finca and drove out of the mountains to the main road, then through the Morna valley to the main road. He went through Santa Eulalia and picked up the highway to Ibiza. Halfway there, he took a right-hand fork that led to San Antonio Abad. A mile down he turned off to a small finca set back off the road.
There were two cars in the yard, one of them Kate’s old blue Citröen, the other a fairly new American Ford station wagon. Hob parked. Already he was feeling all funny in the stomach. That was how he got around Kate.
She was running out of the house and into the yard before he got the car door closed.
“Hob! How wonderful!”
She still looked good. To be accurate, she looked better than ever, wearing a colorful sundress low off the shoulders, her blond hair, dark and gold and gleaming white at the ends, fluffed out and floating in the breeze.
Hob took a deep breath. Easy, boy, he told himself. She always did have your number.
“Hi, Kate. I was passing by, thought I’d drop in, see how you were.”
She was a woman of medium height, in her early forties, a sweet face, a smile like a sunburst. Putting on a little weight now but still looking better than good. She exuded that strange odor that memories have, the dark musky kind that are as impossible as they are irresistible. A girl who could model sunshine—that’s what he’d called her once upon a time.
“Well, come on in!”
She lead him into the house, a small, modern bungalow. A man stepped out onto the little porch: tall, thin, muscular, small mustache, neat little feet in black moccasins, stylish white clothes, annoyed look on a spoiled brown face.
“Hob, this is Antonio Moreno. I don’t know if you know each other. Señor Vargas is a painter who has come here from Madrid. He’s quite well known. I know you don’t follow art much, but perhaps you heard of his mural of the dead horses in the Gallery Montjuich? They created quite a stir. Señor Vargas has agreed to show me some of his work. I’m working as an agent now for Madras Gallery in La Peña. We’re hoping Señor Vargas will let us have some of his paintings on consignment. Señor Vargas, this is Hob Draconian, my ex-husband.”
“Harya,” Hob snarled.
“ Encantado ,” Vargas sneered.
Kate explained to Vargas, “I really need a chance to talk to Hob, Señor Vargas. Could you go back to the hotel for those canvasses you promised to show me and return in half an hour or so?”
“Yes, of course,” Moreno said sourly. He left in the American Ford.
Kate led Hob to the comfortable back veranda and poured iced tea for them both. “The children are off in Switzerland with Derek. They’ll be disappointed to hear you were here and they didn’t see you. Hob, you’re looking tired.”
“Lack of success is fatiguing,” Hob told her. He didn’t ask about Derek. Manfully, he resisted asking her whether there was anything between her and Vargas beyond dead horses. She wouldn’t tell him, anyway.
“The agency isn’t going well?”
“It’s going fine, just not making much money.”
“Maybe things will pick up,” Kate said.
Hob nodded, looking away. The sight of Moreno had soured his day, maybe his month. He didn’t like to see any man around Kate, not even Derek, whom she had lived with for almost five years. He knew he was a fool to think anything might ever be possible again between him and Kate. It was time to take care of his business and get back to Paris. And Marielle. Ugh. To quote Rilke, “You must change your life.”
“Look, Kate, I need to ask you about something. Remember those little green glass bottles I used to have? The ones I imported from India back about twenty years ago?”
“Of course I remember,” Kate said. “You used them for the hash oil you were selling.”
Hob winced. “When you and I split up, I left a lot of those empty bottles, along with some other stuff, out in the back shed.”
“You left a lot of junk,” Kate said. “You had piles of
There were two cars in the yard, one of them Kate’s old blue Citröen, the other a fairly new American Ford station wagon. Hob parked. Already he was feeling all funny in the stomach. That was how he got around Kate.
She was running out of the house and into the yard before he got the car door closed.
“Hob! How wonderful!”
She still looked good. To be accurate, she looked better than ever, wearing a colorful sundress low off the shoulders, her blond hair, dark and gold and gleaming white at the ends, fluffed out and floating in the breeze.
Hob took a deep breath. Easy, boy, he told himself. She always did have your number.
“Hi, Kate. I was passing by, thought I’d drop in, see how you were.”
She was a woman of medium height, in her early forties, a sweet face, a smile like a sunburst. Putting on a little weight now but still looking better than good. She exuded that strange odor that memories have, the dark musky kind that are as impossible as they are irresistible. A girl who could model sunshine—that’s what he’d called her once upon a time.
“Well, come on in!”
She lead him into the house, a small, modern bungalow. A man stepped out onto the little porch: tall, thin, muscular, small mustache, neat little feet in black moccasins, stylish white clothes, annoyed look on a spoiled brown face.
“Hob, this is Antonio Moreno. I don’t know if you know each other. Señor Vargas is a painter who has come here from Madrid. He’s quite well known. I know you don’t follow art much, but perhaps you heard of his mural of the dead horses in the Gallery Montjuich? They created quite a stir. Señor Vargas has agreed to show me some of his work. I’m working as an agent now for Madras Gallery in La Peña. We’re hoping Señor Vargas will let us have some of his paintings on consignment. Señor Vargas, this is Hob Draconian, my ex-husband.”
“Harya,” Hob snarled.
“ Encantado ,” Vargas sneered.
Kate explained to Vargas, “I really need a chance to talk to Hob, Señor Vargas. Could you go back to the hotel for those canvasses you promised to show me and return in half an hour or so?”
“Yes, of course,” Moreno said sourly. He left in the American Ford.
Kate led Hob to the comfortable back veranda and poured iced tea for them both. “The children are off in Switzerland with Derek. They’ll be disappointed to hear you were here and they didn’t see you. Hob, you’re looking tired.”
“Lack of success is fatiguing,” Hob told her. He didn’t ask about Derek. Manfully, he resisted asking her whether there was anything between her and Vargas beyond dead horses. She wouldn’t tell him, anyway.
“The agency isn’t going well?”
“It’s going fine, just not making much money.”
“Maybe things will pick up,” Kate said.
Hob nodded, looking away. The sight of Moreno had soured his day, maybe his month. He didn’t like to see any man around Kate, not even Derek, whom she had lived with for almost five years. He knew he was a fool to think anything might ever be possible again between him and Kate. It was time to take care of his business and get back to Paris. And Marielle. Ugh. To quote Rilke, “You must change your life.”
“Look, Kate, I need to ask you about something. Remember those little green glass bottles I used to have? The ones I imported from India back about twenty years ago?”
“Of course I remember,” Kate said. “You used them for the hash oil you were selling.”
Hob winced. “When you and I split up, I left a lot of those empty bottles, along with some other stuff, out in the back shed.”
“You left a lot of junk,” Kate said. “You had piles of
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