The Lost Angel [BxB]

carmelita

You call yourself a free spirit, a 'wild thing,' and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage.

'Breakfast at Tiffany's'
[Truman Capote]

♡ ♡ ♡

2: CARMELITA

After two weeks of tending to the sunny gardens that surrounded the dusty haunted mansion, Lalo had gotten accustomed to his new routine. Every few days he would cycle into the sleepy village that rested comfortably between the mountains, five miles down the road from the manor. From the bakery, he would buy fresh bread and sweet delicacies like mantecados. He had also taken out a few books from small local library. He read about astronomy and studied the stars at night. Mornings were for making fresh batches of lemonade from the lemon trees that dotted the grounds.

Tackling the garden was a challenge. He had spent the first week rooting out nasty weeds and digging up old plants which had mutated into monstrous beasts. He referred to the dusty old books he had been given by a gardener he had worked under in Madrid. They helped him distinguish between the plants, and decide the layout of the land. He'd been given a lot of freedom by the owners; they didn't know much about plants themselves, so had told him to just "make it look pretty". He could do that.

In his second week, he had trimmed the grass around the gravestones before planting orchids and forget-me-nots. He also tried polishing the smooth stone slabs to make them look more respectable, though the neglect had already caused some damage. He now understood the code to the padlocks. 1893.

Gregorio Hernandez
1841-1893

Maria Hernandez
1846-1893

Frida Hernandez
1873-1893

Salvador Hernandez
1892-1893

He'd heard all sorts of stories about the Hernandez family around the village. They had all been stabbed to death in their beds, including the baby. There was an older son too, but he wasn't home at the time of the murders. The Hernandezs deaths were never solved.

"The son did it."

That's what everyone around town said. He alone inherited every penny as well as the beautiful house his Father had built for the family. It would make sense for his greed to get the better of him, and in a frenzied moment of madness, he killed his parents and siblings in cold blood. Of course, it was only a theory. No one would ever really know what happened that night.

Lalo didn't care about a crime that was committed over a hundred years ago. His only concern was ensuring that their graves were shrouded in dignity and pretty flowers.

He'd also found that the hallowed faces of white stone statues haunted the gardens as well as the house. Moss covered sculptures lurked behind trees, their marble eyes watching from sheltered little alcoves. Ultimately, there was no escape from them. They were everywhere, watching and guarding the property.

There was also a manmade pond, presumably built more recently. A little body of water that sparkled and glimmered in the sun. Wild flowers sprouted through the cracks in the limestone that edged the pond, and stone gargoyles sat beside angels with carefully moulded wings and feathers in their hair. On hot days, Lalo would sit with his feet in the cool water and the sun tingling his skin, eating fresh fruit and reading Philosophy books. He would watch the insects crawl through the cracks of the tiles beneath his feet, and smile as the warm breeze passed through his scruffy hair.

He'd made friends with a cat. A little black thing with shiny button eyes and soft velvety ears. She would lay languorously in the sun with him, watching him work in the garden and purring at his feet. The cat had no collar and rarely left his side, so he concluded that she was a stray. He called her Carmelita, started feeding her every day and letting her sleep at the foot of his bed. Carmelita was his new pet, and only friend.

On one lazy Saturday afternoon, as he neared the end of his second week on the job, Lalo saw a clean black car with tinted windows pull up to the gilded gates. He dropped the heavy shovel he was holding, mindlessly rubbing his blistered hands as he trudged towards the front of the house, where a stranger had exited the car. After unloading his luggage, the cab drove away.

It was a boy, around Lalo's age, wearing a lightweight shirt with the first few buttons undone, and a pair of dark trousers, with two bags slung over his shoulders. His face was beautifully structured, with high cheekbones and a sharp jawline, reminding Lalo of the carefully constructed stone masterpieces that watched over the house. The sculptures of Gods and angels and princes. But this sculpture had scruffy blond curls dipping into bright emerald irises, and freckles kissing his nose. His posture, his clothes, and the car he had traveled in all suggested wealth and entitlement. Lalo immediately had a vague idea about who the stranger was.

"¡Hola señor! ¿Puedo ayudar? Soy el jardinero, me llamo Lalo Vicario..."

The boy stared at Lalo, green eyes wide and blank. "Uhh... L-Lo siento. No...uh...no hablo español. Sorry."

Lalo grinned, burying his sweaty hands into the pockets of his muddy denim overalls, "You're that British kid, aren't you?"

The boy's face visibly relaxed as relief flooded his features. "Oh, you speak English, thank God."

Lalo chuckled, "I'm from Chicago, dude." He said, before extending a dirty palm for the boy to shake. "And if I'm correct, you must be the Tuckers' son?"

"Rory." He replied, shaking his hand. "And I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your name."

"It's Lalo, short for Eladio."

"Lalo. Got it." He noted. The boy standing before Rory was an emblem of nature and sunny days in the fields. He had short chestnut hair that was tugged back into two French braids that sat atop his head, with warm amber eyes, and a thin white scar on his left cheek. His dark olive skin suggested long days in the sun, as well as Latin-American roots, explaining his fluency in Spanish. He was a few inches shorter than Rory, and the frame of his body was slim and athletic, as opposed to Rory's muscular build. He was dressed in grass stained dungarees, pulled over a checkered gingham shirt, with a pair of thick gardening gloves peeking out of his pocket.

"I wasn't expecting you." Lalo confessed, "Did your parents send you to check up on me?"

"I volunteered. I'm only here to check out the house." He promised, his eyes tracing the tall arches and thick columns that supported the architecture, "It's an amazing building."

Lalo nodded, "It's gorgeous." He agreed, "Do you want a drink? I can make you some lavender and honey tea, or maybe some lemonade if you prefer... I made a fresh batch this morning." He offered.

Rory smiled, "Yeah, that sounds great. Thanks."

Lalo tried to conceal his amusement regarding Rory's thick British accent. It sounded like he came from money, though maybe all British accents sounded like that, Lalo wouldn't know — he had never been to England. And anyway, he was sure that his American accent sounded just as strong to Rory's ears.

He just hoped that Rory couldn't distinguish accents by state. If he could, then Lalo's Chicago story wouldn't hold for very long.