “I think it’s for the best, babe. You know I don’t like sneaking you into my apartment. It feels like I’m betraying your parents and mine. The sooner we can formalize the situation, the better for everyone.”

  She knew he was right about that and nodded. Their families were very conservative, and even though they had the right to go where they wanted, they both knew they had to be discreet. Mario was a professional, and his position would be compromised if he were caught in an affair. In this regard he had complete self-control, which bothered Rebecca if she let it. Maybe she wasn’t the most passionate lover herself, but his coldness bordered on indifference. Sometimes she wondered what other men were like. Mario was her first boyfriend, and she had no one to compare him to. Just that simple curiosity filled her with doubts at times. But she would never dare express them out loud.

  Mario indicated his satisfaction and changed the subject, leaving the other behind as if the matter could be filed away like a legal document. “A trip to Scotland will be good for practicing your English,” he said as he finished off the last piece of pizza, ignoring Rebecca’s look of hunger. “Although frankly, babe, I’m afraid they’ll ruin the London accent you’ve worked so hard on. The Scottish accent is atrocious.”

  On the way home Rebecca was quiet, engrossed
in her thoughts. She tried to imagine her life as a married woman and, even though Mario’s proposal had underwhelmed her, she began to get excited about their future. Yes, Mario was more practical than romantic, but she was sure he was the man for her.

  A TRIP AND A WEDDING

  They went ahead and announced their decision to marry in the fall. It was celebrated first at the Caralt home, where it was toasted with the best Spanish cava, and then at the Bassols residence, where Elvira avidly received the news, wonderful news in the midst of the emotional crisis she’d experienced with her son.

  But her happiness was short-lived, lasting only until she heard about her daughter’s planned adventure. “How could you even think about it?” her mother said Rebecca told her.

  “It’ll only be a few days.”

  “With all the plans we have to make—the gown, the invitations, the decorations, the registry—you want to take off with your friends to Scotland! I simply cannot understand why Mario agreed to it.”

  “He says he’ll be really busy this summer.”

  Her mother paced the living room nervously, one hand on her forehead, the other on her hip. “You’re both conspiring against me. First your brother leaves home, and now you come up with this, with your wedding only a few months away.”

  Her father looked up from his newspaper to intervene on his daughter’s behalf. “That’s exactly why, Elvira. Rebecca is twenty-two years old, and in a few months she’ll be a married woman for the rest of her life, God willing. Give her this time. It won’t hurt anything.”

  “You really think so? That there’s no danger in three young girls traipsing around the world on their own? Think about it, Víctor.”

  “Should I remind you she’s been in London the last two summers? You didn’t have any problem with that.”

  “That was different. The Narváez family was looking out for her . . . And she went to learn English, not to be a tourist. She had hardly any free time.”

  Her mother continued pacing and wringing her hands. Her blond hair, pulled back in a low bun, gleamed like an amber jewel under the spotlights of the lamp. “At least have Enric accompany them,” she proposed. “Surely he wouldn’t be missed at the office.”

  “Enric cannot take time off; we have some very important business, and we need everyone working on it.”

  When Elvira Brañanova lost an argument—a rare occurrence—her green eyes took on a particular sheen and her cheeks flushed a deep red. She was a woman of self-control, but she had a strong temper she had to work to keep in check. This effort was reflected in her eyes and the color of her cheeks, which were now aflame.

  Rebecca watched her leave the room taut as a steel cable.

  “Don’t worry,” her father said. “She’ll get over it.”

  The next morning, before opening her eyes, Rebecca felt a heavy weight on top of her. She pried one eye open and found Inés, still in her pajamas, perched on her.

  “Will you put the ribbons in my hair?” her little sister beseeched her. “Mommy bought them for me yesterday.”

  Rebecca looked at the clock on her nightstand. “Inés, it’s only eight fifteen. Can’t you at least wait until eight thirty?”

  “Why? I’m awake.”

  “But I’m not. Come on, give me a little longer.”

  “No! Then you’ll get up and go see your friends, and I’ll have to wait a whole ’nother day to show Nelly my hair when we go to the park.”

  “Fine.” Rebecca gave in. “I’ll shower and come down, OK?”

  “Yes!” her sister responded with a triumphant gesture. She left the room as quickly as she’d entered.

  After showering, Rebecca had some breakfast and then spent the next hour adorning her sister’s hair with ribbons of various colors. Her father had already left for the office, and her mother had scarcely spoken, limiting herself to instructing Baudelia about the day’s lunch and dinner plans.

  As Rebecca put the finishing touches on Inés’s new hairstyle, Elvira addressed her. Her tone demanded a response. “Since you’re planning on leaving for vacation,” she said dryly, “we must take care of a few things immediately, such as your wedding dress and invitations. I’m calling Ángels so she can go with us this morning.”

  Rebecca nodded, not daring to disagree. “May I invite the girls to join us too? I’d like their opinion on my dress.”

  Her mother looked at her with misgiving. At the moment she held the two friends responsible for the troublesome trip. “Do whatever you want,” she answered peevishly. “After all, my opinion doesn’t seem to matter.”

  Elvira left the kitchen. Rebecca was sorry her mother had taken the idea of the trip so badly and knew that if it hadn’t been for her father, the whole thing would have fallen apart.

  Baudelia noticed Rebecca’s distress and sat down beside her. “Don’t worry, honey. You know how angry your mama can get, but she has a good heart. She’ll get over it soon enough.”

  “I know, Baudelia. It’s just that I think she might be right. But I’m so excited about a vacation with my friends.”

  “Of course you are, child. But it’s ’cause you’re so young and beautiful—your mama’s afraid something will happen to you. Just so you know, I think this trip with your friends is a good thing. I was young when I got married too, and . . . well, my husband was older than me . . . Oh, honey, I don’t know . . .”

  “It’s OK, Baudelia, you don’t have to pretend. I know you don’t like Mario either.”

  “No, that’s not it, honey. It’s just . . .”

  “Mario’s got a stick up his butt!” The women turned to see Inés stifling her laughter behind her hand.

  “You little devil! What did you say?” Rebecca scolded.

  “That’s what Enric said,” Inés let out between giggles. “He said Mario walks like he has a stick up his butt.”

  Baudelia couldn’t contain her amusement and, even though she tried to fight it, Rebecca succumbed to laughter as well.

  Two hours later, in the chic showroom of an elegant bridal boutique, Rebecca emerged in a cloud of white. The five pairs of eyes taking in the vision became so large it was comical.

  “You look like a princess!” cried Inés.

  Elvira and Ángels, her future mother-in-law—a short, stout woman—exchanged glances, each looking for a hint of what the other thought of the dress. It was obvious that neither one wanted to speak first for fear her opinion was too far off. In regard to fashion, neither woman wanted to seem too extravagant or too ordinary, too simple or too ostentatious.

  Rebecca looked to her friends for approval.

  “Too . . .” Lola began, and the older women listened expectantly. “I don’t know . . .” She rubbed her chin. “Too . . .”

  Mother and mother-in-law prompted her with a look, but Lola seemed to have gotten stuck; she and wedding gowns went together like an animal-rights activist sporting a matador’s suit of lights.

  Berta analyzed the dress carefully. She pushed her glasses up and tucked her straw-colored hair behind her ear. “Too voluptuous.”

  The women looked at her. There was something about this girl that communicated self-assurance and high standards. They didn’t know if it was the glasses—which gave her an intellectual air—or if the fact that she was less feminine made her more objective, but Elvira and Ángels accepted her opinion as the most valid.

  “Yes,” one agreed, “too voluptuous.”

  “Exactly,” said the other. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

  When Rebecca came out in the next dress, everyone looked to Berta, who seemed to have a special gift for saying the right thing and leaving no room for doubt.

  “Too plain,” she said this time.

  “True,” said Rebecca’s mother.

  “Yes, too plain,” agreed her mother-in-law.

  “But I l
ike it,” Inés objected.

  “You like all of them,” Rebecca said.

  No one was convinced by the next several dresses either, although only Berta expressed an opinion on them.

  “The train’s too long.”

  “The neckline’s too high.”

  “Too low cut.”

  “Too sexy.”

  But the seventh dress—! When Rebecca emerged from the dressing room in it, the effect was immediate. Her entire entourage found her breathtaking. Rebecca was in a gown with a boat neckline, sheer lace bell sleeves, a fitted bodice, and a soft skirt of tulle and Chantilly lace.

  “Oh!” Inés exclaimed.

  “It’s perfect,” ventured Elvira.

  “It is,” Ángels confirmed.

  The girls beamed at the stunning sight of their friend.

  “Yes,” Berta said, “this is the one.”

  The issue of the gown was settled, which eased the mothers’ minds. They said good-bye to the girls and left, taking a protesting Inés with them.

  The three friends made their way to one of the outdoor cafés by Olympic Harbor to enjoy a lunch of appetizers.

  “It’s crazy to think you’re getting married. I just can’t believe it,” Berta said.

  “Look what it’s done to me,” Lola quipped, going cross-eyed.

  Rebecca shrugged. “Why wait?”

  “So you can get to know each other better and make sure he’s the one?”

  “And I would know that in two more years?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Time has nothing to do with it,” Berta said. “Sometimes you know in an instant, and other times you’ll never be sure you’ve made the right decision, even after you’ve been married for years.”

  “Enough about my wedding. Let’s talk about our trip.”

  “I’ve already talked with Rory.” Seeing their astonished looks, Lola explained, “Well, I’ve been thinking about him all the time lately, and I couldn’t help calling him.”