Santiago Sol (13 page)

At Toulouse’s horrified sigh, Tansy decided not to mention that she didn’t own any shoes that would go with the dress, anyway.

Toulouse propped a fist on her hip and cocked her head. “What size are you?”

“Seven or seven and a half.”

Toulouse picked up her cell phone and dialed a number. “Celeste? I need shoes. Now.” There was a pause before she broke into Spanish, pacing the narrow confines of the aparthotel with the intensity of a government official negotiating a complicated international crisis. A few moments later, she hung up. “Done. Your shoes will be here in twenty minutes.” She gestured toward the walking stick on the sofa. “How are we sneaking that inside?”

“You have a flair for the dramatic, Toulouse, I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Tansy said dryly.

13

The villa was less than thirty miles from the heart of Santiago, its hundreds of acres of vineyards nestled into the Maipo valley between the Andes and the coastal mountains. In heavy traffic, the trip could take up to two hours, but this evening’s traffic was light. Sebastian increased his speed. He wanted time to speak with his abuelo
alone, to prepare him.

He patted his jacket pocket with one hand, feeling for the small box within. Tonight, no matter the fallout over the Vargas family, no matter that he hadn’t found abuelo’s walking stick, no matter that he had lied to Tansy about his surname, tonight he would trust that love was greater than all, and that Tansy would accept his proposal.

He had wrestled with himself over the timing. Shouldn’t he secure her forgiveness first, at least? And then, as if compelled, he’d opened the small safe built into the floor of his office and withdrawn his grandmother’s engagement ring. She’d given it to him several years earlier, insisting that her knuckles, knobby with arthritis, were too swollen to wear it any longer. While that might have been true, Sebastian knew the gesture was her subtle way of encouraging him to find a bride.

He turned onto the narrow road that paralleled the property line, pleased that the vineyards were as lush and green as he could remember seeing them. The imposing stone walls that separated the villa from the vineyards loomed ahead and Sebastian slowed. He keyed in his personal security code and waited for the massive wrought-iron gates to swing wide. Within the villa compound, he parked in the garage, then loped around the circular drive to the front. One of the maids opened the door.

“Señor Sebastian, happy birthday! You are so early!”

“Gracias, Evalina. ¿
Donde esta mi
abuelo?”

“He’s in the kitchen, Señor, terrorizing Cook.”

Sebastian strode through the grand foyer, past the formal rooms where the Sandovals hosted their famous parties, decorated tonight in elegant silver and black for his birthday, and made his way to the kitchen.

Flagstone floors, scuffed smooth by years of foot traffic, and heavy timbers overhead, darkened with smoke from the hearth, belied the villa’s true age. The house was more than a century old, but well-maintained and frequently updated for style and comfort. Anyone with an eye for detail would recognize the top-of-the-line commercial appliances, kitchen fixtures, and silky granite counters that made it a dream kitchen for any modern chef.

Serving platters piled with fresh fruit, cheese, pastries, and his favorite empanadas lined every surface. On the opposite side of a hexagon-shaped island, he could see the tiered birthday cake created for him this year.

Behind the towering cake stood his grandfather and the family cook, Anselm, toe to toe, engaged in what appeared to be an intense debate.

Sebastian cleared his throat.

Neither man moved, and he wondered how long it had been since either of them had checked the batteries in their hearing aids. Anselm was almost as old as his grandfather
.

Sebastian rapped on the counter, then cleared his throat again.

Anselm’s silvery head popped out from behind the cake, and a smile softened the hard lines and creases.

“¡Señor Sebastian!
Gracias a Dios
. You are just in time to rescue me from your abuelo
so I can finish preparing your birthday feast.”

His grandfather’s head appeared on the other side of the cake. He held up one finger, then turned to Anselm. “I don’t know why I keep you, you insolent old fool.”

Anselm grinned. “Because no one else would be willing to put up with you. Now go visit with your grandson before the guests arrive.”

Sebastian shook his head as the two men embraced, smiling, slapping each other’s shoulders. It had always been this way with them.

His grandfather came around the island and wrapped Sebastian in a hard hug. “I’m glad you’ve come early,
hijo
. Let’s sit.” He led the way to a scarred oak table, settled himself on a bench, and waited for Sebastian to take a seat.

“Grandfather, I’m sorry about Arturo and Diego,” Sebastian said.

Abuelo made a sound between a
hmph
and a sigh, then reached out and patted Sebastian’s hand.

“I’m relieved it has finally come to an end.”

“The ambassador said you are the one who instigated the investigation. Why didn’t you say something to me?”

“I was hoping I was wrong.”

Sebastian saw sorrow in his grandfather’s eyes and laid a hand on his shoulder. When had he grown so frail?

“I will be fine, Sebastian. I’m sorry for you, for the loss of your parents. If I had been more aware, perhaps...” Abuelo’s voice trailed off, his faded eyes focused on some point in space above and behind Sebastian’s head, as though he were peering into the pages of history.

“What’s past is past, abuelo
.
I’m just thankful I still have you and abuela.
”

He covered Sebastian’s hand with his own and squeezed. “As am I, grandson.” He took a deep breath, though his chest rattled a bit. “Now, about the young woman you brought to the artesanal…” ”

Sebastian thought of the box in his pocket. “What about her?”

“I approve.”

Sebastian started. That was a first. “You don’t know who she is.”

“It doesn’t matter. I saw her heart. That’s why I gave her the journal. The same reason I gave your mother one.”

Sebastian thought he might be choking, until his grandfather reached out and thumped him considerately on the back.

“If she’s the one, I approve. But you must know for certain.”

Sebastian coughed, covered his mouth, and considered telling his abuelo
about the box in his pocket, then dismissed the idea. Better to keep the surprise. One he hoped would offset the fact the walking stick was still missing and would probably never be found.

****

From the backseat of the limousine, Tansy leaned forward for a better view of the villa.

Its whitewashed adobe walls glowed pink in the late afternoon sun. The three-story manor with its arched, mullioned windows and red clay tile roof was set in an expanse of manicured and landscaped foliage. The drive curved around a reflecting pool, giving the impression that the house, with its pillared veranda and walls covered with lush ivy, had its foundations in the blue- and pink-streaked sky instead of on terra firma.

“Wow. I’d heard about the villa, but I’ve never been here before.” Toulouse fluttered her hand over her heart. “I’m impressed. And I don’t impress easily.”

A string of expensive luxury cars and limousines crawled around the driveway, dispensing guests at the front doors. Tansy clutched the walking stick, loosely wrapped in a black alpaca shawl Toulouse had pulled from the depths of her backpack.

Their limo pulled forward, then stopped. French doors spilled soft light over the veranda, illuminating tall urns overflowing with bright Chilean bellflowers, and the well-dressed men and women making their way up the steps.

Tansy felt like a cheap plastic toy amid a collection of expensive dolls. She swallowed against a sudden wave of nausea and shrank back from the door.

“I can’t go in there with those people, Toulouse. They’re all...rich, or famous, or rich and famous. I’m...” Her cheeks flushed, thinking of Sebastian and the way he’d accepted her. She’d played along, enjoyed dipping her toes in the pool of luxury alongside a handsome, charming man. He had been playacting too. That thought chilled her. Now everything was different. And Tansy didn’t have a place in his world, no matter how much she wished she could.

“They’re just people, Tansy,” Toulouse soothed.

A gangly teenaged boy in a starched white shirt and black tie hurried to open the car door for Tansy and Toulouse.

Toulouse pushed Tansy from behind, forcing her to clamber out of the limo. Toulouse exited behind her, lithe and lovely like a hothouse flower, and tweaked the boy’s ear as she passed him, causing him to blush and grin.

“You know him?” Tansy asked as Toulouse tugged her into the queue.

“He’s in the church youth group. And a terrible flirt.”

Heart pounding, Tansy peered around shoulders and heads until she could see the door, and recognized Sebastian’s grandfather, the little man she’d met in the humble artesanal at Los Dominicos, greeting every guest personally. She stopped.

“What’s the matter?” Toulouse whispered, leaning close.

“I see Sebastian’s grandfather.”

Toulouse stood on her tiptoes. “I thought you’d met him already.”

Tansy swallowed. Yes, she had met him. And he had played along with Sebastian’s little game.

“I can’t do this,” she choked. The thought of facing Sebastian’s grandfather at his front door was too humiliating. “Besides,” she pointed her chin at the walking stick. “If he sees this,” —she wiggled the wool-wrapped bundle she held—“it would be a disaster. You go in without me.”

Toulouse frowned, considered, then signaled the teenage boy. He jogged up the steps. “My friend has a special gift for Sebastian, but she needs to get it to him privately, before the party. Can you take her through the back?”

“Will I get in trouble?”

“If there’s any problem, I’ll cover for you, OK?”

He nodded, gave Toulouse a conspiratorial grin. “This way, Señorita,” he said to Tansy.

Tansy navigated her steps with care, wobbly on the pink satin heels she’d borrowed from Toulouse’s friend. The boy led her around the side of the house on pathways lined with bougainvillea and jacaranda to what she supposed was a service entrance, and opened the door.

“I have to get back,” he said.

She nodded, thanked him, and stepped into a hot, bustling kitchen. She froze for a moment, pressed against the door.

Uniformed servants scurried to and fro, carrying plates and platters. The scents of roasting meat and savory herbs, yeasty bread, melted butter, caramel, chocolate, fruit...blended together in an appetizing combination.

Tansy’s stomach growled in response.

From behind a wide island, an older man in a chef’s white double-breasted jacket shouted commands in a mixture of Spanish and French while he hovered over a triple-tiered cake that rivaled any wedding cake she’d ever seen.

She didn’t know how long she stood there before the man looked up and saw her.

She started to step forward, but he gasped and jerked a hand to his heart as if he’d seen a ghost, stepping into the path of a black-coated waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes.

The tray crashed to the floor in a sparkling disaster, generating a harsh cry from the affronted waiter.

But the chef, or the cook, or whoever he was, didn’t even react.

Panic rose up to choke Tansy, and she turned to make a hasty exit, but the man, with shocking speed for someone his age, darted around the island and across the kitchen before she could escape.

“Who are you?” He demanded in harsh Spanish, gripping her arm. When she didn’t answer, he repeated his question in English.

“My name is Tansy,” she said.

His gaze rolled over her.

She clutched the walking stick against her body, praying the object remained concealed in the folds of soft wool. “Your dress, Señorita, where did it come from?”

She swallowed. Was it possible the man had been here that long? Could he remember Darcy in this dress? If he remembered it, so would Sebastian’s grandfather. “It belonged to Darcy St. John.” She shivered, thinking of Darcy, and Eva.

He gasped again, his gaze dropping.

Instinctively, she pulled the awkward woolen bundle closer.

“And what is that?”

“It’s for Sebastian. Well, it’s for his grandfather. I have to give it to him.” She stared into the old man’s eyes, praying he wasn’t one of Arturo’s spies or cohorts.

“¡Gloria a Dios!” His mouth widened into a huge smile. He released her arm and raised his hands in a gesture of praise. “At last. Thanks be to the Lord.”

Tansy blinked.

“I will take you to Señor Sandoval right away.” He tugged a small towel from his belt and mopped beads of sweat from his face, then grabbed a passing servant by the sleeve and hissed a series of directions.

The man nodded, picked up an apron, and took the older man’s place, shouting instructions to the staff.

The cook offered her his arm as though he were a Victorian gentleman.

She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and allowed him to lead her through the kitchen, down a corridor, and into a jewel-encrusted, perfume-marinated mass of humanity in a room that would have housed four of her apartments and a two-car garage. He pushed his way through the crowd.

She bowed her head, tried to block out the murmurs, and wished she could click her borrowed pink satin heels together and disappear...leaving nothing but the walking stick behind.

When her companion stopped, Tansy almost tumbled into the back of another guest. She lifted her head and looked up to see Sebastian helping his grandfather climb a short set of stairs onto a raised platform set up for a band, based on the drum kit and the proliferation of cables and microphone stands.

Tansy inhaled at the sight of Sebastian in a formal suit...not a tuxedo, but a well-cut suit with a white shirt and a narrow pink tie that was a perfect match to her—Darcy’s—dress.