“You know what,” Erica wavered as she reached for her handbag, “why don’t I just leave the changes with you, and you can call me later after you look them over? I’d like to try and finish up your apartment this week if possible.”
“Is there something wrong, querida?”
Erica had been so busy retrieving the new design prospectus from her purse that she didn’t notice Gianni’s movements until his fingers grasped her chin and tugged her face up to his.
Stunned, she tried to open her lips and say something. “Wha... what did you call me?”
Gianni gave a little laugh as he snatched his fingers away and planted both hands on his hips. “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I got carried away. Nico told me he likes to call you by those little endearments. I also heard he sent a mariachi band to your place last night. Talk about a romantic guy!”
“Yes, yes, he is.” Erica stepped back.
His presence seemed so overpowering. She felt both a sudden attraction and a fleeting revulsion for the man. The crown tattoo with its black club emblem stared back at her, and she remembered how she had traced its outline as she lay with Nico along the bunk bed on board the sailboat. She could almost feel his warm flesh and smell his intoxicating scent.
Retreating further, Erica suddenly teetered along the edge of the step as her sandal’s stiletto heel stuck into the crack between the flagstones. Before she could tumble back completely, Gianni reached for her flaying hands and pulled her up and into his embrace. She had no choice but to surrender completely, at least until she could steady herself once more.
When her cheek touched his breastbone, she felt an incredible flash of déjà vu, a potent trigger of her senses. Gianni’s skin felt the same way, like velvet over smooth marble, and he gave off that same aroma, that heady mix of masculine sweat and Asian-inspired aftershave of water lilies, jasmine and green tea.
Before she could regain sanity, Erica followed her mouth as it tipped up to his and settled along his smooth lips in a hot, steamy kiss. His arms enfolded her against his chest, and she registered his hardened cock as it pressed into her abdomen. For one crazy moment, she wanted to reach inside his sweats and wrap her fingers around the thick shaft. Instead, she withdrew her lips from his mouth and struggled out of his hold. She lost one sandal. Now quickly stepping out of the other, Erica turned and ran barefoot down the flagstone walk.
She didn’t breathe again until she threw herself into the driver’s seat of the Hyundai. Blindly, she pulled away from the curb and into traffic; and then, amazingly, managed to drive home without causing an accident, the car washing she had planned completely forgotten.
Chapter Eleven
That night, Erica paced the condo floor in the shadows, the only light from the trio of candles she lit earlier, votive candles in slim glass holders with the Virgen Guadalupe etched on each.
Gianni had called and left several messages, but she simply placed her phone on silent mode. She couldn’t reason, she couldn’t conjecture, she couldn’t theorize. The need to eat a gallon of tres leches ice cream kept a rumba going in her stomach, and then attacked what little brain cells she had left. Finally, in frustration, Erica grabbed her phone and dialed a number. She needed expert advice, and needed it fast. When Sacha answered her summons, she briefly explained her situation and dictated her needs.
“Gotcha, girlfriend,” he confirmed. “I’ll be there in forty-five!”
When her partner did arrive about an hour and a half later, he brought with him a hefty paper sack. Extracting the contents, Sacha set out their feast on Erica’s dining table.
“I got coconut pecan,” he announced as he indicated the half gallon of ice cream, “and pan dulces with that funky pink frosting, and some jicama sticks with lime and chili powder.”
Erica’s perusal of their goodies only increased her hunger pangs. Sacha had even included a deli carton of carnitas and a package of corn tortillas. On his way over, he must have stopped at the bodega just around the corner. The small neighborhood market offered almost anything under the moon. When she didn’t move right away, he came up behind, clasped her arms and helped to guide her to a chair.
“Now, darling,” he started as went for two plates and utensils. “Tell your BFF all about it.”
Erica had no idea where to start...exactly. Over the phone, she hinted at a romantic liaison, though she wasn’t so sure with whom. Now she tried to explain her situation, what she thought, and what she conjectured.
“Could Gianni Sloan be so duplicitous, so contemptible as to pose as his twin brother?”
Sacha shrugged as he spooned red chili pork in a tortilla. “I’ll have to admit it does sound suspicious. Put it this way, if you really want to know, you’re going to have to do something about it.”
Taking up a soup spoon, she began to attack the ice cream and spoke between grateful bites. “So, do you think I should go with my gut feeling, and maybe take that trip?” That meant booking a flight to New York and onward to Connecticut.
“Yes, but you have to do it without Nico’s knowledge. Surprise is your best defense and offense.” He giggled. “Look at me! Talking like an athlete!”
When he arrived, Erica noticed the sweep of glitter shadow along his eyelids and the swipe of Kohl liner below. The tight suede pants and the tie-dyed shirt tipped her off that Sacha probably had plans for the evening, but he had quickly postponed his outing to a South Beach disco in order to come to her aid.
“So, you won’t mind taking over the condo job for a couple of days?”
“Darling!” Sacha fluttered his long lashes. “It would be a privilege and an honor. Of course, you’re going to have to fill me in all along the way. I want daily updates!”
They ate in silence for several minutes before Erica could process her thought patterns in some semblance of order once again. “What if it is true? How can I face him, work with him? I just can’t get up and move. I sunk my life savings into this place.”
“That may be a problem, although, there’s nothing more exquisite than a woman scorned—or, in this case, duped. You’ll have to give back as good as he gave. Come on!” Snatching the spoon out of her hand, Sacha prodded Erica to her feet. “We’re going out to see a friend of mine.”
“I’m not dressed for going out,” she started to protest until he shook his head violently.
“No, no, this isn’t a ‘going out’ date. Where we’re going the outfit doesn’t matter. In fact, Madrina Paola wants to see you in your usual relaxed state.”
“Madrina Paola?” Erica’s frown deepened. “Don’t tell me! You’re taking me to a voodoo lady?”
“Not voodoo! A Santera! There’s a difference. Madrina Paola is the real thing, and she’s practiced the art of Santería for ages. She’s from Brazil where they do it right. Now, we’re going for two potions. One to make that man tell you the truth, and the other to make you fall out of love if your suspicions prove correct.”
Crossing her arms, Erica tried to negate his claim. “I’m not in love with Nico or Gianni or whomever he calls himself.”
Sacha gave her his signature stance, part indignant hip-hugger, part dancer’s pose. “Oh, yes you are, girlfriend! You’ve got it good, and you’ve got it bad for the man!”
Erica couldn’t argue with that. Of course, she had it bad. Nico had cast his spell over her, and it would take a tremendous amount of magic to snap her out of it. That’s if she really wanted a “cure.” As a daughter of Cuban émigrés, she knew all about Santería. In fact, two or three of her ancestors were well known for practicing the religion, a combination of worshiping the African deities of the Yoruba and the Catholic Church’s saints. Strange, yes. Potent, well, she wasn’t too sure if it really worked, though she also knew her Tía Rogelia swore by it, as did several members of her family. What did she really have to lose except a couple of hours? Hours where she could stew in her own chili juices and scarf up the rest of the ice cream! Erica quickly went for her straw bag.
“Al
l right!” she conceded and took Sacha’s hand. “Let’s go and get me charmed.”
Erica harbored only one hesitation as she tried to find a safe place to park her Hyundai. This part of South Miami offered more than just salsa music coming from the myriad of small bars or street vendors hawking everything from knock-off sunglasses to sweet churros. The underbelly of the city came out here at night, those looking for a good time, whether it be drugs, gambling, or prostitutes of both sexes.
When she finally found a decent space, she allowed Sacha to lead the way, and he guided them to a stairwell between a tattoo parlor and a taquería. The zesty smells of fried tortillas and onions punctuated the still air, while someone’s boom box blasted out an urban hip-hop song. In many ways, these little neighborhoods reminded Erica of small pockets of Latino villages. During the day, flower stalls sold a variety of bright blooms, both the real and tissue-papered variety on metal stalks. Whole, plucked chickens hung in carnería windows, the blood drained and sold to Santeras for their ancient rituals. Joyerías sold more than just a selection of jewelry, but religious artifacts and items for such occasions as confirmations and quinciñeras. Another business offered cut-rate prices on fabric for wedding gowns, custom-made by the seamstress who owned the shop.
“Come on, girlfriend,” Sacha urged as he started up the dark stairs. “The chupacabra won’t bite.”
“It’s not the chupacabra I’m worried about.”
Taking in a steadying breath, Erica followed along until they reached the landing. A naked bulb highlighted a door painted a lime green. Her colleague rapped twice, and then opened the door and entered. She followed suit and found herself in a long, shadowy room. The cloying smells of incense and various herbs overwhelmed the place. Erica tried not to touch a thing as Sacha led her between two tables, both filled to the brim with strange paraphernalia. Squinting, she noticed one wall of shelves, each filled with apothecary jars of various ingredients. Allowing her imagination to wander, she perused dried leaves, roots and fish eyes, and perhaps several jars of ground-up chicken feet.
She giggled. “Yes, I’d like a couple eyes of newt and a quarter pound of bat wings, please!”
“Shh!” Sacha warned next to her. “Madrina Paola will do all the talking, and you just listen.”
“Oh, I plan to,” Erica acknowledged.
They found the lady herself sitting in a recliner, all two-hundred pounds of her. A black-and-white television at her side seemed to be airing a soap opera in Spanish. The Santera wore a floral muumuu and a few strands of puka beads, her silver hair plastered back into a small knot at the top. When her visitors approached, she observed them with small, sharp eyes, the color of shiny obsidian.
“Venga, mis amigos,” she welcomed in a low, slightly accented voice. “You, Eriqueta, must come closer.”
Erica heard Sacha take in a sharp breath. He quickly whispered to her. “I didn’t tell Madam Paola your name. I just said I had a visitor to bring.”
Oh well... She found a small, paint-splashed stool and sat as close as she dared. She hoped the dark stains were paint and not dried blood. Before she could react, Erica watched the older woman grab her hand and hold it tight. The Santera’s flesh felt springy to the touch, like a damp, warm sponge.
“There is much life in your veins, hija. A very good sign of longevity, health and fruitfulness.” As she spoke, the woman patted the top of Erica’s hand, turned it over and then splayed her fingers.
Fruitfulness, as in child-bearing? Erica shivered when the strange woman ran a pudgy finger down the life lines of her palm. “There is a man in your life, a tall, dark man who is very attractive. You are in love with him, yes? Yet, you do not know if he is honest in his intentions.”
“Yes,” she mumbled, “something like that.”
“You must know this before you are able to move further. Is he an honorable man? Does he wish to have a future with you as well? All this may be revealed if you follow my instructions.” With that, Madam Paola released Erica’s hand and pulled herself out of her chair. For a large woman, the Santera seemed surprisingly spry as she disappeared into the shadows.
“How much money do you have?” Sacha asked from behind her.
“I don’t know, maybe a couple of dollars.” Erica couldn’t recall what her wallet held right now. The sights, the sounds, the smells of this casa de mágico had zapped all of her senses.
“Well, the lady takes credit cards, so you’re safe.”
Erica opened her mouth to balk at having to pay for hocus pocus, but she give a little yelp instead when she spied a skeleton mask hanging not two feet away, the grinning, leering skull surrounded by a halo of bright parrot feathers. Next to it, hung what looked like a stuffed scarecrow, though instead of traditional features, this one sported large, black Xs for a mouth and eyes. A large, economy-sized voodoo doll?
“Don’t worry, Paola guarantees her work. You won’t be disappointed.”
Erica snorted. “And if this magic spell doesn’t do the trick, do I get my money back? Should I ask for a receipt?” When she felt Sacha touch her bare arm, she gave a start. Not one to scare easily, she felt her skin crawl with goose bumps. This place had suddenly rankled her nerves.
Twenty minutes later, the Santera returned with a large, heavy rucksack. “I have the instructions here, along with what you will need to perform the ritual. My friend says you wish one for truth, another to reverse the effects of your affections should you find your lover a deceiver of your heart. Follow the directions closely, and it will not fail.”
“What do I do? Sprinkle the ingredients on him, or make him drink a potion?”
The older woman laughed, a rich, hearty contralto, though the slight eerie tinge to it made Erica shiver again. “You watch too many películas de horror, querida. You simply make your altar, just as I have instructed, and take the walk in the sea. I recommend a metal tray to place your offerings.”
Sure, it all sounded so simple in theory. A walk in the sea? Offerings to whom? Erica tried to suppress her own nervous laughter. She watched as Sacha took the sack from the voodoo lady, its weight evident by the way he bent slightly at the knees.
“For you, Eriqueta, I make a special price. Two hundred. If in a week’s time, you do not see results, you must call me and I will rework the spell.”
“What if it doesn’t work, period?” Always the conscientious consumer, Erica wanted some guarantees for two hundred bucks.
The woman narrowed her eyes to points of shimmering cobalt. The wide smile revealed stained, uneven teeth as if Madrina Paola chewed tobacco for sport, or perhaps even something more exotic like bat wings.
Erica fumbled in her purse. “Do you take Visa?”
“Of course, mija. Even us Santeras have to be practical.”
* * *
Since Erica doubted she could sleep, she allowed Sacha to talk her into performing the ritual. Making a pit stop at an all-night retail store for a metal tray, she helped her friend lug the sack of goodies up to her apartment.
“We need mood enhancers,” Sacha suggested and went to relight her prayer candles, and then selected a CD of contemporary South American music from her collection.
Erica pulled out her ritual implements as well as the instructions typed out on regular bond paper. “For some reason,” she laughed as she read, “I expected this to be on a roll of papyrus and written in calligraphy.”
“This is easier to understand,” Sacha commented as he began to recite the list of ingredients so Erica could gather them in order. “A package of seaweed strands and herbal mix, a bottle of cypress oil, a vial of goat fat, a bag of teosinte meal, two dried catfish eyes…” Here, he stopped and pulled a wry face. “Well, we’re either making a love potion or tomorrow’s dinner!”
“Yuck!” Giggling, Erica continued to line up items until she held up what looked like a ball of wax. “What do I do with this?”
“Let’s see.” Sacha quickly scanned the directions. “You’re supposed to me
lt it in a double boiler and add some of the ingredients in the exact order listed.”
Though she didn’t have a double boiler, she did manage to rig together two pots, the larger one with water along the bottom and started it to a boil on the stovetop. In order to get them into the spirit of the game, she produced a bottle of Sangria and her two good crystal goblets.
“We may as well make a night of it in honor of our sacrificial lamb... or in this case goat.”
Erica couldn’t remember when she’d had this much fun, almost like a girls’ night of activities, but instead of curling each other’s hair or painting toenails, she and Sacha were concocting some mysterious formula to make Nico Sloan bear his soul, so to speak. Their herb selection consisted of Valerian, borage, mug wort and nightshade, not your usual spice mix. What didn’t kill him could conceivably induce veracity if not vomiting.
Once she had the wax melted, Erica carefully poured it into one of her clay casserole bowls. Next, she worked in various ingredients including some of what looked like cornmeal before the mix began to cool completely. By the time she finished, she likened her blob to that of brain matter. Quickly dumping it on her tray, Erica turned over the honors of adding the pièce de résistance— the fish eyes—to her colleague.
“This is kind of fun,” Sacha commented as he gingerly stuck the fishy eyes in the middle of their “brain.” He added several turkey feathers for effect. “It’s certainly a funky and bizarre way to spend an evening.”
“Now, are we supposed to say anything?” Erica added two pillar candles to the tray.
Sacha consulted the directions. “In order to call the spirit of the one you wish to enchant, you must circle your hands over the offering twice and call the loved one’s name three times.”
“Okay, here goes nothing.” Tensing, Erica drew imaginary circles over her concoction and repeated Nico’s name three times. Then for good measure, she did the same with Gianni’s appellation.
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