“She will,” Libby assured him, but she wouldn’t promise he’d meet her when she doubted Ana would enjoy meeting him.
At lunchtime, she shared a table with Maggie. Joe came to sit with them, still carrying the tabloid. “Have you seen this? Libby says you both know Ana.”
Maggie hurriedly read the article. “We know her. Alejandro looks a little like Santos, don’t you think, Libby?”
Libby studied the photo between bites of salad. “How can you tell? He looks as though he’s telling the paparazzi to go to hell, but he’s still a handsome man.”
“He’s got the looks and the money, but I doubt he can play basketball worth a damn,” Joe interjected.
“Do you still have her number?” Maggie asked. “Maybe you ought to call and ask how she’s feeling.”
“You have her number?” Joe moved his chair closer to Libby. “Do you mind if I listen in?”
“Yes, I do,” Libby replied. She carried her phone out to patio opening off the teachers’ lounge. When Ana answered, she greeted her warmly. “It’s Libby. I’m so glad you’re well enough to answer the phone.”
“Despite what the tabloids print, a broken leg isn’t fatal.”
Libby turned to send Maggie a thumbs-up. “That’s a relief. Maggie and I would love to come visit you.”
“Please don’t. Let’s plan to get together when I’m better.”
Libby leaned against the doorway. “We’ll look forward to it. Is anything the tabloids report true? Have you married Alejandro Ortiz y Vasquez?”
“Yes, and he’s a devoted husband who insists I end our call to rest. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Libby returned to her table. “She did break her leg and got married, although I’m not sure which came first.”
“Well, she’s not going to die,” Joe remarked. “People do get divorces, so there’s still a chance for me if you’ll help me meet her.”
“You mustn’t impose on your friends,” Maggie advised. “It’s a very bad habit.”
“Well, I had to try.” He bit into his sandwich and let the matter drop.
Ana kept hold of her phone. “Libby’s engaged to Santos Aragon. She’s a sweet girl.”
Alejandro knew he’d sound like a jealous ass, but he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “You told me you knew Santos, but the story was too long to tell. We’ve got the whole day.”
She smoothed her hair out of her eyes. “Isn’t there a disaster somewhere—wild fires or floods, a war or famine to discuss?”
“Does Santos belong in such a dismal category?”
“It depends on who you are. All I’ll say is that we were close when his father was ill. Please let it go at that.”
He tried but failed. “It’s difficult to believe a matador could offer much in the way of sympathetic comfort.”
She sat up but quickly collapsed into her pillows. “I’m still dizzy. Maybe I’ll be able to use a wheelchair tomorrow. I’d hate to be carried on board the Siren on a stretcher.” Her phone chimed, and she handed it to him. “Who is it?”
“Speak of the devil, it’s Santos Aragon. Should I leave the room?”
“No, stay. I thought he wasn’t speaking to me, so this ought to be good. “Santos, Libby just called to say hello.”
His voice was hushed, as though he didn’t wish to be overheard. “I wanted to make certain you weren’t near death.”
“That’s very kind of you. Thank you for the beautiful roses. It was thoughtful of you to send them.”
“I’m sorry you were hurt. I hope you know I mean that.”
“Thank you, Santos. Stay well.” She ended the call and kept the phone. “He has his father’s deep voice, but now I know who’s calling.”