He is Enrique Jerez, 60, a major purveyor of olive oil and sherry in Spain, and he is visiting three different factories he owns in Sevilla. He is a silver-haired grandfather, and he is more than happy to show Ronda his small collection of photos.
This week, the New York Times goes behind a paywall. Good riddance. The section that will be least missed is the book review, which presents, week after week, calculated affronts to literary taste and value.
Ronda wakes hours later to light that is low and creamy yellow. Sitting up in bed, she tries the phone number in Lanjarón. It rings and rings. Frustrated, she slams the receiver back into its black cradle.
In the package on the pillow there was a long black lace shawl, hand made, from Sevilla. Ronda is sitting on the bed, wearing it now cloaked over her head and face and that is the only thing she is wearing.
"Jack, please, Jack, please come back, Jack! Please." But Jack hasn't heard a word she's said, and before she can say another word, he has fled the room and all she hears are his feet sprinting down the hall.
Ronda blushed and Jesús bowed slightly. "I'm afraid I must go inside now. Otherwise, there is a bride who will have no music." He reached down and only then did she notice the black guitar case beside his feet.
Not only are these amazing readings by some of today's strongest emerging talents in literary fiction and poetry, they represent some of the finest work being produced by the nation's best presses committed to discovering new talent.