fashionista_35

Provided, of course, that LJ doesn't blow up in the meantime. Because really, isn't that how it always goes?

And Margo Candela's winner is... (drumroll, please)

Sandra L. from Fullerton, CA!!

Congrats, Sandra!

In the meantime, since I have no upcoming books to promote *sob* I decided, in the New Year's spirit of the tour to post a chapter from my current baby, Between Here & Gone (AKA, the sixties story for regular blog followers), that takes place appropriately enough, on New Year's Eve. The rest is pretty much as it's been throughout the blog tour. At the end of the excerpt I'll ask a question, you answer in the comments section (and it doesn't matter if you're not a regular LJ user, you can still post an answer-- just make sure you sign your name so I have some idea who you are) and I'll pull a winner at random from the correct answers. And since I don't have an upcoming book to promote *sob* this is what I'll be giving away:



Yep, signed copies of both of my books, Adiós to My Old Life and It's Not About the Accent along with a nifty little backpack/bag thingie. And it's insulated! You can use it to carry lunch or the cat food or whatever!

So anyway...

Since the excerpt I'm posting is actually Chapter Five, a little set up: while the majority of this story is set in the United States during 1964-65, this chapter opens in Havana, Cuba, on New Year's Eve, 1958. Just before everything changed, especially for Natalia. Seventeen, a child of privilege, and as confident and deeply, impossibly in love as only a seventeen year-old girl can be.

Oh, and because I don't have a nifty cover, I'll share with you the graphic I made for inspiration, trying to get that elegant mid-sixties vibe:




Five

New Year's Eve 1958

"Oye, Nicolito, shh…"

"You worry too much, Natalia. No one's going to find us here."

"You really imagine we're the only ones with this idea?" I pushed at his dinner-jacketed chest, as if to put some respectable distance between us, but not really. Even though it wasn't cold, the damp breeze coming off the ocean reached even this secluded, banana tree-sheltered niche around the side of the Yacht Club and made me grateful for his body's warmth, especially as he pulled me closer, drawing my hands beneath his jacket until they rested against the smooth, strong length of his back.

"No, not the only ones, not by a long shot, Talia. Just the only ones with this idea who know of this particular spot." His hands caressed my shoulders, left bare by the strapless sweetheart bodice of my gown, his fingertips teasing along my collarbone in a way that trapped my breath and whatever protest might be forming, low in my throat. "Mira, have you ever known anyone to find our secret place? Even those crabs we liberated from the kitchen?"

"Okay, okay... you're right." A high-pitched giggle managed to escape around my quickening breaths, recalling how Nicolito and I, aged ten and seven, had decided in our childish indignation that the poor crabs needed their freedom, so we'd led a covert raid on the nearby kitchen, freeing a number of the beasts from their holding tanks before we'd been discovered and marched, defiant and unrepentant, back to our mothers. Luckily, the cost of a dozen crabs meant next to nothing to either of our families and rather than punished, we'd been petted and indulged for our ingenuity and especially for Nicolito's sense of fairness and justice and most especially, his initiative in executing such a plan. It would serve him well, the mamás and tías commented with satisfied nods as they sipped from their fragrant tacitos de café, when he grew up and became a lawyer and eventually, took over his family's vast business holdings.

Peeking through a nearby window, I imagined I could see the ghosts of our younger selves, slinking along the walls, pestering the staff as we'd been wont to do. Ten years on, we no longer lurked in the corners of the kitchen, hoping for one of the tolerant cooks or waitresses to give us a sweet pastelito or a bowl of fresh, hot mariquita chips before shooing us off, but rather huddled together in the cool,leafy alcove just outside our former haunt, discovered one blistering summer day around the same time we'd discovered that we liked each other as far more than childhood playmates and friends.

"I can't believe you're really going to Paris."

He looked so crestfallen, I drew my hands from his back and raised them to his face, one thumb rubbing at the two small lines between his fine, black brows. He was so beautiful, my Nicolito. Always had been—inside and out.

"Please don't look like that. We've already survived your being in Miami the last two years." Ever since Batista ordered the University closed and Nico had had to find alternate means by which to finish his degree. So horribly unfair, but we had survived and grown even closer for all that. It made the child in me want to stick my tongue out at the idiots who would try to keep us apart.

"Ninety miles and a quick plane trip, Talia. You'll hardly be able to pop home almost every weekend."

"No—" I admitted. "But we will have every holiday break and the summers. I'll visit you or we can both come home or we can even travel. See the world together. Wouldn't that be exciting?"

"With the dueña your parents would insist on hovering over us the entire time?" His eyebrows rose. "Exciting isn't exactly the word that comes to mind, mi amor."

"You know what I mean." I gave his arm a light smack. "We'll find a way. You know I can't be away from you for too long."

"Then why go at all?" His hands were restless, stroking my shoulders, dropping to my waist, then rising again to stroke along the length of my arms before taking my hands in his and lowering them to our sides, gripping them tight. "Or why not go to a school in the United States?"

"Because the Sorbonne has been something I've wanted since I was five." I shifted my hands in his so our fingers were folded tightly together. "Because I need to do this. Need to make this one choice for myself—learn who I am—before we become one."

"You're already part of me, Talia." His thumbs traced light, restless patterns along mine. "You have been since I was six years old."

My heart lurched, recalling the cherished memory: my evil cousin Armando, heartlessly stomping on the sand castle I'd industriously been building and a split second later, landing face first in the ruined pile of sand as a black-haired angel had shoved him out of the way. It was then the angel had knelt beside me to awkwardly wipe at my tears, assuring me that together, we could build a bigger, better castle. One with sharp broken shell pieces across the tops of the walls that would harm any intruders so foolish as to attack a second time.

A moment that had set the stage for how things would be between us.

"You could come to Paris, too," I whispered. "Go to law school there." And even as much as I wanted that, a small, dark part of me was rebelling. Wanted to have this adventure, just for myself. Just this once. I hated the thought of being so far from him and I didn't want anyone else. Ever. But I wanted Paris for myself.

But even as the silent war raged inside me, he was shaking his head, sending relief chasing after hope and rebellion and making me drop my gaze, hoping the shadows would mask the conflict I was certain was reflected in my eyes. "I don't have your gift with languages. English, yes, but I would never be able to handle the demands of law school in French. But you know, on the other hand…." I jerked my head up, fighting the shadows to search his face, hope flaring.

"England? Are you thinking of England?"

He couldn't be. For so long his dream had been the Ivy League. Harvard and Yale and of course, Columbia, since it was in New York, with its skyscrapers and brash attitude that had captured his imagination every bit as much as Paris's quaint buildings and cool elegance had captured mine. To hear that he was willing to give up his dream of New York and the prestige of an Ivy League law school in order to be closer to me?

"I was saving it as a surprise until I knew for certain."

I continued to search his face, looking for signs of any disappointment, any doubt, and finding nothing but a smile and a hopeful expression.

"And… it's certain?

He nodded. "University of London."

"London," I breathed out on a long sigh, desperately trying to envision the map and attempting to recall the distances. Almost immediately giving up because all that mattered was that it was London and it was a world closer to Paris than New Haven or Boston or New York. "I almost can't believe it."

"In all honesty, my father is extremely pleased. Says it will give me the opportunity to gain valuable experience on the continent. Take time to visit some of the businesses in Spain and Portugal." One shoulder lifted in a dismissive shrug. "As far as I'm concerned, that's secondary. What's important is that I'll be closer to you. A little bit more than ninety miles, but so much better than an entire ocean, don't you think?"

I released his hands to once again slide my arms around his waist. Leaning my head on his shoulder, I reached up to press a kiss against the sharp, defined line of his jaw, tasting the bitter, citrusy tang of his aftershave. "Dios mío, Nicolito, that's just made my New Year. You and I, together in Europe."

"Nico."

Slowly, I drew back, just far enough to look up into his face, seeing even in the shadows, the glint of humor in those deep brown eyes and the way the corners of his mouth twitched.

"What?"

"Or Nicolas—whichever you prefer, but not Nicolito. I'm not that little boy anymore, Natalia. And you are no longer that little girl. It's not only the New Year but it's also time for a new phase of our lives."

My heartbeat thundered in my ears as he reached into his jacket pocket with one hand as the other drew my left hand from around his waist. I couldn't even bring myself to look down, keeping my gaze firmly fixed on his face—the beautiful, dear face that I'd watched evolve from boyish softness to determined young man. This had been assumed between us for a very long time—since the days our mothers would tease us for being such an inseparable pair as children to some time in the last few years, where we'd gradually seen each other in the light of growing adulthood. Where each separation had become more difficult yet made each reunion that much sweeter. Where we'd tentatively explored those new aspects of our relationship—the soft, tender, increasingly heated moments that no longer allowed for teasing from the families and rather, shifted to a quiet anticipation coupled with the occasional warning from everyone from our mothers to not embarrass them, por favor, to the priests and the nuns, admonishing us to be careful and remember that we were God's children first.

"I spoke with your father earlier today. I believe he was actually hoping that I'd be able to convince you to get married this spring or summer, before I started law school, so that we could be settled and on our way out of the country." His expression grew somber as he gazed down at me. "Especially with things the way they are."

With Fidel, I knew he meant. It seemed you couldn't pass a radio these days without hearing at least a snatch of the crackly pirate broadcasts from the Sierra Maestra or coming across the old people discussing his latest fiery rhetoric and what move he might make next—discussions that would fall ominously silent the minute my brother or I walked into a room, the radio stations abruptly changed. But mira, this was Cuba. When had things ever been settled? Political turmoil was almost as much a national sport as béisbol. Someone was always trying to overthrow someone else.

"Do you really think it could be a problem?" I wanted my adventure, true, but I wanted the things I held most dear, my family and my home, to remain the same. To be there at the end of the day.

"I don't know."

He lifted his head, glanced around quickly and when he spoke, his voice was even softer than before. "Before, it's always been a case of favors exchanged and money promised and our lives and businesses could go on as before, but listening to our fathers and my tíos, they truly feel there is something different about Fidel. So many think he's some sort of savior."

True. Just from the little I'd seen and heard, el comandante definitely seemed cut from a different cloth—his belief in Cuba unwavering and fervent and definitely contagious among the masses. All of them. For the first time, I felt a hint of fear, twisting low in my stomach.

"Do you want to get married right away, then?"

"Only if you'd want to." His smile was so understanding, I felt a twinge of guilt pricking my conscience. "And I know you don't. Not yet. Last thing I want is for you to feel as if I kept you from living your dream. We don't have to be married for me to take care of you, Natalia—the way I always have. So I told him we could wait—that there was no need to rush. I wasn't wrong to say that, was I?" His hand trembled slightly over mine, hiding what I knew rested on the third finger, as if he was waiting for my assurance.

"You are my most precious gift." I lifted my right hand to his face, my fingertips tracing the outline of his full lips, up along his cheekbones, the feathery tips of his lower lashes teasing my skin. "I love you so much, my Nicolas."

He turned his head, his lips brushing against my palm as he murmured, "So that's a yes?"

"You know it's been yes since I was three." As he lifted my other hand to his lips, I finally caught my first glimpse of the elegant ring he'd placed there—a brilliant diamond I recognized as once belonging to his grandmother. As multifaceted and beautiful as the future he was promising me.

"I know I shouldn't ask this." Both of his hands had moved to frame my face, his fingers tangling in the loose waves of my hair. "It's completely inappropriate and God knows it's a sin but you're so beautiful and I've wanted you for so long—"

"Shh…" I put my fingers to his lips. "How could it possibly be a sin for us?"

"But we will have the rest of our lives." Yet with each word, he drew me closer still, his hands stroking agitated circles low on my back until nothing remained between us beyond layers of fabric and heat and perhaps the merest breath of air.

"We also have tonight. Like you said—a new year and a new phase of our lives, Nicolas. Together."
"Natalia—"

**

"Natalie—"

I glanced up from the compact's small, round mirror to find Mrs. Mercier regarding me with the gentle, amused expression not many were privileged to see. "Darlin', I doubt any nose could shine quite so much."

"I—" Had been drifting. Again. A far too frequent occurrence of late. The nightmares were one thing—an expected burden to be endured, but these daydreams were of another ilk altogether. Memories, so long suppressed, had been fighting their way to the surface, crowding each other in their eagerness to catch me unawares—leave me shaken. Like now, where I was gripping the compact so tightly, I could feel the metal edge cutting into my gloved hand, and still, the tremors continued, just beneath the skin, leaving behind a prickly, brittle feeling. As if the slightest touch would cause me to shatter.

"I have no idea why you're so concerned. You look lovely." Mrs. Mercier gently snapped the compact closed. "And besides, we're here."

Here, of course, being Greg and Constance Barnes' apartment at which the elevator had arrived during the time I'd ostensibly been powdering my nose. As we stepped from the elevator and into a large, marble-floored foyer, I murmured, "It was very kind of the Barnes to send their car for us—not to mention the invitation. At least where I'm concerned."

Mrs. Mercier paused on the elevator's threshold and fixed me with a level gaze. "They're an unusual couple, Greg and Constance. Utterly without pretension, which is rare. Doubly so when you take into consideration their backgrounds."

"Indeed," I replied, looking away and busying myself with slipping the compact into my black satin evening clutch. It wasn't that I didn't believe Mrs. Mercier or respect her opinion, but more that in my own experience, lacking in pretension came in two primary flavors—that which was genuine and that which was studied. Usually, the latter was reasonably easy to spot, what with its shiny uniformity, the lack of nuance, but there were always some who were capable of making it appear natural. Until I could ascertain for myself where the Barneses fell, I would do well to remain on guard. The last thing I needed—or would stand for—was to feel like someone's pet project for the holidays.

But then again—why else would I be here? I couldn't deny that even amidst my growing excitement for the impending evening that one question had hovered around the edges of my mind. Muffled, perhaps, but nevertheless insistent, like a distant drumbeat. Why? Why invite someone like me? To be the poor young lady on whom the wealthy benefactor had taken pity for some mysterious reason? Little Orphan Annie to Daddy Warbucks? Introducing her to a world beyond all her imaginings?

No— ay… no. I needed to leave. Now. Right now. The longer I stood there, the more the mellow light given off by the antique light fixtures faded, the soft shadows they cast appearing to grow deeper, swallowing the cream-colored walls until I felt smothered, surrounded the way I'd been by that ink dark, midnight water, my lungs burning as I fought to get to shore. To the unimaginable life I now claimed as my own. I no longer belonged here—in places like this. I needed to get out. Needed to escape—

"Ladies, your coats?"

My surroundings swept around me with an almost audible rush and settled themselves back into the warmly lit, luxurious foyer where Mrs. Mercier and a uniformed maid stood poised beside the door to a coat room, both gazing at me with expectant smiles. With the discipline honed over the past several years, I steadied my breathing and schooled my features into a carefully neutral expression as I began working at the three oversized rhinestone buttons holding my coat closed. As I slipped it off my shoulders, Mrs. Mercier said in the genteel drawl maintained with twice-yearly visits back to New Orleans, "I know I already said it once, but truly, that is a stunning ensemble, Natalie."

I glanced up, pleasantly surprised. "Thank you." Even though the Pauline Trigére coat and dress were hardly what I'd walked into the consignment store determined to find. That splurge which could still be justified because it would absolutely have to fall within the practical parameters that so firmly ruled my life these days. However, my subconscious clearly had other ideas. It at least served as a convenient excuse to explain how the mannequin modeling the vibrant turquoise wool coat with the rhinestones scattered across the shoulders and bodice had immediately captured my fancy, drawing me closer, each step around the dais revealing more of the dress beneath the coat, velvet folds the exact color of rich cream tinged with the faintest hint of blush rose. Together, the coat and dress combination brought to mind that precise moment where the sun rose above the horizon, brightening both sky and water from nighttime darkness and teasing the beach with that same, exact rosy hue. Naturally leading my memory to envision the shadows cast by the palm trees and the gentle rustling of breezes weaving through the fronds that had once greeted me every morning.
In the store, at that moment, that was as practical as I needed to be.

And yet, I could still stand here and be honestly mystified as to why the memories had seemed so much more vivid and insistent of late. It was difficult to determine whether I was a special brand of masochist or merely a fool.

Now, I could only send up a fervent prayer that the ensemble hadn't once belonged to tonight's guests—or if it had, that they wouldn't have the poor taste to say anything. For a fleeting moment I desperately wished I'd stuck to my original plan of the classic anonymity of the little black dress. What could I have been thinking, choosing such a distinctive dress and coat? However, catching a glimpse of myself in the elevator door's mirrored surface, brushing a fingertip along the sparkling aurora borealis crystals of my earrings, I recanted the thought. Staring into the wavy, slightly distorted reflection was like staring into a portal—a crack in time—and wasn't that just what I'd wanted? To shed that anonymity with which I'd cloaked myself—to remember who I'd been, if only for a few hours?

Yes, I would have to imagine that special brand of masochist was definitely winning out over mere fool. Suppressing a sigh, I turned away from the girl I'd been and peeled off my gloves, tucking them into a pocket of the coat.

"You know…" Once again, I glanced up to find Mrs. Mercier studying me with a narrow-eyed stare—somewhat akin to the expression she'd wear when weighing the merits of various cuts of meat on delivery day. "As much as I love this coat, it's the dress that's simply superb—it's absolute perfection on you, bringing out all this red I never even realized you had your hair. And I love seeing you wearing it down like this. Altogether you look trés elegant and if you'll forgive my saying so, younger. It's nice to see you like this, petit."

I felt a blush rising from the dramatic portrait neckline framing my shoulders as Mrs. Mercier took my coat and handed it off along with her own full-length silver fox to the maid with an absent thank you and proceeded to fuss about me like a mother hen, brushing an errant strand of hair into place among the loose, side-parted waves before she tucked my arm in hers and led the way through the ornate double doors, already standing open, the muted, polite sounds of conversation and tinkling crystal beckoning me into the unknown, yet oh, so familiar.

Rarely had I ever been so terrified.

Between Here and Gone Copyright © 2009 Barbara Caridad Ferrer

So, that's it and I truly hope you enjoyed it. This story is so, so special to me. It's another one of those stories of my heart. Anyhow, my trivia question for you:

What dream school did Nico give up in order to attend the University of London?

Remember, answer in the comments and if you're not an LJ member, answer anyway, just make sure to sign your name. I'll pull a winner at random and it'll be announced on tomorrow's blog stop, Gabriella Hewitt.

Thanks so much for stopping by!