Summer, 1928. I was resting comfortably amid a riot of orange blossoms, a sparking tinto de verano resting in my palm. She glided onto the terraza a swish in her step and sunlight in her smile. Liquid eyes and raven hair, my gypsy queen. A sly slidelong glance, a strum of quitars, and I fell... hard. Is this love? Que sera, sera, I thought, as I stood and held out my hand.