Still in Love Page 6

  “Good night.”

  He watched her as she walked toward the door. “Nadine.”

  She paused and turned.

  “Think about what I said.”

  Her face remained inscrutable and she didn’t say a word. Then she turned on her heel and left.

  Chapter 12

  The SUV with Gustavo, his wife, and the other children pulled out the next morning after breakfast for the three hour drive back to the estancia.

  Both Antonella and Gabriela suffered some muscle soreness from the accident, but for the most part they exhibited lots of energy, like typical girls their age. Nadine was impressed that the splint didn’t inhibit Antonella’s movements much at all.

  Since the girls were fine, Cortez took them into town for lunch and a visit to the zoo. Nadine had plans as well. Joachim took her into the city where she met a friend for lunch that she’d kept in close contact with after she moved to Atlanta.

  Catarina was in her early sixties, with fine lines on her face and hair died a glossy jet black, never marred by gray roots. Slender and chic, the older woman had become a close friend and confidante when they both taught at a local school—the job Nadine had found after she resigned from her position as an import/export consultant years ago.

  Now retired, Catarina spent her days volunteering with various children’s charities. She’d once told Nadine that it was her way to give and receive the love that bonded children to adults since she’d never married and had children of her own.

  After a leisurely lunch at an Italian restaurant, they strolled down Florida Street. The busy area was close to the financial district, and only open to pedestrian traffic. Nadine wanted to buy leather goods and gifts for family back home.

  “So when are you coming to visit me in Atlanta?” Nadine teased, as they walked arm-in-arm. She’d been trying to get Catarina to come visit for the past couple of years.

  “Why would I leave all of this?” her friend asked, waving her hand with a flourish at the street, teeming with pedestrians carrying bags and browsing for gifts. “And why are you buying souvenirs here? You know better. This place is for tourists!”

  Nadine squeezed her friend’s arm. “I know I can get better deals elsewhere, but I like the energy here.”

  Catarina cast a sidelong glance at her. “Are you ready to come home?”

  “Atlanta is my home now, and you’re welcome to visit anytime. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

  “You know I have no interest in going to the States.” Catarina sniffed.

  “Not even for a short trip?”

  She shrugged, a movement that looked decidedly elegant on her narrow shoulders. “Maybe a week. Maybe Alec would like to join me.”

  She and Alec, Cortez’s longtime friend who’d gone to work for him at the record label, Musica Fuerte, had been lovers for almost ten years. They’d met through Nadine and Cortez, and their relationship had endured, despite the significant age difference.

  “So you won’t come unless Alec comes?” Nadine paused to examine a yerba mate tea set that included a bag of the loose tea leaves, traditional hand-carved gourds, and a pot for hot water. The set would make a nice gift for her neighbor. She made a mental note to come back to this store.

  “I like traveling with him. He takes care of everything.” Catarina laughed, the sound husky and mischievous.

  “When are you going to marry him?”

  “Maybe when he stops asking me.”

  “Then it’ll be too late,” Nadine scoffed. “Are you saying you don’t want to get married?”

  Catarina glanced sideways at her. “You were married before. What do you think? Would you do it again?”

  They started walking.

  “I enjoyed being married,” Nadine said.

  “Why aren’t you anymore?”

  “You know why. We couldn’t make it work.”

  They strolled along in silence for a while, pausing long enough to toss change into the bowl of a couple of street performers dancing the tango.

  “Alec says he no longer writes,” Catarina said.

  “Who?”

  “Cortez.”

  Nadine stepped out of the way of a group of young tourists that rushed past. “No way. Cortez never stops writing music.”

  When they were married, he must have written hundreds of songs. Some had been good enough to make the cut and onto his albums. Some had been filed away for one reason or another. Perhaps because he had another song that sounded too similar or another singer had released a similar sound and composition. Or, like all temperamental artists, he simply thought it wasn’t good enough.

  “Alec says he hasn’t written anything in years.”

  Years? Even when they’d discussed him starting the record company, he’d insisted he’d continue writing.

  “He’s not alive if he’s not writing.” Of that she was certain.

  “There is your answer,” Catarina said.

  Nadine pulled up short.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Maybe he’s not alive.” Catarina raised an eyebrow. “When does he see Antonella?”

  “He sees her.”

  “Once a year.”

  Nadine disengaged her arm. “Did Cortez put you up to this?”

  Catarina’s eyes widened. “No.” Her friend seemed genuinely shocked by the accusation.

  “He’s not the first parent to live apart from their child.”

  “I am not accusing you of anything, but I see how he is when she comes to visit on her summer break. He is so different when they are together. I thought…perhaps a compromise could be reached.”

  “He did put you up to this.” She found it hard to believe that it was only a coincidence that Catarina would broach the same topic that she and Cortez had discussed so recently.

  “No, he did not,” Catarina insisted.

  “To guilt me into leaving her.”

  Catarina’s brow furrowed. “Not to leave her. But…have you considered coming back?”

  “Why should I move back?” Nadine demanded. “Maybe Cortez should move to the States.”

  “I am sorry. I have said too much, and I did not mean to upset you. I only know that Alec and I see how he is.” She took Nadine’s hand. “And of course I was sad to see you go and thought maybe you would return once you had the break you needed. I would love to have you come back, but I understand why you left and why you may never live here again.” She looped her arm through Nadine’s. “Come. No more of this talk. Only happy conversations for the rest of the day. Tell me about Atlanta. What is so great that Alec and I need to visit?”

  Nadine let her friend pull her along. “Southern hospitality, to start.”

  She went into a half-hearted description of the weather and the historic neighborhoods, but her heart was not really in the conversation any longer. Her thoughts were all about Cortez.

  Chapter 13

  After the outing, Nadine returned to the house but didn’t immediately find any trace of Cortez or the girls and went upstairs to place the gifts in her room. Then she went to Antonella’s room and gently knocked. When there was no answer, she peeked in and saw the girls were already fast asleep in their individual beds. They were as inseparable as sisters.

  With a satisfied smile, she went back to her room and changed out of her clothes. She took a quick shower before donning a comfortable loungewear outfit consisting of rose-colored pants with a drawstring and matching top. Sleep was the last thing on her mind. The conversation with Catarina, combined with Cortez’s suggestion—or threat, depending on how she chose to interpret his words—had given her much to think about.

  In the kitchen, she took a cola from the refrigerator and was on her way up the stairs when she decided to change direction. Pausing, she listened to be sure she didn’t hear any activity nearby, and then walked quietly toward the back of the house.

  She was curious about Catarina’s comments that Cortez hadn’t been writing music. The best way to find ou
t the truth of that statement was to go to the home studio, his favorite room in the house—or at least it used to be.

  Standing outside the door, she looked both ways down the hall before turning the knob.

  Open.

  She let herself in, but after such a long time, she felt like she was invading sacred, off limit turf, even though she’d been in there many times before. She eased the door shut and touched the control box near the door, illuminating the walls with soft overhead lighting.

  The studio consisted of two rooms—the control room and the isolation booth—both with dark paneled, soundproof walls. Not a single window existed in the space, allowing Cortez to be completely sealed off from distractions. Against the right wall of the control room, four electric guitars were lined up on stands. To the left was a keyboard and, directly in front of her, earphones, a computer, and the equipment he and his producer used to monitor and mix beats.

  She used to sit on the tan sofa against the back wall and read quietly while he worked on his music. Or sometimes she simply watched him, admiring his dedication and tenacity. When he didn’t need to concentrate too much, she’d bring Antonella in the room with her, and he let her sit on his lap while he fiddled with the knobs and buttons. He had taught her to play the keyboard, and she’d continued piano lessons in the States. The teacher had been impressed by her innate ability to play by ear.

  Testaments to Cortez’s talent over the ten years he’d been at the height of his singing career covered the wall above the sofa like wallpaper. They included Best Record, Best Album, and the various milestones in record sales—gold, platinum, and diamond. His ballads had won him the most accolades.

  Nadine walked over to the keyboard and set down her cola. She ran her fingers lightly over the keys, reminiscing about those days. Every now and again she’d be flattered when he’d ask her opinion about a lyric or a beat, but for the most part he stayed busy and worked hard. For her, simply being allowed to spend time with him in the room where he created had been sufficient.

  When she heard a click behind her, she spun around to see Cortez standing in the door holding coffee in his hand, steam rising from the white cup. Guilt flared in her stomach, as if she’d been caught trespassing.

  Surprised to see her, Cortez initially had a bewildered expression on his face, but then his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What are you doing in here?”

  “I…was just curious.” She sounded as guilty as she felt, poking around in his sanctuary.

  One eyebrow arched higher. “About what?”

  She might as well come clean. “I was in town with Catarina today, and I was surprised when she told me that you were no longer writing.”

  Without making much sound, he moved away from the door and it eased shut. He walked over to the table that contained the monitoring equipment and set down his cup of coffee.

  “I suppose she heard that from Alec,” he surmised.

  Nadine was very cognizant of every gesture he made, each turn of his head, the sound of his deep voice. As if every action had been magnified for the benefit of her senses.

  “That’s what she said.” Nadine leaned against the keyboard and looked around the room. “Did you stop writing because you got behind a desk?”

  “No.” He picked up a notepad on the table and stared down at the words written on the page.

  She could have been put off by the shortness of his answer but refused to be. She had to know why he’d stopped doing something she knew he loved so much. “Then why?”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “So you’re never going to write again?” she prodded.

  “I never said that.” Tension sang in the taut set of his shoulders. “I’m writing now.”

  “Music?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Catarina was wrong.”

  “Not quite. It’s true I haven’t written in a long time.”

  “But you’re writing again? That’s wonderful, isn’t it? When did that start?”

  He didn’t answer right away, and she had the distinct impression that he was debating whether or not to answer her at all. Finally, he looked at her. “Today.”

  “Oh.” The way he looked at her—in that steady, measured way—sent heat rising in her neck. “When was the last time you wrote?”

  “Three years ago.”

  The admission and the dull sound of his voice pained her. When she’d taken away Antonella, he’d lost his desire to write.

  With great effort, she tugged air into her lungs. “What prompted you to do so now?” she asked in a low voice.

  Cortez flipped a few switches, and soft music spilled from the speakers. “What do you think of this?” he asked.

  It was a melodious, haunting sound. “It reminds me of pain. Maybe even loss.”

  “Longing. It’s called “Cuanto te amo.” How much I love you. He held up the notepad. “These are the words. You inspired them.”

  “You mean Antonella.”

  “No, Nadine. You.”

  Chapter 14

  Nadine’s breath stopped. Her heart raced as she twisted Cortez’s statement around and over in her head, and still it didn’t make sense. “If this is some trick to try to convince me to let Antonella stay—”

  He dropped the pad on the table. “This isn’t a trick.”

  “Last night you told me you want her back, and today you tell me that you’re creating music again because of me. You have to admit, that sounds suspicious.”

  There had been a time when he’d told her she inspired him to write his best work, but that had been a long time ago. Long before they’d turned on each other with petty arguments and long silences that drove them farther and farther apart.

  “I am telling you the truth.”

  “I don’t want you to make music about me.”

  “My biggest hit—my greatest selling single was a song dedicated to you—about you.”

  Mi corazón canta. My heart sings. An ode to how being near her made him feel. She made his heart sing. Maybe once, a long time ago, but not in the end.

  “Whatever you’re doing, this can’t happen. You know—”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Because what? We’re not done, Nadine. Didn’t you feel it when we kissed—the first time? The second time?” He tapped the notepad. “I wrote two songs already. They were going around and around in my head all day. I wrote one while the girls were in the pool, and I wrote the second after they ate dinner.”

  “You wrote two songs. I’m happy for you, but our marriage ended three years ago. We ended.”

  “You left me.”

  “We left each other,” she flung back.

  He shook his head. “I was still here.”

  “Were you?”

  The chiseled plane of his jaw flexed. “I never wanted you to leave.”

  She laughed shrilly. “That is a damn lie and you know it. If you didn’t want me to leave, why was leaving even on the table?”

  “I gave you the option of a divorce. I didn’t know you planned to leave the country.”

  “Why would I stay here?”

  “Why not? This was your home for years. Our daughter was born here.”

  “Well, you didn’t exactly fight for us to stay, did you?” Nadine said.

  Cortez took two deep breaths, his chest heaving up and down. “If I tried to make you stay, you would have resented me, and you were already so unhappy.”

  “And apparently so were you,” Nadine said, the bitterness of his betrayal resurfacing on her tongue. “The minute I turned my back, you…”

  “¿Qué? What did I do?”

  “You and Fabiana made your relationship public!” A violent quiver of pain grabbed hold of her gut and twisted.

  The blonde had been his favorite sound engineer when he was a performer. He claimed she was among the best, but Nadine had wondered if there was something more between them. She’d seen the way Fabiana looked at her husband.


  An angry glint filled his eyes. “I told you over and over again there was nothing going on between us. I liked her work. That is all.”

  “I saw the pictures of you,” she hissed. “Not even a month after Antonella and I left the country, you were partying with her in Ibiza.”

  Cortez averted his eyes and ran a rough hand through his hair. “I needed to get away.”

  “With her?”

  An angry frown creased his forehead. “She came, but so did Alec and the rest of Los Tigres.”

  “They weren’t the ones wearing a tiny white bikini on the yacht, laughing and hanging onto you!” Her heart thundered against her chest so hard she wouldn’t be surprised if he heard it.

  News about him hadn’t been easy to come by in the States. As far as Americans were concerned, he was a one-hit wonder with the English translation of Mi corazón canta, but in Latin America and Europe he’d been a superstar. So she’d searched for news about him online, and that’s when she’d found the pictures of him partying in Ibiza.

  “Those photos were misleading,” Cortez said between clenched teeth.

  “Those photos were revealing,” Nadine countered.

  “You know how the press slants news stories to sell copies. How many times have magazine articles placed me in a particular restaurant or city on a specific date, when in fact you and I were together at the time? None of the rumors about other women were true. You know they weren’t true.”

  “I hoped they weren’t,” she corrected.

  His nostrils flared. “You’re making excuses because you were unhappy. I never once strayed in our marriage!”

  Nadine acknowledged to herself that she had conjured all sorts of explanations once their marriage started to crumble. If she was hardly having sex with him, was he getting it somewhere else? It would have been so easy for him because of his celebrity status.

  “I was hurting, after…” She touched her stomach as the pain attacked her anew. The period after the death of their son had been the longest of her life.