Dear Inez.
She never got to finish the letter. I was robbed of my mother’s last words to me. I dragged in a deep shuddering breath, filled my lungs with as much air as I could, and then exhaled, fighting to keep myself from breaking down. This was a golden opportunity to study the room as they’d left it, before it became cluttered with my things.
The waste basket had several crumpled-up sheets, and I wondered if it took Mamá several tries to think of what to say to me. A sob climbed up my throat, and I abruptly turned away from the wooden desk. I hammered down the wave of emotion, pressing in like a strong tide. Another exhale later, and I was calmer and clearer eyed. I continued my exploration, determined to do something productive. My gaze flickered to my parents’ room.
I nodded to myself and straightened my shoulders.
With a bracing breath, I opened their door—and gasped.
Papá’s trunks were open on the bed, clothing strewn all over, shoes and trousers lying in piles. The drawers of a lovely oak dresser were open, the items inside tossed around as if he’d been packing in a hurry. I frowned. That didn’t make sense—their last note told me they were staying longer in Cairo. The sheets were gathered at the foot of the bed, and Mamá’s luggage sat on a chair near the large window.
I walked farther inside, examining the dresses slung over the back of the chair. Clothing styles I’d never seen my mother wear at home. The material was lighter, and more youthful, and heavily adorned with ruffles and beading. Mother’s clothing in Argentina, while fashionable, never drew any notice. She wore her modesty with a polite smile and pretty manners. She was raising me to be the same. Inside the wardrobe, rows of shimmering gowns and well-heeled leather shoes greeted me.
I fingered the fabric curiously, a feeling of wistfulness stealing over me. My mother was someone who knew the right way to comport herself; she always spoke eloquently and she knew how to host large parties and guests at the estate. But here, her clothing suggested she was more carefree, less starchy and refined.
I wish I would have gotten to know that side of her.
A sharp knock interrupted my reverie. Probably Sallam wanting to make sure I was settling in. He seemed like the kind of person my parents would have liked. Polite and competent, a good listener and knowledgeable.
I crossed the room and opened the door, an answering smile on my lips.
But it was not Sallam.
The stranger from the dock leaned against the opposite wall, legs crossed at the ankle, with my trunks stacked one on top of the other at his side. His arms were folded across his broad chest, and he stared at me, a sardonic curve to his mouth. He appeared to be faintly amused.
“Mr. Hayes, I presume?”
Capítulo Cuatro
The man in question kicked off the wall and sauntered into the room. “You’re more resourceful than I thought you would be,” he said cheerfully. “It’s been duly noted, so don’t try that shit with me again.”
I opened my mouth, but Mr. Hayes pressed on with an amused smirk. “Before you cast judgment on my language, I’ll venture to guess that a young woman who traveled across the ocean, pretending to be a widow, has most likely consigned the proprieties to hell.” He bent his knees, his blue gaze level with mine. “Where they belong, I might add.”
“I wasn’t going to cast judgment,” I said stiffly, even though I had been. Mamá expected me to observe the proprieties, no matter what I personally believed. Sometimes, though, rebellion beckoned like a siren, and I couldn’t resist.
Hence my being here at all.
“Oh no?” he asked with an irritating smile. Then he ventured farther into the room, leaving the door open behind him.
“Well, Mr. Hayes,” I said, turning my body to keep him in my line of sight. He seemed like the type of person one ought to meet head on while standing. On the docks, I’d written him off, but there was something different in the way he carried himself now. Perhaps it was his brawn, or the faintly smirking line to his mouth. He looked and felt dangerous, despite his informal conversation. He lazily walked about the room, picking up random objects and setting them down in careless fashion.
“Thank you for bringing me my bags.” And then because I couldn’t quite help myself, I added, “That was very kind.”
He threw me a dirty look. “I was doing my job.”
“So, you work for my uncle,” I said. “That must be exciting.”
“It certainly is,” he said. His elegant accent was at odds with the irreverent edge in his voice. He sounded like a stuffy aristocrat, except for that subtle hint of hostility lurking under the surface, and the colorful language.
He must be a recent hire. My parents had never once mentioned him. “How long have you worked for him?”
“A bit,” he said vaguely.
“How long is a bit?”
“Two years or so.” Mr. Hayes met my gaze every so often to distract me from his continued poking around. I let him satisfy his curiosity, thinking it might soften him. We’d gotten off on the wrong foot, and if he worked so closely with my uncle—and if I didn’t want him to haul me to the docks like he had my luggage earlier—then it’d be wise to have a friendly interaction. But more than that, I had questions and Mr. Hayes surely had answers.
I gestured to the couch. “Why don’t we sit? I’d love to talk about what work you do and my uncle’s latest excavation.”
“Oh you would, would you?” Mr. Hayes sat and stretched out his long legs, and idly pulled out a flask from his pocket. He took a long swallow and then held it out to me.
I took a seat on one of the available armchairs. “What is it?”
“Whiskey.”
“In the middle of the day?” I shook my head. “No, thank you.”
“Does that mean you only drink at night?”
“It means I don’t drink at all.” I was very careful to keep my voice from sounding interested. Mamá never allowed me to take even the smallest sip of wine. That didn’t mean I hadn’t tried it, though. I managed to sneak in tastes during one of their many dinner parties right under her nose.
He grinned, and screwed on the cap. “Listen, as pretty as you are, I’m not your friend, I’m not your guard, and I’m certainly not your babysitter. How much trouble are you going to cause me?”
The question almost made me smile, but I caught it in time. I considered lying, but instinct told me that he’d see through me anyway. “I really can’t say,” I said honestly. “It might be a great deal.”
He let out a surprised laugh. “You’re supposed to be stuffy and boring. A lady well brought up, buttoned up with nary a wrinkle on your gown.”
“I am a well brought up lady.”
He assessed me slowly, his perusal lingering on my dusty boots and my travel-stained jacket. For some reason, his observations seemed to irritate him. “But not always,” he muttered. “That’s terribly inconvenient for me.”