A Love for Rebecca by Mayte Uceda

whisky in his hand. He drank slowly, savoring, remembering. He closed his eyes and went back to happy times. Then, once the whisky warmed his veins, he forgot the love he still felt for her, despite everything, and turned to hating her with a visceral contempt from deep in his heart.
    “Sophie was barely three years old when she left, the whore,” he muttered, his thoughts clouded by the alcohol that brought out the repressed bitterness in his soul with each sip. “And Kenzie  . . . I couldn’t bear the sorrow in his eyes. Damn bitch, why did you abandon them? I would’ve left if you’d asked, but you wanted to go so far away, without anyone holding you back. That letter you sent—telling me you couldn’t take it anymore, that you couldn’t raise the children because all you could do was think about how your life was over and how you would end up hurting them. You said that I could handle it, that I would take good care of them, but didn’t you know my world would crumble without you?”
    William opened his eyes, red and glassy from the alcohol and tears. As he leaned back and settled himself on the sofa, he closed them again with a whisper:
    “Elisabeth, mo ghràidh , my love.”

DISCUSSIONS
    The next morning, Rebecca got up early. Berta wasn’t awake yet. Lola had come in at dawn, so Rebecca didn’t expect to see her until much later.
    She went out for a walk along the river path. She looked at the sky and saw clouds piled up. She detected at least eight different colors in that sea of cotton, and for the first time she truly apprehended the beauty in rain clouds, in the entire sky containing them.
    The river flowed silently along this stretch. The countryside was colorful and fresh, and the smells, intensified by the humidity in the air, made her feel oddly tied to her surroundings. She inhaled deeply several times, intoxicated by the aromas, as her senses were inundated with new fragrances that were nothing like the smells of the city.
    Her thoughts wandered back to everything that had happened the day before. She’d been in a trying situation because of Lola, and what irritated her most was that Lola had done it on purpose, knowing it would bother her. She thought of the physical contact with the drummer, the intense heat, and how she had trembled when his arm went around her waist and gently pulled her close.
    A sigh escaped her lips, and suddenly she felt the urge to talk to Mario. She knew he’d be working at that hour, but she needed to hear his voice. She pulled out her phone and called his number.
    “Rebecca?” a male voice answered. “Are you all right?”
    “Yes, I just wanted to talk with you a bit.”
    “Oh, babe, this isn’t a good time. We’re with a client. You know you shouldn’t call me until the afternoon. I’ll call you, OK?”
    “Yes, OK. It’s not important; don’t worry.”
    “Love ya, beautiful.”
    “Love you,” she whispered.
    A raindrop landed on her phone’s screen. Looking up, she saw that the gray clouds had turned darker and menacing. She hurried back to the cottage just in time to avoid a downpour.

    In the kitchen, Berta was preparing tea.
    “You look terrible,” Rebecca told her friend, who was holding a teacup in one hand and a tissue in the other. Rebecca fixed herself a cup of tea and some toast and sat down with Berta.
    “This is what I’ll take home with me from Scotland,” Berta said, her voice raspy and snuffling. “A horrible cold.”
    “You’ll be over it soon, you’ll see,” Rebecca said to cheer her up. “How’d it go last night with Mrs. Munro?”
    “I can’t say that I was bored. She brought me up to date on all the neighbors. And she made me eat all the vegetable soup and that porris stuff.”
    “Porridge.”
    “Whatever. And I had to drink a concoction made with hot whisky, honey, and lemon.” She blew her nose loudly. “And you? How was it? Did you have fun?”
    “It would’ve been fun if it weren’t for Lola—she’s