Sweetest Desires (A Sweetest Day Romance)

by Beverly Taylor

  “How’s that?” She’d been sure the documents would set her back a few hundred dollars.

  “I said, ‘no charge,’” he repeated emphatically. “It’s on the house as a favor to Randy.”

  “Thank you,” she said with suspicion. When they were on good terms, Randy had told her about this friend of his and a sideline legal document service he provided. At the time, Randy had assured her that this guy was resourceful and well connected. Apparently, this friend had no idea she’d fallen out with Randy. Either that or Randy had come to realize how wrong he’d been for mistreating her. Or he was up to no good. More than likely the latter.

  “I’m not the one you need to thank!” He sounded terse and definitely unfriendly.

  “Okay, then,” she said, frowning into the phone. She described her outfit, guessing Randy had already given him a physical description.

  “I don’t have a whole lot of time,” the man responded, “so meet me at Chee-Chee’s at one o’clock on the dot! And if you’re not there by five after—I’m out.”

  Cindy didn’t like his attitude. “I’ll be there,” she snapped. Then all she heard was silence. The jerk just clicked her off.

  She got in her car and drove downtown. The rush-hour traffic was as slow as always, and finding a parking space in Colony Square at this time of day was virtually impossible. She glanced at the clock on her dashboard. Twelve forty-five. All the nearby parking lots were full. Cindy circled the square three times before she spotted a car pulling out from a metered space along the curb.

  The car facing her had its blinker on to indicate that the driver was about to pull into the spot. But it would have been an awkward parallel park for him considering he was on the wrong side of the street, and Cindy swooped in, shifting into reverse to straighten out the back end of her car. The disgruntled driver blew his horn and flipped the bird at her, but she ignored him. She just hoped when she came back out she wouldn’t find that he’d keyed the door or put chewed gum in the door lock. To be on the safe side, she took a mental note of his license plate number. Glancing at her watch, she hurried towards Chee-Chee’s. She was right on time.

  Through the plate-glass window of the lobby, she could see a ruggedly compact man with short black curls and rounded shoulders. He stood hugging himself, straining the seams of his suit jacket.

  He smiled and opened his arms in a welcoming gesture. She tried to smile back but felt her jaw dropping instead. From the moment he’d so rudely ended their conversation, she’d thought of him as anything but a warm, inviting person.

  He moved swiftly. Cindy gulped and prepared herself to return his embrace. Her arms felt weighed down.

  Luckily, her reluctance preserved her from embarrassment. The undersized man rushed past her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him rush into the arms of a stout little woman behind her. She entered the lobby and looked around for the man she was supposed to meet.

  Through the crowd of people parading by, she glimpsed a man waving at her. With a slight hesitation, she crossed over to him.

  “I’m Miguel Rivera,” he said.

  Relieved she had the right man this time, she stuck out her hand. He remained seated and looked as if he didn’t want to touch her but shook it lightly. A gentleman always stands up for a lady, she thought.

  Bulky and handsome with wildly disheveled jet-black hair streaked with straight-out-of-the-bottle blonde highlights, Miguel had wide, dark eyes, a cleft chin, and a strong nose. He looked like a model for a cologne ad in his sports slacks and soft shoes. He’d tied a white sweater so loosely around his neck that one sleeve now dangled on the floor.

  “I’ve prepared a nice custom-made package especially for you,” he said.

  Miguel’s feminine hands, effeminate gestures and high-pitched voice alerted Cindy that he was gay.

  Cindy jumped as the tinkling of a bell startled her. A group of servers gathered around a table full of giggling women to sing the birthday song to one of them.

  “Jumpy, aren’t we?” he sneered.

  Nervously, she swept a strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “I’m a little shaky,” she said. She held her hands together to control her trembling fingers.

  “Well, honey, if you can’t stand the heat, take off your chef’s hat.” He snapped his fingers and gave a nasal laugh. She didn’t find it amusing.

  He took the opportunity to study her face, her jittery hands. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re wondering about my nationality, aren’t you?”

  Cindy gave a negative motion of her head.

  “Quit lying, you know you wanna know.”

  Was he trying to be playful? Cindy was unsure how to receive him.

  “Puerto Rican.”

  Cindy took his cynical expression to say, Are you satisfied, wench? But his Latino accent was absent. An uncomfortable silence followed. “So, which law firm do you work for?” She tried to sound casual. Randy had assured her that Miguel was an experienced, cautious and competent paralegal, but something about him made her uncomfortable.

  Miguel cast her an odd look, as if wishing she would disappear and take her problems and the envelope with her. “Don’t worry about it. You wouldn’t recognize the name if I told you. Besides, the less you know the better.”

  Cindy took the insult with equanimity. “What is it about me that bugs you, Mr. Rivera?”

  He opened his mouth to respond, closed it, and opened it again. “What do you think?”

  I think you’re weird, that’s what I think. Cindy remained unresponsive.

  “Well, I gotta go,” he said, flicking his hand and leaving his wrist to rest in the air. “My lunch hour is over, Miss Missy.”

  Standing up, he offered his limp handshake. “It was nice meeting you,” he lied. He leaned in close to whisper, “But if things don’t work out for you with this”—he handed her the envelope—, “I will deny ever seeing you.” His grin vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He snatched his dangling sweater and left.

  Shocked and silent, Cindy watched as he crossed the room, swaying his hips with a plain as day feminine gait. When he disappeared from sight, she bent back the clasp and started to open the envelope. Then, realizing she was in a public place, she decided to wait until she reached her car to examine the contents. Not in a metered parking spot, though. A parking lot would be better.

  Tucking the envelope under her arm and swinging her purse, she gazed around cautiously as she rushed to her parking spot, trying to ward off the eerie sensation that she was being watched. Paranoia, she told herself. It was nothing more than paranoia. Nobody was skulking out there.

  Traffic remained just as heavy as it had been when she first entered the food court. As she pulled away from the curb, two other drivers competed for the space. Her mind flashed back to the angry driver. She hadn’t thought to check for a scratched door.

  There was a MARTA (Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority) station several blocks away, and she parked in the first available space. She stepped out to check the car for key marks or other damage and breathed a sigh of relief, then got back inside.

  A few people were wandering around the parking lot leaving or returning to their cars, but no one seemed to notice her. She popped open the envelope flap and slid the contents out carefully. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the large, bold lettering in an antique script.

  Staring her in the face was the divorce decree of Carson O’Connor and Katharine O’Connor, signed by a judge and stamped with the official seal from the Collegiate Circuit Court of Monterrey, Mexico. The letters at the top read DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE. Her eyes scanned the line reading, “The marriage of Carson O’Connor and Katharine Denise O’Connor is hereby dissolved.”

  The second document, this one printed in a more modern style, was headed PROOF OF MARRIAGE. Her heart beat rapidly as she read, “I . . . , commissioned by the Second Judicial District Court, County of Washoe, State of Nevada . . . do hereby certif
y that . . . Carson O’Connor and Cynthia Marie Lomax were by me legally joined in marriage at The Chapel of Love . . . .” Signed, sealed, witnessed, and officially stamped.

  Holding the documents to her chest, she stared into space, breathed lightly, and smiled.

  Chapter 32

  One week had passed since Cindy received the counterfeit documents. Carson was in Los Angeles on assignment—the one that was postponed in Asheville and rescheduled. Perfect for Cindy, which meant she wouldn’t have to explain her absence.

  Sitting on the hotel veranda and enjoying the sight of palm trees swaying above the streetlights, Cindy inhaled the perfume of a muggy afternoon in Mexico City. She kicked off her sandals and wiggled her toes, molding herself to the rocking chair and dozing like an elderly woman.

  She was startled awake by a tap on the arm. A young man with a moose-like face, thick neck, and long ponytail hunched forward, apparently trying to charm her with a crooked-toothed smile. He held a tape recorder.

  “Hello. I am Felipe Gonzalez of Serdan. I am doing a survey for the hotel,” he said in heavily accented English. “May I ask your opinion, Miss . . .?”

  “What is it?” she said, blinking herself awake.

  “May I ask your opinion?” he repeated.

  In her postnap stupor, she was relieved to hear English.

  “I may tape-record you?” Again, he flashed the big crooked-toothed smile.

  “Sure.” Cindy thought it would attract more attention to say no. After her interview, he asked if he could treat her to a fine Mexican dinner and perhaps some scuba diving. Naturally, Cindy declined.

  Since he had nothing more to say, he bade her farewell and wished her a pleasant visit in his native language. “Despedida, Senorita. Ipásatelo bien!”

  “Felipe,” Cindy called after him.

  He turned with a look of burning hope in his eyes.

  “Can you please tell me how to get to the nearest post office or mail station? I have a very important package to mail to the United States.”

  “You can leave it with the concierge. They will make sure it gets delivered.”

  “Well, I would feel more confident if I could take it myself,” she smiled.

  “I would not worry,” he responded. “We are a reliable hotel.”

  She looked at him guardedly.

  “Of course, there is a tour you can take which has a—how you say—souvenir shop. There is a mailbox for mailing postcards and letters. You would enjoy the tour, too, Senorita.”

  “That sounds splendid. Where can I take this tour?”

  “A van leaves the hotel every two hours.” He checked his wristwatch. “As a matter of fact, one will be leaving in about twenty minutes. It would be my pleasure to escort you there.”

  “No, I don’t want to spoil your plans,” she insisted, giving him a bashful smile.

  “Then allow me to get you a boarding pass from the front desk, and from there I will give you directions to the tour van.”

  She accepted this offer gratefully. After sliding into her sandals, she went to her room to refresh her makeup and retrieve the envelope. Following Felipe’s directions, she walked out of the hotel, boarding pass in hand, and turned right, away from the ocean and the sea wall. She passed a group of Mexicans standing at a bus stop. They looked bored and patient as if they’d been there a long time already. The tour van was waiting across the street. She showed her boarding pass and took a side seat on the nearly empty charter.

  The tour turned out to be rather interesting. She learned about the land of Mexico and its history, its government, and its various cultures, even the most recent news.

  She bought a few souvenirs for Deanna and her mother. When she spotted the mailbox, she slid the envelope from her bag. It was addressed to Katharine O’Connor. She gave it to the clerk, who affixed the appropriate postage for express mail, and returned the envelope so that she could drop it in the box.

  “That was easy,” she commented to the clerk, who responded with a pleasant nod.

  The Mexican postage made it look authentic and official. There should be no doubt in Katharine’s mind when she received it that Carson had given her a Mexican divorce. Cindy grinned at the thought. Sure, she could’ve emailed it anonymously, but it could easily be traced. Doing it that way wouldn’t nearly be as authentic as a hard copy.

  As tired as she was, it took her a long time to get to sleep. She believed she was doing the right thing for herself and Deanna and ensuring Carson’s happiness. Maybe Katharine would come to realize that it was for her own good as well. But despite these comforting thoughts, she tossed and turned.

  It seemed she’d just nodded off when she heard a knock at her door. She tried to ignore it—whoever it was could come back in the morning. But as the knocking continued, she opened her eyes to find that it was morning. The sun was streaming through gaps in the curtains, and dust motes were dancing in the light.

  She climbed out of bed and opened her door wide enough to peek out. Felipe stood before her—crooked-toothed smile and all.

  “I have come to drive you to the airport.”

  She remembered telling him she was leaving in the morning. Since he’d been so cordial, she thought she’d oblige him.

  “Sure, Felipe. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll be down shortly.” She closed and locked the door, took a tepid, low-pressure shower, and finished packing her luggage.

  Felipe was waiting for her by the elevators. They had a quick cup of coffee and fruit in the hotel’s restaurant. Cindy spent most of that time ignoring Felipe and talking on her cell phone to her mother inquiring as to Deanna’s well-being.

  En route to the airport, the atmosphere was buzzing with morning bees as they passed miles of lush countryside. Felipe pulled into the airport parking lot in the hotel’s courtesy car. He sat there a minute as if willing time to stand still. He made several attempts to get Cindy to give him her phone number and address.

  Realizing he could easily have gotten the information from the hotel’s computer, she decided to humor him. She kept her eyes averted, smiling slightly. “I’ll take your number,” she said. “If I’m ever back in Mexico, I’ll give you a call.” Anything to get you out of my hair.

  His eyes widened and the crooked-toothed smile looked straight. His hands trembled with excitement as he wrote his phone number and address on a scratch pad that was kept in the glove compartment. He tore off the sheet and handed it to her. He then climbed out of the car and opened Cindy’s door. “It would be nice if you would call me sometime just to say hello. It might be years before you visit again.”

  Cindy stepped out and pulled her roller luggage from the backseat without response.

  “Here, let me get that for you,” he said.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got it.” It was muggier and hotter than the previous day. She wiped the beads of moisture from her forehead. If he were truly a gentleman, he’d offer her a handkerchief to wipe off the sweat.

  Felipe continued to stare at her. “Can you give me a call just to let me know you have made it back to the States?”

  Cindy pasted on a smile and placed the paper with his information on it against her heart and traipsed away, hauling the luggage behind her. When she entered the corridors, Felipe finally got back in the car.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, Cindy crumpled the paper and raised it over the nearest wastebasket but didn’t drop it in. Instead, she opened her purse and stuffed the wadded paper inside.

  Next flight, Reno, to mail the marriage certificate.

  Chapter 33

  Natalie’s brother Vincent had just bought an expensive new house in Los Angeles, and Natalie and Stephen had flown to California to attend his open house. Katharine had accepted Natalie’s invitation to join them, but when Stephen had asked Carson to attend while he was in L.A. on assignment, he’d begged off, using work as an excuse.

  At precisely seven o’clock, the band on the newly constructed platform struck a loud chord, the danc
ing stopped, and Vincent stepped up to the microphone. He had a long, thin face, bad posture, and an unconventional approach to business. “Ladies and gentlemen—and agents,” he added, getting a laugh. “I want to welcome all you beautiful people to my new home. And if you think it looks like a few million bucks, believe me, you’re right.” The crowd laughed again.

  “I say ‘my’ home,” Vincent went on, “because I’m a conceited geek. It’s also my wife’s home. My beautiful wife, Alaina . . . . Alaina, darling, where are you? There she is! C’mon up, darling. I want to show you off. Can you imagine a beautiful, classy woman like this marrying a clown like me? That’s the only thing that worries me about her. She’s got rotten taste in men.”

  She flashed him her most dazzling smile as she stepped onto the stage. “I beg your pardon,” Alaina said, laughing as she came up to hug him. “I have great taste in men.” Her white chiffon dress fit snuggly around her willowy hips. She wore her hair in a pageboy but without the bangs, and kept silky and sleek by expensive wash and sets, touch-up treatments, and monthly trims.

  “Seriously, folks,” Vincent said. “We all work in a business where love is a product—make a love story, make a coupla million, right? Well, I’m here to tell you that I believe in love stories because I’m living one. Alaina, darling, I love you. And if that’s not enough for you, Alaina, you’ve got half the house and half the pool.” Another laugh. He kissed her on the lips as the two hundred guests applauded.

  When he pulled back from their embrace, he continued, “You know something? She’s smart too. She’s the best script reader in Hollywood, and she doesn’t charge me to do it. And you know what she told me when she read my new script? She said, ‘Vince, you’ve got a blockbuster.’”

  Alaina managed a game smile. “Well,” she said, “Let’s say I told you that it was a change of pace for you.”

  “Sure it’s a change of pace! I know it! Who wants to do the same thing all the time? You get stale! So I’m taking this festive occasion to announce to both my friends”—a laugh—“and my two hundred enemies”—a lighter laugh—“that my next movie won’t be a comedy. My production company is taking on a romantic tragedy, the greatest romantic tragedy in the history of movies—and, according to my CPA, the greatest tragedy in the history of my bank account.” Still more laughter. “Maybe he’s right; who knows? It’s a gamble. Life is a gamble. But I’ve got faith in this movie. Or should I say what my sister, Natalie, would say, ‘I’ve got faith in God’ that this movie’ll be successful.”