Sunder Read online

  As the priest exited into the sacristy, it was now time for the procession of mourners to express condolences to Esperanza and the elder Mrs. Macias, who had flown in from Agua Dulce yesterday morning.

  Even though he was barely tolerated, Etienne was still a Jaramillo. As Isabella was already standing behind Esperanza, it was his duty to lead the procession. He strode slowly up to the poor woman and gently grasped her hands.

  “Please accept the deepest condolences of the Jaramillo family.” He kissed her on both cheeks and moved to stand next to Isabella. He had given his statement in French. His Spanish was thickly accented, and he supposed life on Earth would simply grind to a halt if he had the gall to say it in English. He had fulfilled his role. Now, there was nothing left to do but stand aside and let the parade of dark-haired Spaniards and the handful of token French ignore him. He saw Ramirez making his way through the line.

  It was expected for the mourners to kiss Doña and Señora Macias, but a few of them kissed Isabella as well. When the large woman directly in front of Ramirez stepped in front of Esperanza, Etienne discreetly reached over and took his wife's hand. Her eyebrow twitched, but she did not pull away. His fingers were wrapped around the enormous wedding ring she had bought for herself. The one he bought wasn’t big enough for her, but she told everyone he had bought it. This was one of the few occasions to which she had worn the ring in almost a year. Ramirez gave his consolation without looking at Isabella or Etienne. But they were both staring at him.

  It seemed as if the line was walking through waist-deep water. They all wanted to make a good show of being sad for Macias, even the ones who had never met him. The Macias family was tied to the Jaramillos, and that made them important. The murmuring of solace and the shuffle of footsteps continued until the last mourner headed out of the archway, and they were finally all gone.

  Esperanza and her mother-in-law had a moment to breathe before being driven to Don Jaramillo’s house, where the wake was being hosted. Morbid though it may be, the wake had been anticipated as the social event of the season.

  “Etienne, have you met Doña Macias?” Isabella gracefully swept her hand in the direction of the stooped and grieving mother. She tended to be overly grand in her gestures when she was pretending not to be embarrassed by him. He would play along, of course.

  “No, I haven't had the pleasure.” He walked over to Doña Macias slowly, as if she might be frightened away by sudden movements. She was still standing for the processional, so he guided her to one of the pews, maintaining a light grip on her elbow as she gingerly sat down against the back of the pew.

  “Your son spoke very highly of you and your late husband,” he said quietly.

  Even in her frail condition, she managed to smile up at the blond stranger. “Do you work for the Agency, Mr. Danforth?”

  “Yes, Madame. I program the equipment for destinations.”

  The matriarch crumbled a bit. “Were you there when they lost my son?”

  “Oh no, Doña Macias,” Isabella interjected. “Etienne is a transmittal technician. Retrieval technicians require much more training. It's such difficult work.”

  Etienne smiled and nodded and silently thanked his wife for reminding as many people as possible of his rejected application to Coronado's graduate program. The stony surroundings of the Cathedral fell silent for a moment.

  He watched Esperanza looking down at her glove, studiously avoiding eye contact. She must know, maybe better than anyone, what kind of state his marriage was in, though she typically did not involve herself in the bitterness. She was never cruel or snide with Etienne (one of the few who was not), but she was Isabella's friend, not his. He did not expect it when Esperanza leaned over to him and grasped his hands, looking at him with teary eyes.

  “Marriage is such a blessing. I am so happy you two still have each other.” She looked at her best friend, seemingly hoping Isabella would listen to her. “Never take your friend and companion for granted. You never know what may happen in the future.” Sobs choked off her voice and she let go of Etienne's hands to cover her face.

  Isabella held Esperanza and stroked the bits of hair falling out of her veil. As she looked at him over Esperanza's shoulder, Etienne saw it very clearly—Isabella envied her friend.

  ***

  It was not a long drive to her father’s house, but Etienne’s sullen disposition made Isabella wish she had ridden with Esperanza instead. Her husband was driving slower than usual and other drivers sped past them, some of them angrily revving their engines in the process. The glistening ocean on one side of the freeway and the Moorish-style condominiums on the other provided one of the more beautiful stretches of scenery in Northern Miami, and the slow pace would have been quite appropriate for a happy couple out for a day of sightseeing. With the two of them staring straight ahead in stony silence, Etienne’s knuckles gone white on the steering wheel, no one could ever confuse them for a happy couple.

  Luckily, the windows were darkly tinted, repelling any inquisitive stares from other motorists or, God forbid, members of the press. It would not do for yet another picture of Isabella and her husband to make the gossip pages with some invasive caption: Trouble in Paradise? Odd Couple or Odd Man Out? No matter how perfectly Isabella executed her impression of a loving dutiful wife, somehow the paparazzi were always on hand to snap the perfect picture of the truth shining through her eyes. The worst of the candid photos had been published only three days ago. Well, the picture itself was nothing too terrible; Isabella and Etienne had been waiting for the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the Agency’s new childcare center. Bored and with feet aching from too-high stilettos, Isabella’s face had been one of pinched unpleasantness, and the angle of the camera had made it look as if she were looking directly at Etienne. What made the photo awful was that some enterprising would-be comic had drawn a thought bubble over Isabella’s head that read, “I hate your face.”

  It had not mattered to Etienne when Isabella called the magazine’s editor, receiving assurances that neither the paparazzo nor the “cartoonist” would be working for the magazine ever again. Neither was he swayed by her explanation of her aching feet and displeasure with the heat of the day. He had remained silent for days, the pressure of his rage filling up the house like helium. That was his way—silent, angry oppression. So it was a surprise to Isabella when he ruptured the silence of the car to speak.

  Without turning his head, he blurted out, “I want you to stop seeing him.”

  There it was, out in the open. He said it so suddenly, she was not entirely sure he had meant it to be said aloud. The subject of Guillermo had never come up directly. It had been nearly a year since she started seeing him, close to three months that Etienne had been aware of it, but up until that moment, he had been content with passive-aggressive hints over breakfast. Late night, huh? Or his new favorite: How was girls’ night? But now it seemed Guillermo’s presence at the funeral had set something off.

  She had planned to discuss what his future held for him after her trip tomorrow. But he, as always, was ruining her plans.

  “Are you listening to me Izzy? It has to stop. People are talking and your father can’t protect you from the authorities forever. If they get proof, nothing I say—”

  She cut him off before he had the notion to threaten her in some way. “My father owns the authorities, you little twit. I’ll do whatever I like.” The ice in her voice was so frigid one of his hands dropped from the steering wheel.

  She gave a disgusted wave at the exit sign. “Pull over.” He obeyed.

  He took the nearest exit off the Miami Turnpike and parked near a lookout pavilion on the ocean. An elderly couple stood hand in hand on the deck of the pavilion, their backs to Isabella as they admired the waves and enjoyed the warm breeze. It was good they were there in case Etienne reacted more strongly than expected to what she had to tell him. Isabella waited a moment for the engine to power down before she spoke again. She wanted to make sure he listened
to every word.

  “I’m getting our marriage annulled. A year after it is finalized, Guillermo and I will be married. You will be given two years severance from the Agency and a choice of jobs in any Jaramillo-Diaz-owned corporation. You could go to Boston, if you wanted to return to your roots. If you contest the annulment, I’ll make sure you get nothing.” She slid her eyes toward him without turning her head.

  He stared at her like her hair was on fire. He had to know this was coming. And why should he protest? He hated it here. He had no good friends and constantly complained of sunburns. Why should he look so angry? Why did Anglos turn so red when they were frustrated?

  “If you think,” he spat between clenched teeth, “that I am going to let that dick take you from me—”

  “You don’t have me, Etienne! I have you, clinging to me like a bad rash! I’ve already spoken to Padre Lopez-Castaneda.”

  “And told him what? Some ridiculous story? That I beat you? You’ll never be able to prove I’ve been unfaithful! What possible reason could you give the Vatican?”

  Now she turned to look at him. He was not going to like this and she wanted to be sure to catch the full effect of his tantrum. “I told them you refuse to have children. You reject sexual contact without taking a prophylactic shot obtained through your father’s convict friends in Virginia.” She hadn’t finished the last word before he started punching the dashboard. He was so predictable.

  “You lying bitch! I’ll tell the Archbishop you got tubal implants. Records don’t lie! They can do a body scan on you! I asked for kids, I begged! And then you got that surgery behind my back while telling your whore friends I’m impotent! How do you think that...”

  “What records, you imbecile? You can go through every file in every hospital in Florida and there will be nary a record of me having surgery. It’s illegal! Why would the doctor keep any records? And no one would dare subject me to a body scan.”

  He took off his seatbelt and leaned over her. The claustrophobic combination of his breath pushing her hair from her face with warm staccato thrusts and the sun leaning on her through the window quickened her heart beat.

  “I’ll tell your father.”

  She bared her teeth in a savage almost-smile and sat up so she was closer to him. “Who do you think found a doctor to do the implants in the first place? Who got my application for annulment in front of the Archbishop within one day? You think he wanted me carrying your little mongrel offspring?” She leaned back and crossed her arms. “My father is the Agency, and half the Senate owes their careers to his endorsement. He owns this country, and I am his daughter. Who would believe you over me, Blancito?”

  Etienne’s whole body vibrated with fury. Even through his anger, he had to see there was no good way out of this. Either he could leave the marriage with money, a job, and free reign to remarry, or he could leave with nothing. She just looked at him, eyebrows raised to their highest peak, baffled as to why he was making this so difficult.

  He recoiled into his own seat. “Get out of my car.”

  Normally, she would have refused just out of principal. But, she reasoned, he needed time to process this. She grabbed her handbag and her veil and stepped out of the car onto the sandy shoulder. The ignition hummed to life, and before she had her port phone out of her purse, the car had sped away in the direction of their house. She was still expected at her father’s for the wake, and she doubted anyone would question Etienne’s absence. It would be nice to call Guillermo to come pick her up, but arriving with him would be unforgivable, and she needed everyone on her side. Troubling her father for a ride was out of the question, so she called her personal assistant, Elizabeth.

  “Yes, hello Dear. I’m terribly sorry to bother you on your day off, but I’ve found myself in something of a bind.”

  3

  Alfredo Jaramillo looked at his watch and frowned. His daughter was late, an absolutely unheard of state of affairs. When he spoke to Esperanza upon her arrival to his home, she said Isabella and the boy were right behind her. He wanted to enquire further, but Carlos Vega interrupted, entirely too excited to have been invited to the wake. Ever the gracious host, Alfredo had indulged him in an unremarkable conversation about La Verdadera Destreza, the exquisite art of Spanish swordsmanship. But he remained preoccupied with thoughts of his absent child.

  The event planners had cordoned off the rear gardens for the wake with new arrivals directed through one of seven beautifully appointed archways. The flood of newcomers had slowed, yet still no Isabella. He could only conclude she had decided to tell the boy about the annulment. When she had called to ask for his help last week, she seemed to believe Etienne would not mind the dissolution of their marriage, but he knew better. It was a heady thing, to be a Jaramillo. The boy had come from a nice family, prior to his father’s disgrace and imprisonment. His mother’s subsequent downward spiral into bankruptcy had no doubt made him further appreciate the superior wealth and status of the family he had married into.

  Isabella’s great shortcoming had always been her complete lack of insight into the hearts and minds of others. She was spoiled and self-centered, an affliction Alfredo could admit was his own fault. His wife Monica had always stressed the importance of a normal upbringing and wanted Isabella to attend public schools, use public transport, and work for her allowance. But when Monica died, Alfredo could not bring himself to refuse his darling anything. He had never really cared for his wife’s constant intercessions, but if she had lived, she would have had the strength to forbid their daughter’s marriage to Etienne in the first place. But she had not lived; she had not stayed to help him raise their daughter.

  The buzz of conversation around him became slightly louder. Alfredo looked up to see Isabella walking into the throng, greeting people as she went. Even clad in black, she looked like an angel. But Alfredo could sense she was upset, and he knew he had been right to worry. She shook Señor Vega’s hand and exchanged greetings with a few more guests before finally making it to his side. She smiled as he gave her a kiss.

  “I was worried,” he said in a low voice, keeping his face pleasant and passive for the benefit of all the people watching. Esperanza may have been the widow, but Alfredo accepted most of the guests had come to see Isabella, to feel as if they were a part of her life.

  Isabella’s expression mirrored the neutrality of his own, reflecting well on her upbringing. “It was just Etienne. I told him about the arrangement.” A soft breeze ruffled her hair, which she had taken down after the service. “You were right; he was angry. But I suspect he will be amenable to the annulment.”

  Alfredo leaned his head closer to her ear as they took several casual steps toward the tennis courts and away from the guests. “Why would you ever imagine such a thing?” he asked. She looked up at him quizzically, as if she didn’t understand the question. “Underestimating a man’s anger is unwise, Mija. You will stay here in the house until he moves out; Elizabeth as well.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Father, but I think—”

  He stopped walking and cast a stern gaze; she fell silent. Though she plainly enjoyed ordering her husband around like a servant, Alfredo was still her father and he was to be obeyed. It took only his face to remind her of that.

  “I am sorry,” she continued, her eyes downcast, “Of course I’ll stay at your house. You are far too generous to point out my lack of listening to you is how we arrived in this debacle in the first place.”

  “Good girl.” He put his arm around her and kissed her forehead. “All of this will be set right soon enough.” This ugliness would soon be behind them, and they could move on. Guillermo Ramirez was a good man, a respectful man who had come to ask his permission to see his daughter after the annulment was final. He understood what it was to be a man and he deserved to marry into the Jaramillo family. They just had to wait for propriety’s sake.

  “Señora Jaramillo!” Señor Vega huffed toward them, dragging Esperanza behind him. She looked exhau
sted and unhappy with her late husband’s former supervisor and his exuberant socializing, acting as if he were attending a gala, rather than a wake. “Señora Jaramillo, I was just talking to your father about the beauty of the Spanish sword. And Señora Macias has just told me that you are a great student of archery?”

  Behind him, Esperanza looked at her friend and mouthed I’m sorry. Isabella suppressed a laugh. Alfredo saw this and prized himself on having taught his daughter the importance of playing politics, not just for oneself, but also one’s friends. Her indulgence of Señor Vega could mean a promotion for Esperanza, who had been tucked away in the audit department for several years now. A kind word from Vega, combined with public sympathy for her husband, could get her placed on the executive level.

  “Why yes, Señor. I have been competing in long-bow archery since I was thirteen.” She gestured to Alfredo. “My father always said being skilled in the ancient craft of war should be the second highest priority of every American. He said that relying on technology, particularly in our line of work, was a fool’s mistake.”

  The man gave her a crooked smile. “The second priority? What is the first?”

  Isabella and Alfredo both smiled and spoke simultaneously. “Protecting the timeline, of course.”

  Vega cackled with exaggerated obsequious laughter. “You’ve taught your daughter well, Don Jaramillo. I only wish my own children would devote themselves to the Agency the way she does.” He leaned over and touched Isabella’s arm. The way he did it made Alfredo want to reach out and smack him.

  “You should come down to my office sometime, Señora. I have wonderful footage of my brother competing in the great arena at Poitiers. You know,” he whispered conspiratorially, “my family is descended from the great swordsman Don Alvaro Guerra de la Vega. War is in our blood.”

  Alfredo doubted anyone could trace his roots back that far, but he said nothing. Isabella smiled at the buffoon, displaying the impeccable manners he had taught her.