She stood in the doorway and looked round the room that held so many memories, warmed by her constant, tender caressing. When her other children were little, they had had to share two to a room, for the farmhouse in the middle of the pampa was only small. But Rafa, being the last, had had a room of his own.
Now, of course, he lived in Buenos Aires in an elegant apartment just off Avenida del Libertador. But he came home often, more than the others. He was a good son. Now his father was no longer alive to take care of her, she knew she was safe in his capable hands. He had invited her to come and live with him, but she hated the noise and pollution of the city. She had spent all her life on the farm, worked hard as a maid for Señora Luisa and then, after she died, for her daughter-inlaw, Marcela, for over fifty years, burying her roots deep in the fertile soil where now the remains of her dear husband lay, marked by a simple headstone and the flowers she took weekly to honor him.
She walked over to the window and threw open the green shutters. The smell of autumn blew in, and she inhaled with pleasure. The sun was already warm, and a few leaves lay on the grass, curled and dry and brown like wistful epistles to be tossed about by the wind. Plane trees stood tall and magnificent, lining the long drive that cut through the estancia and led up to the main house where her employers spent their weekends and holidays in languid splendor. Dappled light fell onto the dusty track and a dog barked loudly, only to be berated by Angelina, the cook, in a round of furious Spanish.
Maria Carmela remembered little Rafa learning to ride with his father. She smiled affectionately at the mental picture. Big, black-haired Lorenzo in his beret, his red scarf tied loosely around his neck, the glittering coined belt and baggy bombachas tucked into worn leather boots. The little blond boy in white espadrilles, his brown ankles bare beneath olive-green bombachas and embroidered red sash, with a small beret of his own, nestled against his father’s body, galloping up and down the plain to whoops of laughter. What a contrast the old, weathered skin of her husband against the smooth, new skin of their son. What joy he had brought, to everyone.
It was that angelic charm that had caught the attention of Señora Luisa. His father had let him bring round her pony one morning when he was just six years old. Proud to be given such an important role, he walked the animal to the front of the house and waited in the shade of the eucalyptus tree, his back straight, his chin high. When she had addressed him, he had looked at her with an unwavering gaze and smiled broadly, and she had laughed at his audacity: so bold for such a little boy. She had engaged him in a long conversation, intrigued by the wisdom on so young a face, and he had made her laugh, answering so earnestly. It was clear he had an intelligence beyond that of his parents.
From then on she had sponsored him personally, taking an interest in his schoolwork and hobbies. When she had learned of his love of art, she had seen to it that he had all the materials he needed and even helped him herself, with the little knowledge she had, until that became too limited and she had employed a young man from Buenos Aires to spend the summer tutoring him. Lorenzo and Maria Carmela were both proud and grateful, but Maria Carmela suffered terribly from the fear that Rafa would be taken away from her; that somehow, this gift of a child would not be hers forever.
She went outside to feed the parrot, Panchito. He sat on his perch, basking in the sunlight, preening his green feathers in preparation for the day. She held out a handful of nuts, which he took one by one, using his beak and claw—he didn’t like his breakfast to be rushed. Señora Luisa had enabled Rafa to rise above the low expectations thrust upon him by virtue of his birth. He had a good job, he earned well, he had a nice life … why was he now on the brink of throwing it all away?
Clementine left work early. Sylvia had convinced Mr. Atwood to take his wife out for dinner, and Clementine had booked the famous Incoming Tide restaurant and nipped out to buy a bouquet of roses for him to give her, along with the present she had bought. She would have given him her bouquet if she could have been sure no one would notice, but Sylvia had put the flowers in water and placed them on her desk.
So Clementine departed at five with the roses tucked under her arm, dripping water down her coat. She looked forward to an early night, watching TV, forgetting about Joe and the prospect of seeing him the following night. At least she wasn’t pregnant. She was overwhelmed with gratitude for that. He might be a little coarse, but he hadn’t taken advantage of her when he so easily could have. Perhaps he was a rough diamond—a gentleman beneath his workman’s overalls. She smiled at the thought of her mother and what she would make of him. Her mother was a terrific snob, boxing everyone in four compartments—proper, trade, common, and foreign, proper being the only acceptable box.