House of Dreams by Brenda Joyce

night.”
    Catherine was no longer making any sense. Cass stared at her aunt, almost gaping, and saw not an elegant older woman in a black Oscar de la Renta tuxedo with a diamond and pearl pin, but someone old and so terribly tired, someone frail and failing. Suddenly her aunt’s wrinkles were striking, when Cass had never noticed them before. Suddenly her blue eyes seemed watery. Suddenly she seemed every bit her age. She was an old woman, and Cass had never realized it before.
    Cass put her arm around her. Tears slipped unbidden down her cheeks. “I’ll do my best,” she lied. She was not going to boot Antonio out. She could never do such a thing. Or could she? If he left, it would be a relief—as far as safeguarding her aunt’s secret went. “It’s late. It’s been a rough day. Don’t worry about anything now, Aunt Catherine, except getting a good night’s sleep.” She could not force a smile, but she hugged her aunt, hard.
    Catherine nodded wearily, leaning against her niece. “Thank you, Cassandra. Thank you. I knew I could trust you.”
    Trust. What a significant word, Cass thought, suddenly weary. As Cass guided her aunt from the room, she finally glanced back at Antonio.
    Their eyes met.
    And then they both looked back at the necklace simultaneously—as if on cue. And this time, when their eyes lifted and met, it was in silent communication.
    Come hell or high water, Cass knew she was going to Spain to see Isabel’s portrait.

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    â€œYou are such a blessing, Cassandra,” Catherine said, clad in an ivory, red, and gold Japanese kimono, her red hair loosened now and hanging about her shoulders. They were in Catherine’s lavishly appointed bedroom. “Why don’t you call The Golden Hart and see if they have a room for Senor de la Barca?”
    Cass stared. “Aunt Catherine,” she said slowly, “this is so unlike you. How can we ask him to leave? He’s Tracey’s guest. Maybe it would be better to just let this play out; he’ll be gone tomorrow anyway.”
    â€œI thought you understood,” Catherine cried.
    Quickly Cass went to her. “Aunt Catherine, do you need a glass of water?”
    Catherine shook her head. “I need a gin and tonic and an aspirin.”
    Cass bit her lip. “I’ll get you the drink if you really want it.” But she did not move. “Aunt Catherine, I’m going crazy with worry. You didn’t really mean what you said earlier, did you?”
    Catherine met her gaze. Then she turned her back on Cass, walking over to the bed but not getting into it. “I made a mistake,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have said a word. And now I am not going to discuss the subject. Not now. Not ever.” She turned, and her face was set.
    Cass’s heart drummed. She had to know what had happened, but she was also frightened for her aunt’s health and did not want to push her now. “Were you lovers?” she asked.
    Catherine’s face changed. She began to shake her head no, and then she covered her face with her hands. “He loved his wife, but even more than he loved her, he loved the past. I loved Robert, I have always loved Robert. Eduardo and I were friends—drawn together by his work.” She did not continue.
    Cass could fill in the blanks. They had begun as friends and had ended up in bed.
    Catherine rubbed her brow. “I had erased this part of my life from my mind. I wish Antonio de la Barca had never come into our lives!” she cried with vehemence.
    Cass stared at her aunt, who was so pale. She hesitated, then asked, “Do we have to worry about criminal prosecution, Aunt Catherine?”
    Catherine looked at her. And she said, “The police said it was an accident.”
    Cass’s heart turned over. What was the meaning of Catherine’s words? Her tone had been strange—as if the police had been