Chapter Forty-Two
Oh my God,” Saoirse said, her hand on her chest. The lightning illuminated the sky again, turning the pitch-black night momentarily bright as day, like a temporary, fleeting sun. It illuminated the woman standing there at the bottom of the staircase, angled toward Saoirse and Santos on the beach.
“Tabby,” Saoirse said, breathless, “you scared me half to death.”
Florence proffered the umbrella she held in her hand. “I’m sorry, child. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Florence said. “It’s going to be raining cats and dogs any moment, and I saw you headed down here earlier without an umbrella.”
It was just like Saoirse to do something like this, to wander down that rickety old staircase in the dark.
A staircase that was hazardous enough when traversing it in broad daylight when it was sunny and dry out, let alone in the wet dark.
And on top of that, she came down here with him, of all people.
It was as if she was deliberately putting herself in harm’s way.
“Mr. Santos,” Florence said coldly. “I don’t recall seeing your name on the guest list.”
She had seen Saoirse hanging on to a boy as she made her way down the stairs, but in the dark and with the distance, she hadn’t been able to make out who it was.
“Please, Tabby, don’t be cross,” Saoirse said. “I invited him.”
“I see,” Florence said, the displeasure plain in her voice. “You should come back up to the house, both of you. The weather’s turning.”
“It’s not going to rain,” Saoirse said defiantly.
Then, as if to spite her, the sky opened up, and it started to pour.
Saoirse swore under her breath.
“Come up to the house,” Florence said again. “You’ll catch your death out here.”
This time, Saoirse didn’t need persuading. Florence opened the umbrella, and Santos held it as best he could over Saoirse and Florence as they climbed the stairs, slowly and arduously in the dark. Though, in truth, with the winds as bad as they were, the umbrella did them little good.
When they got to the top, the yard and terrace were empty. Everyone had gone inside.
“Does Ransom know that Mr. Santos is here?” Florence asked.
“No,” Saoirse said. “Of course he doesn’t know.”
Florence nodded. “Well then, it may be best if the two of you come around the back way with me. You can dry off in my room. The last thing we need is for your brother to see this and cause a scene.”
They took the back entrance to the servants’ quarters, which were quiet and empty.
Everyone was busy working the party tonight.
When they got to Florence’s rooms, she shut the door behind them and started a fire in the hearth.
Santos shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up to dry.
Saoirse shivered and hugged her bare arms. She was drenched to the bone.
“Child, go to your room, and put on a change of clothes,” Florence said. “You look like a drowned rat.”
Saoirse laughed and rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Tabby,” she said through clattering teeth. “I’ll be right back,” Saoirse told Santos. She stood on her tiptoes to give him a kiss.
When Saoirse had gone, Florence inquired if Santos had had anything to eat.
“No,” Santos said. “I came after dinner.”
“I’ll make you something, then,” Florence said.
Her rooms, the biggest in the servants’ quarters, had a small kitchenette. She pulled open the refrigerator door and bent down to look inside.
“How about navy bean soup?” she asked. “I have some left over from the other night. I can heat it up for you.”
“That sounds great, thank you,” Santos said.
She pulled out a small pot from her cabinet and clicked on the burner on her stove. Then she fiddled around in her drawers.
“I can never find my big wooden spoons,” she said.
Santos turned his back to her and went to warm himself by the fireplace. He sat down on the ottoman and held his hands out toward the heat.
“It’s good of you, to be so nice,” Santos said. “I know you don’t approve of me and Saoirse together.”
“No,” Florence said. “I don’t approve. But I know Saoirse, and she’s going to make her own decisions. There’s no standing in the way of that. Ah, here it is.”
She retrieved a wooden spoon from her drawer and poured some of the soup out of the Tupperware and into the pot. When it was warm enough, she ladled it into a bowl and brought the bowl and a spoon to Santos.
“Careful, it’s hot,” she warned.
She sat down across from him in her armchair.
He sipped at it. “Mm,” he said. “It’s very good.”
“Chef made a batch the other night, and I took some with me,” Florence said.
“It tastes different from how I remember it,” Santos said, taking another sip.
“You know Chef,” Florence said. “Always experimenting.” After a moment she asked, “So what will you and Saoirse do now that she’s of age?”
“We plan to be married,” Santos said. “We leave for Vegas in the morning.”
“Married?” Florence said, surprised. “Don’t you think that’s a little fast? You should take some time to really get to know one another first.”
“We know each other,” Santos said. “We don’t want to wait any longer to start our lives together.”
“I see,” Florence said. “And what does that look like? Your lives together?”
“Traveling,” Santos said. “There’s a lot we want to see. I want to take her to South America, first. Then Europe. We’ve talked about doing an African safari.”
“And after that?”
“We’ll settle down somewhere,” Santos said. “Perhaps abroad. Saoirse’s talked about trying to start her own fashion line. I’ve always been interested in the markets, in investing.”
“Those sound like risky ventures,” Florence said.
“Well, luckily, we’ll have the means to take some risks,” Santos said. He coughed, cleared his throat.
“And what if your temperaments are not suited for one another?” Florence asked. “Saoirse can be headstrong, stubborn, and capricious. What if you fight often? Or you find her too combative? Or you grow tired of her constantly changing fancies? What then?”
“I think we’ll manage,” Santos said. He cleared his throat again. “Besides, we’ll have more means than most to be happy.”
“Take it from me,” Florence said. “Money is not a balm for unhappiness. I’ve lived around the rich for my entire life, and they have been some of the most unhappy, wretched souls I’ve ever met.
” Florence clucked her tongue in disapproval.
“I fear,” she said, “that you’re on a path to ruin both your lives, forever. ”
Santos didn’t answer. His bowl clattered to the ground. He gasped for breath, clutched at his throat.
Florence picked up the fallen bowl and spoon and went to deposit them in the sink. She grabbed a dishcloth to clean up the spill.
Santos was on his knees now, his eyes large and bulging as he looked at her for help. He reached out an arm for her, tried to speak, but his throat was swollen shut.
“That’ll be the peanut oil I added to your soup, dear,” Florence said. “Don’t worry; this will all be over soon.”
Santos tried to crawl toward the door, but he didn’t get far. He collapsed by the hearth, and, after a moment, his body grew still and stopped moving.