Whispered Promises of Love

Miss Dominguez's Christmas Kiss

December 1908

It was Tuesday, and early morning light was streaming bright and clear through the bedroom's sole window, accompanied by a mild December breeze that rattled the leaves of the tropical almond that grew just outside Mrs. Gomez's boarding house. Lourdes had all but finished making her bed, but Marisol, who was supposed to be helping her, stopped every few minutes to tell Lourdes about the latest one in an endless parade of gentlemen who hovered around the perfume counter at La Parisienne in the hopes of flirting with the salesgirls.

"And then I told him," Marisol said, holding back her laughter as she held Lourdes's blanket by one end and waited for Lourdes to get her end straightened out, "but sir, you forgot your handkerchief."

They burst into giggles, to the detriment of the blanket they were folding. They had been roommates at Mrs. Gomez's boarding house for almost seven months and Lourdes could count with one hand the mornings that had gone by without one of Marisol's stories about the people who visited the department store she worked in. The stories were so funny and the cast of characters so peculiar, Lourdes was fairly certain Marisol made up most of them, but listening to her talk was the brightest spot in Lourdes's day.

"I can't imagine Mr. Fernandez was terribly pleased about that," Lourdes said when she'd caught her breath.

Marisol shook her head. "I wouldn't have been surprised if steam had come out of his ears. He would have let me go on the spot but I'm the best salesgirl he's got and he knows it."

"You might be the best salesgirl at La Parisienne but you're the least punctual one," Lourdes said, gesturing towards the clock.

Marisol groaned. "Late again!"

Tugging the crumpled fabric out of Marisol's arms, Lourdes folded it swiftly and placed the bundle at the foot of her narrow bedstead. A typist at Rodriguez & Co., she wasn't scheduled to arrive at the office until half past eight. "Go, you scoundrel. I'll tidy your half of the room before going down to breakfast."

"You're an angel!" Marisol exclaimed.

"Hardly."

"Well, as close to one as a vulgar mortal can be." Marisol glanced at the clock again and snatched her handbag and gloves from the top of the dresser. "It's dashed unladylike but I'll have to run. Time and trams wait for no man!"

"Wait." Lourdes dug into her pocket for a hairpin and motioned Marisol closer. "Mr. Fernandez will have an apoplexy if you're late and untidy."

Though it was tempting to linger over Marisol's springy locks, Lourdes sternly denied herself the indulgence and fixed the wayward strand as quickly and efficiently as she always did, slightly apprehensive, as usual, that something in her touch might betray the fluttering that seemed to invade her whenever she touched Marisol. It was useless to worry about such a thing, she knew. Fixing someone's hair was no more than one might do for a sister, after all, or even a close friend. No one would have any reason to think that there was anything like desire behind the gesture.

Still, Lourdes could not quite forget the way her last close friendship had ended. She hadn't felt about the girl as she felt about Marisol but there must have been something in the way she looked at her—or she might have inadvertently said something improper—because, after years of friendship, Lourdes had found herself summarily cast aside.

Marisol, who came from a family of five sisters, had been casual about touching from the very start of their acquaintance. And Lourdes, who'd learned to keep her hands and eyes to herself, had slowly thawed in the easy warmth of her friendship. To lose her—to have her look at Lourdes the way her other friend had, with uneasiness and suspicion—was unthinkable.