Something light and winged fluttered in her stomach as she recalled the moment he touched her scar. She put her hand up to her face and felt the wound, trying to convince herself that it wasn’t so grotesque, it wasn’t so big, that George really had kissed her there. It had been an unimaginable moment. A sudden stepping out into sunlight after months and months of shadows. She had been right to come. She had been right to trust him.
To escape her recent past she recalled her childhood. When she concentrated she could still remember her mother’s smell. Sweet like bluebells in springtime. She could still remember what it felt like to be embraced so totally, pressed so tightly against her body, wrapped in her love. She was used to being adored. She was beautiful, flawless, blessed. She had dazzled wherever she went, from the parties in Washington to the races in Paris, her loveliness had been celebrated. Perhaps she had been too arrogant; perhaps this scar was a punishment for narcissism. She was now used to the stares. The whispered comments and the small children pointing or laughing at her.
Why George had seen beyond the scar, she didn’t know. Why, when so many other men had recoiled in horror, did George run his fingers down it and kiss her there? With those thoughts she drifted into an untroubled sleep. The first in many months. And when she awoke the sky was clear and blue and full of brightness.
George was already beneath the veranda having breakfast with Agatha and the children. Jose Antonio had risen early to ride out with the gauchos. For him the farm wasn’t work, it was a way of life. He liked to use his hands, feel the horse beneath him, gallop across the plains rounding up the herds of cows. The sun cracked his skin and the palms of his hands grew rough and calloused, but he felt part of the land and the land was where he belonged. If he weren’t the boss he’d be just as happy as a gaucho. He could even play the guitar like one but Agatha hated it when he sang. Said he sounded like a strangled bull.
When George saw Susan his face lit up. She was wearing a pair of beige slacks and an open-necked white shirt with short sleeves. She looked refreshed and happy.
‘How did you sleep, Susan?’ Agatha took great pride in the comfort of her guest bedrooms. Susan smiled and sat down next to George.
‘Very well, thank you. What a lovely room it is,’ she replied, turning to look at George. He pulled a lopsided grin and his eyes twinkled, taking pleasure from their secret. The children seemed to pick up on the invisible vibrations that quivered between them for they wriggled in their chairs and giggled behind their hands.
‘The perfect day to go to Santa Catalina,’ said Agatha, referring to the old colonial Jesuit church a few kilometres outside Jesús Maria. ‘Take the truck, George, and a picnic. Spend the day there. Make the most of it.’ She picked up the little silver bell and rang it vigorously. A few moments later Agustina hurried out.
‘Si señora?’ she asked, rubbing her hands together in a gesture of servitude. Agatha instructed her to make a picnic for two, then dismissed her with a wave. As she retreated inside, Carlos loomed out of the shadows holding a letter. He whispered something to Agustina then handed it to her. ‘Señora,’ she said in a meek voice, stepping onto the terrace again. ‘Here is a letter for Señor George.’
‘Ah, George,’ Agatha exclaimed jovially. ‘News from home. But not from Faye.’ She studied the handwriting as George felt the shame burn his cheeks. ‘A young woman, no doubt. Must be Rita.’ Susan’s face blanched and she turned inquiringly to George. ‘George has a fiancée in England,’ Agatha continued, oblivious of the discomfort she was causing. ‘I’m afraid I’m not putting any money on the marriage actually happening. He’ll have given his heart to someone else by the time the year is out, mark my words.’ Susan disguised her concern with a tight smile. Agatha handed him the letter.
‘I’ll read it later,’ he mumbled, tucking it into the pocket of his shirt. He caught Susan’s eye and tried to reassure her by shaking his head. To his surprise she didn’t look hurt as he had expected.
‘Do tell me all the news though,’ said Agatha. ‘I’m longing to know how they are.’ Then she turned to Pia and Tonito and said in Spanish. ‘Think of all those poor children in England next time you decide you don’t want to eat your lunch. They could do with a few beef steaks, I can tell you.’
Pia and Tonito screwed up their noses. They were tired of being told of hungry English children. Not having enough to eat was beyond their comprehension.
The letter was quickly passed over and they resumed their conversation about the Jesuits of Santa Catalina. The colour returned to Susan’s cheeks and George breathed easily again. He hadn’t wanted to tell her about Rita. He had decided to sort it out in his own good time in the kindest possible way. After all, there was no need for Susan to know. As far as he was concerned, Rita was the other side of the world, part of a past life that bore no relation to the present. A life that he had chosen to leave behind. Susan was his future. He felt sorry for Rita. But she was young, she would find someone else.