Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

the area’s perimeter. Waiters were setting candles on the outdoor tables of a small café, and shopkeepers were turning their signs from abierto to cerrado.

“Ah, that’s better,” Ana said, smiling. “Now I want to hear the rest.”

“As you wish, but we can’t rest here long if we want to find a good place to watch the sunset.” She asked for five more minutes, and he went on with the story. “My grandmother’s family had lived in Pamplona for generations. Julieta Luz Navarro was a student too— at Universidad de Pamplona. Summer classes were being held, but there had always been a short break during the festival. Girls weren’t allowed much freedom in those days, and their honor—we’d call it ‘reputation’— was fiercely protected. Granny told me that she and her friends had to wangle opportunities to shed their chaperones and do what youth needs to do.

“One evening during the festival she and her friends made up some story that allowed them to get out for a while to watch all the foreigners and other young people partying in the plazas and bars. That same evening Alex was also wandering around and stopped to rest on a bench at the edge of the fountain in Parque de Taconera. The group of three young women strolled by, and the long black hair and graceful movement of the girl on the right drew his attention. He called out to them and asked where in the neighborhood he could get a good cheap meal. They strolled back to him, and the group struck up a conversation. His eyes continued to drift back to the black-haired girl with the dark penetrating eyes. She spoke just enough English for him to understand what she said. He didn’t know Spanish— just learned a few tourist basics I guess.”

“I can see this story is headed for romance.” Ana reached over and patted Ben’s arm. “I do love a romance,” she said, “and I feel a little guilty now for not having read anything you’ve written before I came to interview you. But the piece was to be about you, not a book, per se.” Ben didn’t respond, and for a moment Ana wondered if she had offended him. “Just listening to this first bit of the story tells me that you’re an exceptional story teller. The words flow as if you were actually writing, not just conversing.”

Ben glanced sideways and grinned. “You’re good for my ego. After all these years I might be guilty of embellishing the story a bit— but not the facts.” He stopped to visually scrutinize the surrounding area. “You know, it’s probably not a good idea to be wandering around after dark in an unfamiliar town. I haven’t seen any taxis around here.” Ben got up and held out his hand, a signal they should go. “I think the Puente Nuevo is the place to be when the sun goes down, plus it’s close to the hotel. We’d better get a move on.”

“Don’t walk too fast to talk. I want the whole story… but you can give me a condensed version,” she said, trying to keep up. “But I assume you’ll draw it out in your book—however you plan to use it and whenever you write it. It’s amazing that you remember details like the name of the fountain where they met.”

“If you’d heard the story told as many times as I did growing up, you’d remember too. As they got older they loved to tell it at family gatherings. We could see it pleased them, so we gladly listened.” He paused then added, “I don’t think people ever tire of the great love stories— fictional or historical.”

“Or current?” Ana said, giving him a provocative look. Ben winked at her then stopped to lean against a building, but she took his hand and pulled him along. “Come on. We’re losing light… and I never tire of love stories either, so get on with it.”

“Okay! Now try to picture it. As the girls turned to leave, Alex summoned his courage, reached out, and touched her gently on the arm. She turned back with a questioning expression. He spoke slowly and asked if she could meet him later in the Plaza de Castillo, because he’d like to talk to her. He complimented her on her knowledge of English. She rolled her eyes as if to say that if he chose to come to Spain, he should be speaking her language. She said her plans were uncertain, but that perhaps she would end up in the plaza. She warned him that it would be very crowded and noisy, that several popular bars bordered the plaza. She added that Ernest Hemingway often attended the festival and that Alex might catch a glimpse of him in one of his favorite haunts, if he knew what the man looked like.

“Alex reluctantly left her and found his way back to the seedy guesthouse. His friend was a bit better, but not well enough to run for his life, and wouldn’t be for another couple of days. Excited at the thought that the black-haired girl might actually appear, he cleaned himself up and hurried through the cobblestone streets to the plaza. All types of people, young and old, were engaged in revelry of some sort. It was difficult to believe that the Festa de San Fermín had begun as a religious observance.

“He waited first in front of the Café Bar Torino, hoping for a glimpse of Hemingway, but concluded it was too early in the evening. He strolled the perimeter of the plaza and looked into two more bars for the same purpose. He didn’t find Hemingway or Julieta, so he walked to the center of the plaza, gazing into the groups of people milling around, and finally he saw her standing demurely at the edge of the crowd. He approached, and when she spotted him she smiled. They spent that evening together, and the next, and the next.

“At one point, in