Alright this is just something for me to do. Not required for reading unless you want to, or you want to follow the Stevenson saga, or for whatever reason. xD And if you want a broader view on these two, I suggest reading To Chance Upon a Spanish Pearl first. ^-^
MereMcQueen314, this is for you, honey~
And so I probably kept that part above because I can~ Anyway, I'd like to put this up as an official part of the timeline; because I can, because I want to~ xD
Life After Love
Sometimes, it wasn't about how she looked like. Sometimes, it wasn't about her boobs, or her hips, or her legs, or her face. Sometimes, it was how much she knew that sided by her looks. Sometimes, it was how much she loved him back. And this woman was one of them.
She had insanely beautiful dark brown hair, and let loose it was medium-long, waves of dark chocolate flowing down her shoulders. Her eyes were of the same color, and can either show the deepest love or the greatest hate. He'd seen both emotions coursing through her many times: not only in the times with her family or when arguing with a silly flirt, but when they fought at times or slept together in the most literal sense of the phrase. She wasn't your definition of sexy, really, but she wasn't overweight or even too close to it. Her hands were strong yet gentle, rough but soft. She was sweet, compassionate, loving, and inevitably, with temper problems. She could find more enjoyment in tinkering with the four cars in the garage than in going on Facebook and chatting with old friends or with family or playing the games there. Her favorite toy is her 458 Italia. Her favorite color changes with her mood. She was more technical, mechanical, scientific and logical than creative, although she liked to display stories. She was left-handed. She was terrified of spiders, screaming even if it is smaller than her tiniest toe. Her name meant something rare and beautiful. she had no second name. Her father had passed on; her mother was nowhere to be found. She was Catholic, but wasn't exactly religious, although she had enough respect for the religion itself. She had never had her ears pierced, something he found odd but amazing about her.
There wasn't a word to describe her exactly, because she had so much to offer him: life, love, and repairs on his racing car. He had been so bent on being a bachelor after meeting so many ladies in the whole of Spain and in other countries that he hadn't realized she would be the only one that can charm him. And all it took to do so was his description from the internet.
This was the definition he had of the world's one and only Margarita Kallide-Stevenson; nothing and no one else comes close. And as she smiled at him now, her sleeves rolled up as usual, hair tied back, her long side bangs over her eyes, grease staining her hands and wrists and wrench on hand, the weight in his pocket and the swelling in his chest never felt more prominent.
He strode over from the garage door to kiss her hair softly, arm around her waist. "Still working on that pesky engine of mine?" he said, smiling.
She laughed once. "Yeah," she replied, glancing at the racing engine in front of her, her smile fading into a pout. "Pesky is right." She bent down to tighten a loose screw. "I think I'll finish it tomorrow; you said we'll be having dinner tonight."
"Si." It was the only way to get her alone. It may seem cliché, but it was still considered a staple plan among males.
She nodded, and went to get a rag to clean off some of the stains in her wrenches. After shoving the metal toys back into the toolbox she shut the hood gently, knowing he was sort of easily startled. She didn't bother to put back the toolbox because she would need it tomorrow or later, if she had time. After cleaning her hands of the oil in the sink nearby, they re-entered the house, closing the sliding garage door.
He was the first to go into the bath because she would probably need scrubbing, because most of the stains stuck to her. As he looked into his closet for something to wear, he specially saved a shirt for this kind of occasion: a deep red button-up with long sleeves, rolled up as she liked it so much, with black pants and the same-color dress shoes. Although he never minded her wearing jeans or pants to special occasions like a party or such, tonight she would wear something for him, too, and he slipped into her closet for something she wore unusually, and laid it out for her to just slip on: the golden dress with the flowing skirt that fell just under her knees and spaghetti straps, the one she bought for herself on one of the shopping trips with her cousin and friends. He liked it so much on her he decided it would be appropriate for tonight. But he knew she would never approve of the straps, and chose a shrug, more commonly known to her as a bolero, which was three-fourth-sleeved, knit, and its hem fell just before the end of her ribcage. It was deep red, like his, and had a button just in case she wanted it to be closed. The choice of shoes would be another matter and one for her to tackle instead; he didn't care if she wore flats or heels, just not closed or covered shoes. Finally, on a piece of paper he wrote, "Wear your hair down tonight." He then waited for her outside, and turned on the television.
"Are you sure about this, Miguel?" he heard her voice echo down the stairs.
"Yes, I'm sure," her replied aloud, and the tap-tapping of heels onto wood made him turn the TV off, stand, and turn to see her.
She was even better than he pictured her.
She wore a classic chain of white pearls around her neck to fill in the spaces, her left wrist lacking its silver watch but her left middle finger still had its titanium ring. Her shoes were black, not-so-strappy, and contained 2.5-inch heels. A small black clutch bag was in her hand. She wasn't exactly dolled up as you might say; she never adhered to make-up or wore it. Instead of anything too intricate, all she had on was a basic layer of eyeshadow, blush and lipstick of a slightly redder shade than her lips, but she had evidence of concealer on. Her hair was immaculate: fluffed-out brown waves that fell over her shoulders in a way he'd never seen before; it looked so natural yet felt so artificial. His lips fell open in awe as his eyes traveled up and down her figure, and he didn't notice she was standing like she was embarrassed until later.
"Is anything wrong?" he asked as he walked up to her.
"…I just don't like wearing dresses," she said. "You know I don't like it."
He took her hands in his. "Just for tonight," he pleaded softly. He stared deeply into her big, brown eyes pleadingly, and she nodded after a few moments.
"Just for tonight," she said firmly, and he smiled.
"Come on; we'll be late for the reservation." He led her outside to the garage, opening the sliding door once more.
The sun had set along the horizon already, leaving pale yellow to mix with the incoming dark blue. Not that he didn't like it; he just knew she liked watching the sun set like her cousin and seeing the scarlet disc slowly go down like magic.
Her eyes bulged. "How long have you been planning this?" she asked him as she got into his chosen ride: his Maserati GranCabrio.
"Oh, just last week," he said casually as he got into the driver's seat. "I just thought of it, really, and decided it would be…fitting…to do so."
"Oka-ay," she said, a little uneasy.
He drove out of the garage and onto the open road. He glanced sideways many times at her as she stared out the tinted windows of his beloved Maserati, her legs unusually together, her hands tight on the purse on her lap. He glanced out the windows past her and the dashboard to see people staring at the only golden Maserati with the plate number 1652 SMRC. This didn't bother Miguel at all, but it probably bugged Margo more than usual tonight, because she was tenser than ever. Usually she would just talk with him, discussing matters and gossip freely, not caring if anyone saw them in her 458 or in the GranTurismo, but tonight she was stone silent. Although the silence in the cabin was odd, it didn't bother Miguel too much, although it was odd that she would keep the silence. He figured it was because she was in a dress, and shrugged it off.
They turned into the driveway at the front of the hotel he had made a reservation at, and they got out for the valet to park the car elsewhere. He led her inside, and were unfortunately ambushed by reporters who were supposed to report on the dinner of the Philippine Embassy's meeting with the Minister, and were unfortunately caught by the cameras. At least all these were just reporters and not the paparazzi, but they were caught all the same, and the cameras shot their way as an attendant led them to their designated table, located somewhere secluded but visible to waiters and waitresses, as well as close enough to the buffet tables located at the center.
The music in the restaurant wasn't your normal piano instrumental, but was instead a live performance, playing sweet songs and popular ones, too, by male and female singers alike. Perfect.
Dinner passed blissfully but quietly; Margo was uneasy all throughout the meal, and only because she was having her first formal dinner with Miguel. She knew she had no reason to be afraid, because Miguel would accept and has accepted anything and everything about her, but it still was disconcerting to go on such a date like this, especially with other people staring at them.
Miguel, on the other hand, was trying to liven up the evening with discussion on matters aside from work (or politics), and asked more on her opinion to get her as comfortable as possible. But it just didn't happen; she was still as restless and stiff as ever, right up until he caught her eyeing the dessert table right before he finished his meal. He chuckled slightly, and she turned her head towards him. He knew she would weaken at the dessert table.
As they ate dessert, a favorite song of Margo's started playing. It told of a man asking the girl-in-question's father for the girl's hand in marriage.
"I love this song," she said softly. "I used to dream about getting married," she continued mindlessly.
"'Used to'?" he repeated.
"Yup." She sighed, almost dreamily. "I wonder how I'll look under a veil."
He smiled, snickering.
"What?"
"I just remembered Marlene's wedding," he said, and she grinned, too.
Two years ago was her cousin's own wedding. She vividly remembered, and she grinned. She had never seen her cousin look so beautiful in a long, off-white gown with a veil over her eyes. She remembered the envy she felt, mixed with the happiness for there cousin. She also remembered how handsome Francesco looked in black and white, despite him usually being seen in his homeland's colors, his usually windblown chocolate brown hair then combed and set cleanly over his head. And Margo also remembered how hard her cousin blushed as Francesco's head and upper body disappeared under the light cream skirt, reappearing with a silken garter with a ribbon and of the same off-white color caught in his teeth, hands behind his back.
"Think that'll happen?" she asked him.
He just shrugged, smile fading, as he stared at his platter of sweets. "First things first," he said. "My season isn't over yet."
She just nodded, and as his eyes darted up from under his lashes, she looked like she was saddened. Not for long.
"Why don't you take off your ring?" he asked, frowning a little.
She was stunned. He never told her to take off her beloved ring. "Why?" she asked instantly.
"It…spoils the view," he said, smirking a little, and she rolled her eyes before she stuffed the three-banded, thin titanium ring into her bag.
"Any song requests?" the singer called over the sound system.
Miguel raised his hand, and as the singer called for the request, Miguel led Margo out to the makeshift dance floor. She protested, but he knew she would never refuse anything he would ask her, even if it were extreme, but he wouldn't make her do something as extreme as driving a knife to her skin or cheating.
Telling her to stay there, he whispered the details to the singer, had something put onto his clothing, and returned to the dance floor to his girlfriend. She found he had a bodypack microphone, its transmitter attached to his belt behind him, the microphone attached to the front of his shirt. The intro then played, and she laughed with glee.
He was going to sing, she thought.
But she thought wrong. "Margo," he started, and suddenly she was well aware of the eyes upon them. "When I met you, last year, I thought you were just another fangirl out to get me." His hands took hers, and his gaze never deviated from hers. "But upon meeting you, upon getting to know you more, my first impression faded.
"You do understand that I was happier when you finally came into my life," he said, and she nodded. "You gave me more that I deserved: life, love, and repairs to my racing engine." The crowd laughed lightly, and she rolled her eyes. "Do you remember what your friends told you?" She nodded, and he shook his head. "None of that is true. You're not what they say you are." He paused as he permit himself to cherish her eyes, the feeling he's seeing in them and the beauty it has provided him through the months, but then he had to continue.
"Do you know why I brought you here, why I made you wear that, why I called you to the center of attention, why I'm saying these things to you now, when I could have done it months ago?" She shook her head, a smiling yet bewildered look on her face. He grinned, then turned to the audience. "Do you know?" he asked over the sound system.
The all called dissent.
He turned to her again. "Before I start though, I want to tell you that I love you so much, that it has compelled me to do this." He paused for a moment, staring thoughtfully into space. "Er…this might be a little old-style," he added, and she shrugged an 'I-don't-care'.
He smiled at that, then glanced upwards, almost gesturing to the song. She listened as the second refrain faded to the final chorus, and his gaze caught hers. That's when he started singing.
"Cuando me enamoro aveces desespero,
Cuando me enamoro,
Cuando menos me lo espero, me enamoro
Se detiene el tiempo, me viene el alma al cuerpo,
Sonrio, cuando me enamoro."
As the final words of the chorus passed his lips, he reached for something in his pocket, and, holding her hand, lowered himself to one knee. Her other hand flew to her lips, and tars of joy streaked down her cheeks. And if that surprised her, the shock wasn't compared to the next startling event.
"Margarita Kallide-Stevenson," he started slowly, eyes reflecting hope, love and ecstasy, "papakasalan mo ba ako?"
At this, she smiled harder. She hadn't heard her homeland's language in years. "Oo!" she squeaked. "Oo!" she said louder, and he grinned, standing, and the people of the Philippine Embassy and reporters of Pinoy news centers clapped in glee. The rest of the audience had no idea what the prestigious GT racer meant, but the ring and the grin said it all.
They were engaged.
