As they walked, Raul noticed her profile, appreciating its perfection; for a moment, it was as if he were strolling with her years before, a few days after their wedding. She had worn another simple white dress then. Those June days had been free of emotional conflict, threat of trouble, and hatred of father for son. Or so it seemed now, looking back.
"It's nice that Caterina's feeling better," Angelina said.
"Yes, it is nice," Raul said, hoping their daughter would continue to improve.
"I still wonder what made her so ill in Guadalajara. I think I did the right thing to bring her here; goodness knows she wanted to come. It takes so much care to bring a child around," she said with peculiar warmth.
"It's a month till school starts; she'll be fine by then," Raul said.
"Of course she will," Angelina agreed. It seemed to her that without their two children she would have fled years before to any city, any place where there were people, theaters, entertainment. Here, at the hacienda, children were the best of life. She had wanted more, until Lucienne had changed her mind. She tried to shake Lucienne from her thoughts—the beautiful auburn hair and smiling face.
She felt the loneliness of this garden and its volcanic shadow. A gleam of the broad lagoon—moon whitened—chilled her. Guadalajara had companionship to offer, relatives, friends, lights in shop windows, lights in homes, pretty parks.
"Is Chico better?" she asked, righting for a better mood.
"Yes, his leg's better. He'll be all right."
Though Chico was his favorite horse, she said, in spite of herself: "I wish he had broken his leg."