Page 71 of One Year Ago in Spain
She felt her skin flush again.
“Fine,” Claire said. “But when you do fall for me, it better be for my mind first.”
“Deal,” Matías said. “And maybe then you’ll let me see your ankles?”
She snorted, then covered her mouth at the noise. “Pretend you didn’t hear that. So, uh, what are you doing right now?”
“Taking a beautiful woman to see Madrid at night, I hope.”
—
With the latesunsets of summer, the Palacio Real—the official residence of Spain’s royal family and the largest palace in Continental Europe—basked in soft evening light. There were some tourists here and there, but most must not have realized that although the interior of the palace was closed at this hour, the grounds surrounding it were open until 10p.m.
“I can’t believe people actually live in a place this grand,” Claire said, admiring the columns and sculptures of the baroque palace.
“I hate to shatter your fantasy, then,” Matías said. “The Palacio Real is mostly used for ceremonial functions.”
Claire frowned. “But the sign at the front said it was the royal family’s home.”
“Official residence in Madrid,” Matías said. “But they rarely live in this city.”
“Ah. So many castles, so little time.”
Matías laughed. “I would not be upset to have that problem.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think you’d like owning so much real estate. Too much of a logistical headache. Think of the property maintenance and annual gardening fees for several castles. I mean, look at this place.” Claire swept her arm in an arc around her, at all the carefully manicured trees and hedges and flowers.
“You haven’t even seen the palace gardens yet,” Matías said.
“My point exactly! You’d need to employ an army of gardeners. Ugh, and if I start to contemplate the international tax implications—”
“Who looks at a palace and immediately wonders how much tax is owed?” Matías said, the corners of his eyes crinkled up in laughter.
Claire snorted again, and this time she didn’t bother trying to cover it up. “I can’t help it. I’m a lawyer through and through.”
Matías stopped in the middle of the plaza and just looked at her.
“What?” Claire said.
“Nothing.”
“No, really, what?” She glanced over her shoulder, but there was nothing there. He was definitely looking at her.
“You are very down-to-earth,” Matías said. “Different from most of my friends and…other people I know.”
Claire was pretty sure he was referring to Vega, who at this point in time for him would be a very recent ex-fiancée.
“I can’t help it,” Claire said. “I am who I am.”
“It’s not a bad thing!” Matías said. “I probably need more of it in my life. I am the kind of person who will forget the basics if I’m in the middle of painting. When I was young, my mother or my sister, Aracely, would knock on my door at mealtimes and I would be shocked to find out that ten hours had passed since the last time I ate. But now that I’m an adult, I can lose entire days if I am inside the flow of painting.”
Claire nodded but closed her eyes for a moment. Because she already knew this about him, and even though she was enjoying herself on this date, it was also painful becausehedidn’t know that they already knew each other, already loved each other, already had so many memories.
She already knew that Matías was brilliant and talented but absentminded with no sense of time. She would ask him to do something like take out the trash, and he would earnestly say “in a minute,” but then four hours later, it would still be overflowing while he was sketching out a new idea or picking out a new tune on his ukulele or playing a seventh game of online chess.
It had been driving her crazy the last few months. But here in Madrid, knowing that he might die, it was so clear thatshehad been the one who was wrong. Just like Claire couldn’t help being hyperorganized and having a brain that was mapped ontoa calendar grid, Matías couldn’t help that he hurled himself into whatever he was doing. It’s what made him a beautiful, successful artist. But the same ability to leap into a deep pond of his imagination when painting also meant that he leaped into everything else as fully—chess, sketching, playing the ukulele—and small mundane concerns like trash sometimes got forgotten.
Every person had a price of admission. Claire had read that in a relationship advice book years ago but hadn’t understood it until now. The price of admission for being with Claire was putting up with her type-A need for control. The price of admission for being with Matías was accepting he couldnotbe controlled.
