A Cross for Tomorrow
My friend Elaine was a classic beauty. You almost had to look twice to be sure anything so lovely could be real. She had everything, wheat-gold hair that fell in thick waves to her shoulders, large thick-lashed eyes that were truly violet, an exquisite line of cheek and gently rounded chin, and a delicate straight nose that made her profile a thing of absolute perfection.

She had turned to the door. A man stood there. A man dressed in black velvet with creamy white ruffles at his wrists and falling down the front of his shirt. It was as if he had stepped out of the pages of history. Velasquez might have pained him, exactly as he stood there in the doorway of his home. My heart seemed to quiver just at the sight of him.

”My husband, Amadeo de Herrera,” said Elaine, and her love and pride in him lay there, warm and vibrant in her voice.

He came forward, his hands out to welcome me and when I put mine into them he betn forward and kissed my fingertips. Suddenly my fingers were cold! This man, this man was Elaine's husband? Then sharply I pulled in my breath. A good deep breath to steady me.

”Come in darling and meet the family. Amadeoa's family, and don't” she was suddenly whispering, her lips close to my ears, “don't let them scare you.”

Oh God . . .
