1938
Benjamin told himself he’d abandoned critical work to come down early before dinner for a drink. Not to see the return of the infuriating, beautiful Maria Galtero, home after a four-month tour abroad. He swirled his stemmed glass, the decorative lines of the crystal refracting the firelight, showcasing a fine Bordeaux blend imported from France. He leaned back in the wing chair tucked in a corner of Domingo Galtero’s family parlor, a swanky room crowded with art déco furniture, Turkish kilim rugs, original artwork, and a grand piano. And too many damned people, not one of them Maria.
The spring weather at El Ocaso remained cool into early evening, so a fire blazed in the huge, ornate fireplace a few feet away. The heat, along with the crowd, tested Benjamin’s patience. Domingo, the family patriarch, and his wife Bernice liked to put on the Ritz, and the numerous uncles, aunts, and cousins, along with a diverse mix of friends and acquaintances, converged on the main house for a free meal every Saturday night. The primary Galtero estate, built in the mid-1800s by Domingo’s great-grandfather had been expanded and passed down to the eldest son each generation, eventually becoming the heart of a dozen other structures, each built over time to accommodate the expanding Galtero dynasty.
Benjamin shifted and ran a finger along under his starched collar, wishing someone would open the French patio doors to allow in a breeze. He found Southern California's early spring more temperate than San Francisco’s chilly climate, and downright tropical compared to his family’s ranch in Montana.
His team accepted the hospitality of the area’s biggest landowners whenever they traveled south to map the potential routes for controlling Orange County’s rivers and creeks during the rainy season, in part because their plans required land parcel acquisitions of the Galteros' extensive property, large areas which remained undeveloped. Tonight, Benjamin’s muscles ached from spending the day in a saddle, an irony which did not escape him since he’d been born to ride a horse. Only in his early thirties, he felt twice his age. If they saw him tonight, his brothers would laugh themselves silly. All it took to go soft? Live in the city and work behind a desk. Nonetheless, he remained content with his decision to trade life on a ranch for a professional one in the city. Life was more interesting if one stayed open to change and opportunity.
“Oh, that’s just aces!” someone exclaimed.
Across the room, his fellow engineers Larry and John flirted with a couple of the lovely Galtero cousins, Domingo’s nieces. Meanwhile, Benjamin brooded over Galtero’s daughter, who hadn’t entered the room yet. Where was she? Dinner was due to be served shortly. Not that it mattered when she arrived. Their last encounter ended in a pointless disagreement about man’s relationship to nature. Benjamin refrained from philosophical discussions, which he’d despised even in his university days. They struck him as self-indulgent exercises, people pontificating on abstractions that went nowhere and accomplished nothing. How Maria Galtero lured him into these arguments so easily gobsmacked him, rousing his rare temper. Arguments paled in contrast to her kisses, which roused something else entirely.
Laughter from the young people caught his attention. His guys viewed staying at El Ocaso a vacation. The meals were excellent, the liquor top-shelf, and the female company easy on the eyes. But as the senior engineer, Benjamin had to maintain a professional demeanor. He would finalize the negotiations on the land Domingo and his brothers ceded to the county for managing the flow of the San Juan and Trabuco Creeks. Benjamin didn’t want decisions influenced by personal relationships or favors, including any related to Galtero’s confounding daughter.
He stretched his legs, sipped his wine. This isolated chair had become his preferred retreat during each visit, giving him a clear view of the room and its occupants, but making conversation with him awkward. Anyone wanting to chat had to stand over him or stoop to carry on a discussion, which they didn’t do often during social time. Ben obsessed over his work, inevitably turning casual encounters into highly technical discussions about modern civil engineering. Forced into topics of cement formulas and construction schedules resulted in even Domingo making excuses to circulate into other conversations. Ben had many skills, none of them social.
Consequently, Ben suspected Maria’s attempts to engage with him—private flirtations inevitably turning into arguments, and then kisses—were motivated by her need to be worshipped by every man in a room, rather than by a genuine interest in him or his ideas. Where was she? Waiting for everyone to assemble before making a grand entrance? Well, he, for one, wasn’t waiting for her arrival. He had more important things to think about than getting balled up over a bearcat.
“Maria’s brought back some aristo from France. He acts like she’s the bee’s knees.”
His ears pricked up to gossip about Maria by the fireplace.
“What did her parents say?”
“They’re relieved Tía Paloma chaperoned her on the trip. She’s maturing fast.”
Benjamin frowned. Unconventional and a reprobate flirt herself, how effectively could Paloma protect and guide someone like Maria?
“I think Domingo and Bernice want to see Maria marry sooner than later,” one of the women said.
“She’s only twenty.”
“Yes, but Maria’s one of those people who attracts male attention, not all of it well-intentioned. She’s independent like her aunt, but she can’t tell a no-goodnick from a darb.”
They smirked, and Benjamin found himself scowling at them. Naïve? No. Inexperienced? Yes. A society gal sheltered too much by her parents.
“Well, I don’t think she’ll marry the Frenchman,” the first woman predicted.
“Why not?”
The women dropped their voices and moved away from the fireplace, leaving Benjamin to speculate darkly over the idea Maria had returned from Europe with a beau.
The wind rattled the glass in the window next to him, reminding him of his true purpose, work. Santa Anas swept in late afternoon, howling and whipping hot through the canyons. A reminder of the uncivilized power of nature, but not as dangerous as the impending heavy rain coming, threatening flooding and landslides. In Ben’s experience, water was more powerful than wind. Wind trampled through like marauding warriors, leaving wreckage behind, but water moved like an invading army, breaching walls, infiltrating everything, and then lingering long afterwards, changing a landscape forever. He studied the room—its Goya and Sorolla paintings, Duke Ellington’s upbeat “Three Little Words” playing softly on the electric turntable, people decked out in evening wear, conversing politely—all a refuge from the natural threats outside. Suddenly, he felt stifled by its restraint and good manners.
At that moment, Maria flowed into the room with a flourish, wearing a floor-length gown which swirled gracefully around her ankles. Benjamin couldn’t look away. The dress floated, a layered, gauzy pink garment trimmed with roses, framing a plunging neckline. A velvet ribbon cinched her small waist, before trailing down along one hip, accenting her feminine figure. His fingers itched to pull it loose. She looked like a goddess—the midnight black hair, smooth olive skin, gold-flecked brown eyes, an aquiline nose, and sensual lips the color of the blooms on her dress. He wanted to trace the edges of the neckline down into the shadows between her breasts. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he understood why his father had married his society mother, despite the unsuitability of the life he offered her on the ranch. A life Benjamin had rejected, as well.
As always, he sensed the fire inside Maria, under sleek sophistication. She chattered to the fellow at her side, a lean man of middling height, wearing a cropped dinner jacket, white linen vest, and matching satin tie. Benjamin scowled, thinking the guy looked like a fop. Must be the Frenchman. He carried a broad, flat object wrapped in paper over to the piano for Maria and set it down.
“Papa! Mama! Come see the gift Pierre and I brought you from Europe.”
Domingo guided his statuesque wife, Bernice, to the piano. Everyone else, except Benjamin, gravitated over as well.
“I wonder whether it might be a painting,” Domingo teased.
Everyone chuckled.
Maria wore her passion for art like the glittering diamond necklace around her neck.
“A wonderful painting, Papa. It’s not Spanish, but it’s a masterpiece. You’ll want to hang it in the gallery.”
“Not one of yours, then,” joked one of the endless cousins whose names Benjamin didn’t attempt to remember. He repressed the urge to punch the guy. Ben had viewed some of Maria’s paintings—which hung in other rooms—and recognized her talent. Though he’d been part of these dinners several times in the past, he’d never heard anyone pay Maria’s art a compliment in his presence.
Maria laughed along with everyone else, but her response sounded forced to Benjamin, hinting the comment had slighted her feelings. She had a delightful laugh. Maria’s musical voice, it stroked his skin, making a light shiver run down the back of his neck. No mystery why he got sucked into her philosophical challenges. Anything to continue listening to the lilting cadence of her speaking.
Mrs. Galtero untied the string and pulled apart the paper.
A few people gasped. Some females giggled.
“Is that a Henry Scott Tuke?” inquired a slender male cousin, sounding utterly delighted.
From his position, Benjamin couldn’t see the painting. Now he wished he’d stood to have a look, as Domingo refolded the paper, hiding the image.
“Why doesn’t everyone make their way into the dining room?” Maria’s mother suggested as she led them out of the room.
Domingo caught his daughter by the wrist, keeping her in the room. The young fop who’d arrived with her hesitated, glanced back, but she waved him on. He shrugged, a Gallic gesture, and abandoned Maria to face her father’s displeasure alone.
As she faced her father, tilting her chin up defiantly, prepared for a fight, Benjamin suppressed a smile. She couldn’t have been more than a few inches over five feet, weighing in around a hundred pounds. Her father towered over her. How did two tall people produce such a petite child? She might not have their height, but she had their stubborn natures.
“Nude boys on a boat? Is this what passes for fine art now?” Domingo chided her.
Maria flattened her lips. “It’s by an important artist, which I acquired at an amazing price.”
Her father sighed, rubbing his forehead.
“I said find art for our home. We can’t put something like this on our walls. It’s…unnatural.”
Maria crossed her arms. “How is a painting of boys swimming au natural perverted?”
She glanced at Benjamin, suggesting she knew he remained, but turned her gaze back to her father as if she hadn’t seen him. Domingo seemed unaware of Benjamin.
“I understand you’re young, but there’s something…inappropriate…about the painting,” he said. “You witnessed everyone’s reaction. It’s not an innocent painting of boys—who are not swimming—but one of young men lounging on a boat. Naked. Together.”
“So?” She threw up her hands. “They are sunbathing. My cousins go skinny-dipping at the water hole all the time. How is that offensive?”
“Trust me. The painting represents more than innocent sunbathing and swimming. Did Pierre, who followed you home like a stray dog, talk you into buying it?” The inflection in Domingo’s voice was no more admiring of the man than the painting.
“Papa, the nude body is a form of beauty.”
“Is that what your tour taught you? I thought your tía Paloma had better judgement than to take you around to see pictures of naked people. It’s not proper for a young woman.” He glowered down at her. “You had better not be thinking of painting them yourself.”
“I’m not any young woman, Papa. I’m an artist.”
“You will stick to your little landscapes. No daughter of mine is going to paint…pornography.”
She whirled away from her father, stomping to the glass doors facing the terrace. Benjamin stifled amusement at the light, almost fairy-like sound her feet made on the thick carpets. Maria entranced him, taking his mind off his aching muscles. The last few times he’d been at the estate, she’d been in Europe. He’d gotten lots of work done without her distracting presence, but being here hadn’t been as interesting.
“Pierre admires my paintings,” Maria huffed, crossing her arms over her enticing chest again. Benjamin noted Maria—silhouetted against the dark glass—had inherited her mother’s curves, if not her height.
“Ah, Mr. Carver, I didn’t realize you were still in the room,” Domingo said, dry humor and impatience threading his voice.
Benjamin held up his nearly empty glass of wine. He hoped Domingo hadn’t caught him ogling his daughter.
“Apologies, Mr. Galtero. I wanted to finish this excellent Bordeaux before dinner. Once you started your debate, I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Domingo narrowed his eyes. “You’re our guest,” he replied. “I’ve told you to call me Domingo. You would not be interrupting to excuse yourself from a private family disagreement.”
Benjamin stood, knowing he had better make his exit now or incur the wrath of someone with whom he was supposed to be building positive business ties.
Mischief flashing in his eyes, Domingo held up his hand. “Wait. Since you’re here, maybe you’d like to explain to Maria why the painting she brought home is unacceptable to hang in a good Catholic home.”
Benjamin almost groaned out loud, as Maria took up position at the doors. Resigned to face punishment for his eavesdropping, he moved towards the piano as Domingo flipped open the loose wrapping. Older than Maria and his fellow engineers, Benjamin was struck by the thought that during the past year, he’d been fortunate enough to earn the man’s respect. Uncertain why Domingo tested him now, he took his time studying the artwork.
The painting depicted a boat, anchored in calm water, with four young men in various states of undress. Benjamin had taken an art history course while studying for his engineering degree, and therefore recognized the quality of the work. The hazy strokes, soft highlights, and sensual lines of the naked bodies did not make one think of a bunch of older boys exuberantly—or innocently—spending an afternoon swimming and sunbathing. The painting would be best appreciated hanging in a North Beach resident’s home. Perhaps he’d give Domingo the name of a few prominent San Franciscans who’d be interested in acquiring the work. Help find a new home for the art, make himself amenable to his host. Infuriate Maria.
Few people could afford this painting. In Benjamin’s opinion, rich people wasted money on decorative art, and the Galteros were no different. The country had recently come out of a depression, in which folks lost their homes, their farms, their cattle, even their lives. Meanwhile, wealthy people traveled abroad and spent thousands on painted canvases to hang on their walls, money that could feed the hungry. The difference between his own hard-scrabble ranching background and the Galteros’ vast wealth struck him.
Benjamin glanced over at Maria and then back at her father.
“I believe it’d be inappropriate for me to discuss the meaning of the painting with your daughter. But I might know of some art aficionados in San Francisco who would be interested in buying it.”
Domingo’s eyes lit up. “At a profit?”
Benjamin nodded.
“You can’t sell it,” Maria cried. “It’s priceless!” She hurried across the room to rejoin them at the piano, pushed past them, and re-wrapped the painting with surprising efficiency. “I’ll hang it in my room.”
Domingo stopped her efforts by laying a firm hand across her arm.
“Maria, dear, be reasonable. This painting is unsuitable. It is most definitely inappropriate for a young girl’s room. Visit a gallery in Laguna and find a seascape to buy. Or one of those modern pieces claiming to be art a child could paint. A yellow circle in a square of blue. Or, better, I will let you spend whatever we sell this painting for on some gowns.”
Benjamin shifted, ready to escape the room as father and daughter glared at each other.
“Or you could donate the profits to charity,” he murmured. If someone’s eyes could light on fire, Maria’s blazed into an inferno as she turned on him. How did he stumble into these altercations with her?
“Let me guess…” She looked him up and down, inspecting his pressed business suit, the closest thing he had to eveningwear. “You don’t appreciate art?”
“Maria,” her father chastised. “We’re never rude to our guests.”
Benjamin tipped his head. “I shouldn’t have commented. I apologize.”
Maria pursed her lips.
“Mr. Carver and I have already discovered we disagree on everything.”
“I didn’t realize you’d had many conversations,” her father mused. His eyes narrowed as he looked back and forth between Benjamin and his daughter with interest.
Benjamin held his tongue. If Domingo knew how many times he and Maria had interacted during previous visits, he might develop ideas about the two of them, ideas Benjamin did not want him to have.
“Mr. Carver, won’t you escort my daughter to dinner while I store this painting?”
Benjamin adopted a polite smile. His visits had been far simpler while Maria toured Europe. Now that she was home, his visits became complicated again.
“Ladies, first.” Benjamin gestured for Maria to precede him out of the room, taking care to keep a respectful distance. He had no interest in a young, spoiled rich heiress. It would be best if both Domingo and Maria believed that. Better yet if he believed it himself.