The Saints of the Cross (15 page)

“Oh,
man
. Come on,” Camilla grumbles as she grabs her books and stands up from her desk. She heads toward the front of the class where Laurel and Olivia are still glaring back at us.

I cringe and reluctantly follow her. I have the feeling that I’ll be spending the last twenty minutes of class playing referee among these three. I absolutely hate confrontation of any kind—unlike Camilla, who seems to welcome it. She slams her books down on the vacated desk directly behind Olivia, causing a rush of air and an ear-splitting
bang!
Laurel gives Camilla a scowl and looks to Olivia, who rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“Let’s get this over with,” Camilla huffs.

“Please! The sooner, the better!” Laurel snaps, her voice pure vitriol.

We open our notebooks and grab our pens almost simultaneously, which I find strangely humorous. Ms. Lawrence strolls among the groups scattered around the classroom and glances over at us with a raised brow. And with that look I know that she’s purposely put Camilla, Laurel, and Olivia together. What is she thinking? Why are adults constantly trying to make kids become friends from the time of preschool play dates on through to high school sports and clubs? Don’t they know that some kids are just not meant to be together?

We manage to make it through the class without throwing any punches or pulling each other’s hair, which is a major feat. We’ve decided on Medicaid, the prison system, NASA, and military spending as the four programs needing some budget cuts. We agree to work on the project this evening and decide to meet at Laurel’s house in Falls Church. So after school, Camilla and I hop into the convertible and follow Laurel to her house.

CHAPTER 10

Camilla fills me in on the Danton-family story on our way to Laurel’s house. Laurel is the great-granddaughter of J.P. Danton, the founder of Danton Bank and Trust Co., one of the largest and oldest savings and loans in the eastern United States. According to Camilla, Laurel’s family also has real estate and business investments dating back to the founding of the country. The family is the epitome of East Coast old money. Her extended family is often mentioned in the society sections of several newspapers. Laurel’s father is a judge, and her mother is a corporate attorney. Because of her parents’ busy careers, Laurel and her two older brothers were, for the most part, raised by nannies.

Camilla eases the BMW into the Danton’s driveway just as Laurel and Olivia are climbing out of Laurel’s Mercedes convertible. I’m not surprised by the grandiosity of the Danton home; it is most fitting for a family of the American aristocracy. We follow Laurel up a long walkway to the plantation-style mansion, its front porch footed by massive white pillars in the traditional Georgian architectural style.

We pass by two gardeners who are trimming the shrubbery and topiary. By the looks of them, they’ve had one busy day working outside in the oppressively humid Virginia heat.

“Hola, Señorita Danton,” one of the gardeners waves to Laurel.

“Hola, Miguel. Hola, Ramón,” Laurel smiles and waves back. She stops on the porch steps. “You’re not working too hard, are you?”

“No, Señorita, no,” says the tall man named Ramón.

“Well, come in and have some lemonade if you’re thirsty. Maggie will get it for you.”

“Gracías, Señorita Danton,” the gardeners reply in unison, nodding toward Laurel in a gesture of respect.

“De nada,” Laurel waves dismissively and turns to the door. I am stunned that Laurel would converse in such an open and caring manner with the hired help. Maybe she isn’t as much of a rich, spoiled brat as Camilla has made her out to be. Indeed, most wealthy people don’t invite the gardeners in for lemonade.

We enter the house through large, double doors. I marvel at the size of the foyer and the beautiful dark-stained pine floors. Varied pieces of antique furniture, topped with fresh flowers, line the rotunda. To my right, in the next room, are a long dining table and an elaborately carved wood buffet. The room to my left has a fireplace, a large decorative area rug, and cream-colored couches covered with William Morris-style patterned throws. A massive mahogany staircase, leading up to the second floor, arches in front of us.

“This way,” Laurel says as she starts up the grand staircase. We follow her down a long hall to the third door on the right. I wince when she opens her bedroom door. The entire room looks like hundreds of bottles of Pepto-Bismol have exploded over every square inch. The carpet is the most nauseating color of pink I’ve ever seen. The queen-sized poster bed is white and covered in pastel-pink and green floral motif bedding. The posters are draped with pink netting. The room is as big as a master bedroom, complete with a bath suite. There’s a cream-colored desk in the far corner and two petal-pink, floral chaise lounges near a large window.

“Like pink much?” Camilla snorts.

“Okay, ignoring you now,” Laurel dismisses Camilla’s jab with a raised palm.

We drop our bags on the floor next to the bed and stretch out on the lush, pink carpet. Laurel reclines on one of her chaises.

“I am so freaking tired,” she sighs.

“I can agree with that,” Camilla says flatly.

“Why don’t we just chill for a little bit and then start the project?” Olivia chimes in cheerfully.

“Fine,” we agree and relax in silence for a few moments. The only sound is the distant buzzing of a Weed Eater somewhere on the estate grounds.

“Have you met Emily Cauldwell?” Laurel asks me, as she turns on her side to face us.

“The cute, blonde cheerleader in Spanish class?” I say, picturing the petite girl in her cheerleading uniform, her hair neatly tied in a ponytail with a huge maroon bow. She’s the quintessential girl-next-door.

“Yeah, well she tried to kill herself last summer because of Xander.”

“She took an overdose of her mom’s sleeping pills, but they pumped her stomach in the emergency room and saved her,” Olivia continues apathetically.

“
What
? Come on, no one knows for sure if that’s really
true
. It’s not fair to blame Xander,” Camilla objects with a frown. “It’s just a rumor, Evie, and I’m pretty sure I know how it got started.” Camilla glares at Laurel.

“
Whatever
, Camilla. Xander used Emily and then dumped her. Two days later, she’s in the hospital because she tried to commit
suicide
.” Laurel smirks and crosses her arms in a gesture of certainty. “He’s known for that, you know, getting what he wants and then dumping the girl. It’s nothing new for Xander. Ask
her
,” Laurel thumbs toward Olivia, who drops her eyes and nods in agreement.

“Oh please!” Camilla rolls her eyes.

What’s this? It’s Camilla’s turn to stand up for Xander? I’ve only ever seen the reverse: Xander sticking up for Camilla.

“Wow—that’s rather sad,” I say. I can’t imagine trying to kill myself over a boy; some people are so melodramatic. However, I do like Emily; she seems nice. The vindictive tone in Laurel’s voice is obvious, and I’m wondering why she feels so vicious toward the girl. Jealousy, perhaps?

“More like sadly pathetic.” Laurel wrinkles her nose.

“Anyway, who is this
mysterious
Spanish boyfriend of yours?” Olivia inquires with an innocent face. The question takes my breath away. I didn’t think anyone at the Cross knew about Javier. My surprise must show on my face.

“Oh, everyone knows everyone else’s business at Holy Cross. You might as well just give us the details.” Laurel appears to have more of an agenda than just a casual curiosity.

“His name is Javier.” I’m pained just saying his name. I miss him horribly every day. “He likes to be called Javi,” I cringe, immediately regretting giving away even that much information about my love.

“I’ve got an idea, let’s google him!” Laurel jumps up from her floral chaise and skips to her desk across the enormous bedroom. She flips open her laptop and types her password. We pull ourselves up from our comfy spots on the lush carpet and follow Laurel over to her computer. “Now, what’s his full name?”

“I don’t know about this.” I hesitate because I’m acutely aware that I might not like what I find on the internet. “I feel like I’m invading his privacy, or worse, spying on him.”

“Seriously? Have you never googled someone you know?” Laurel’s blue eyes widen with disbelief.

“Well . . . no.”

“I google myself on a daily basis,” Olivia offers.

“You
would
,” Camilla snorts. “It’s called ego-surfing for a reason.”

Olivia pretends to ignore her, but her bright-red face gives away her embarrassment.

“Full name, please.” Laurel really won’t take no for an answer, I know that.

“Javier Rodrigo y Santos de la Cruz,” I answer as Laurel types. The occasion to speak his full name is so rare that I actually enjoy the way it rolls off my tongue in that imperfect peninsular accent I’ve acquired over my four short years in Southern Spain. I’m glad to have the opportunity to say his name aloud, whatever the consequence may be.

“Wow, that’s a mouthful,” Camilla notes.

“Like Camilla San Sebastian isn’t?” Olivia laughs, and Camilla simply glares back at her. Her facial expressions are worth thousands of words
.
Olivia smartly drops her eyes to the floor.

“Oh my God, there’s, like, over two thousand hits!” Laurel scrolls down the screen and clicks on a link with a more recent date. A page opens from
Hello!
Magazine titled “Annual Spanish Royal Ball Brings Royals and European Celebrities to Madrid.” This can’t be a story about Javi, but for some reason, I start to feel uneasy.

Laurel clicks the
Gallery
link and a page of captioned pictures pops up—each a photo of a beautiful European couple. I’m not familiar with most of the people in the photos, but do recognize a few Spanish actresses and actors. My heart skips a beat. At the bottom of the page is a picture of a tall, handsome man in a navy blue uniform, someone I recognize without question:
Javier
. A stunning blonde in a beautiful golden-hued gown stands next to him. The caption reads:
“Marques of Córdoba Javier Santos de la Cruz, 19, fifteenth in line to the Spanish throne, and Italian Countess Annalisa Giordano, 22.”
  They’re smiling, arm in arm, looking exquisite. The photo is dated July 21, the week he was supposed to have been in Italy visiting his mother and his hospitalized grandfather. As I peer closer at the picture, my chest clamps down on my splintering heart, and I gasp.

CHAPTER 11

I inch back away from the computer, averting my eyes from the smiling, perfect couple in the photo. My thoughts race as fast as my heart. The Javier I knew was just someone trying to decide who he wanted to be and what he wanted to do with his life. He was thinking of college, but didn’t know what he wanted to study. That’s why he had been on a sabbatical since graduating from high school. At least, that’s what he’d told me when we met for the first time in Las Flores Café.

Laurel, Olivia, and Camilla slowly turn to me. Laurel’s lips are pressed into a fine line and her right eyebrow is raised in a high arch—an unmistakable expression of
what the hell is going on here?
Olivia’s face is confused, her mind obviously not registering the photo’s significance. Camilla’s eyebrows are furrowed, as if she’s considering the implications of the photo. As her dark eyes widen, a look of concern crosses her face.

“Is that him, Evie?” Camilla whispers, and all I can manage is a slight nod.

“Duh, genius!” Olivia exclaims with a hint of both excitement and pity in her voice. She’s figured out why the tension in the room is suddenly thick and palpable. I refuse to be pitied by such a dimwit.

“Are you telling me that your Spanish boyfriend is the Marques of Córdoba, fifteenth in line for the crown?” Laurel mocks the idea as if she can’t believe it’s even possible.

“I—I didn’t
know
that,” I stammer. “We only met ten months before I moved here. I didn’t know.”

That isn’t the only question swirling through my mind. The picture is dated for the week he was supposedly visiting family in Italy. Had he lied to me about the whole ordeal? Was his grandfather really sick in the hospital? If he had been lying about that, I’d have to say that it was probably one of the all-time dirty lows of lying. How could he not only lie to me about who he is, but also take another girl to a
royal ball
? For all I know, that girl could be his fiancée. I feel myself crumble inside with the realization that my Javi is
not
who, nor what, I thought he was.

My mind turns back to that last day we shared together on the beach in Marbella. I recall him saying, “I’m not ready for this to be over. I’m too far gone now.” Did he mean it? I remember the song he wrote and serenaded me with on his guitar: “Corazón.”I close my eyes and smell the crisp ocean breeze. I picture the palm trees swaying to the tune Javi played on the guitar. I recall the way his falsetto voice so perfectly hit the high notes of the melody, the way his eyes lightly closed as he sang, and then opened to meet mine as he played the final chords. I never wanted that night to end. And neither did
he,
or so I thought. But what was the truth?

My mind jerks back to reality as I realize that the bittersweet memories are making the crushing pain in my chest worse. My heart hurts and tears sting my eyes. I want to say something, to make an excuse to leave, but I know that my wet throat, with my trembling voice, will give away my shock, my humiliation, and my pain.

Instead, I sit on the chaise, staring down at the obnoxious pink carpet, not blinking for fear that the tears will spill over. I refuse to give Laurel the satisfaction of seeing me cry. The urge to run from that room, from that horribly beautiful image on the computer screen, overwhelms me. I use all the strength I have left to compose myself. I want to rush home to the privacy of my own bedroom to call Javier. Surely, this is some kind of misunderstanding. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he’s never given me a reason to distrust him.