Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola

by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  “You can bet on it, Cruz,” he said, and I gulped.

  When I glanced over my shoulder, he was watching me, that cockeyed grin still on his face.

  Chapter 3

  When I tiptoed into my mother’s kitchen a short time later, she was sifting through dried pinto beans, her back to me, completely absorbed in her task. Antonio and I shared the flat upstairs, but Mami’s kitchen was always my first stop. She was separating the good beans from the bad, pulling out any dirt clods and tiny rocks. See, our purposes in life weren’t actually so different. I just worked on helping good people stay away from bad people. For Mami, it was separating good beans from rocks.

  I watched as she grew still and seemed to sniff the air. For the millionth time in my life, I wondered if she was a curandera or if she really did have eyes buried under her dark brown hair like she’d always told us. Even though I knew it was coming, when she whipped her head around to face me in a full-on ambush, I yelped. “I hate it when you do that!”

  Her thick Spanish accent colored her speech. “You are late tonight, mi’ja. I thought maybe you were dead.”

  My grandfather ambled into the kitchen before I could answer, the clip-clap of his cane hitting the linoleum at regular intervals. We were a multigenerational family living under one roof. But constant company—despite an endless supply of food—was getting old.

  I kissed Abuelo’s cheek before turning back toward the door to head upstairs. Turns out I didn’t want Cruz companionship or food tonight.

  “Mi’ja,” he greeted in a whispery tone. All he needed was cotton stuffed in his cheeks like Marlon Brando, and the Godfather image would be complete.

  “Dolores,” Mami said, gearing up for her nightly rant. “I do not like this job you do. You come home so late—”

  I filled a glass with ice and topped it off with water. “Mami, it’s my job—”

  “You will get pneumonia drinking such cold water.” She jabbed a finger in the air, targeting the glass in my hand. “That is too much ice. Too much.”

  That sounded more like a curse than a prediction. I stared at her in awe. She had a knack for beginning one conversation and switching topics midway.

  I downed my ice water. If I could handle her, I could surely handle pneumonia.

  She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and turned to finish sorting the beans. A moment later she was facing me again. “We have to work on Chely’s quinceañera. Tía Marina is panicking. She tells me Chely won’t agree on anything.”

  ¡Ay, caramba! I’d forgotten. My cousin’s fifteenth birthday party was only a week away now. The quinceañera was supposed to symbolize Chely entering womanhood, but the planning had her acting like a six-year-old, and that’s just how my aunt treated her most of the time. And so the plans were falling apart.

  They both wanted the coming-of-age party to be perfect, but Tía Marina’s idea of perfect (baby pink, hearts and butterflies) was un poquito diferente from Chely’s idea of perfect (a hip-hop extravaganza with henna tattoos and classic Run DMC from the DJ).

  My head started pounding. I had to learn to say no. “I have a new case. A missing person.”

  Mami pointed her wooden spoon at me. “You are a missing person—from this family.”

  Oh boy, the guilt was thick today. “No, Mami, I’m not.”

  She rolled her eyes again. “¿Por qué quieres ser una detectiva?”

  Why do I want to be a detective? Was she kidding? “Mami, it’s all I’ve ever wanted. You know that.” I mean really, she asked the same question nearly every day.

  “Yo sé, yo sé. It has been your dream since you were fourteen.” She jabbed her wooden spoon at me. “I paid for all the—” She made a face. “—kung fu. Pero, why can’t you be a teacher? Like Gracie? Then you would be married instead of chasing bad men all over town, and you could help with Abuelita’s.” She waved her spoon around. “You are una mujer. A woman. This is not a job for a woman.”

  Ay, ay, ay. I made the sign of the cross. God, give me strength. Mami’s male-dominated view of the world made me crazy. And her memory was conveniently spotty. “First of all, Mami, I’ve always paid for my own kung fu training. And second, this is what I want to do. I don’t need to troll for a husband. ¿Entiendes?”

  “¡No! ¡No entiendo!” She looked up to the ceiling, waving her spoon at God. “Ay, this one will send me to an early grave. Why does my daughter torment me?”

  She jabbed a fistful of dried pintos at me. “No man wants his woman to be a—” She made another face. “—detective. No es apropiado.”

  It wasn’t appropriate to her. To me, it was essential. But I frowned anyway. Maybe she was right. Men probably didn’t want someone who could kick ass. If I had to choose between being a detective and being married, which would I pick?

  Tough one, although I didn’t buy my mother’s theory that the two were mutually exclusive. Still, the question stumped me. I suspected a man like Jack Callaghan would want a Cinderella chick, one he could love and leave easily.

  But who knows. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he craved a warrior princess. And here I was: Xena, in the flesh.

  I held my palm up to my mother, not willing to let her guilt me into doubting my career choice. “Mami, es mi vida.” Then I chugged another glass of ice water. It was my life. And I could drink ice water if I wanted to.

  So there. I know, so mature.

  “Sí, sí. It is your life. Pero, you came from my womb.”

  Oh, no. I sighed. I couldn’t argue with her about the womb.

  She dropped the beans and moved to the stove, flinging her hand back and forth in the air as if shooing away a fly. “We are running out of time on the quinceañera.”

  My shoulders slumped. “I know. I’ll talk to Chely.”

  “Hey.” Antonio sauntered in from the back door. Mami’s kitchen was always his first stop, too—mainly because he lacked the grocery-shopping gene and needed to fill his belly before he went upstairs to our sparse refrigerator.

  Why was it men seemed inherently unable to stock a refrigerator? Antonio was genetically incapable of shopping for anything except beer or stuff for the restaurant. Aside from the fact that Abuelita’s was his passion, I still hadn’t figured out how he managed the place without running out of food.

  He crunched on a chicharrón, grabbing a second piece of crispy pork skin before planting a kiss on my mother’s cheek. Abuelo popped them into his mouth one after another, stopping only when Antonio leaned in to give him a hug.

  My mother finally noticed. “¡No más, Papá!” she said, slapping his hand. “Leave some for the rest of us.”

  Abuelo stamped his cane on the floor. “Tu no eres mi madre, Magdalena.” He reached around her and snatched another chicharrón before she could slap his hand away again. Then he raised his lip in a victorious smile.

  They began a tug-of-war over the bowl, and I seized the opportunity to start backing out of the kitchen. Mami was in a foul mood. Definitely time to escape.

  I turned the handle on the utility room door, ready to make a dash for the back door. Slowly. Quietly. I was almost through when she flung her arm out and pointed at me. “¡Basta!”

  I stopped short. “I’m tired.”

  “We are not finished talking.” She poured the beans into a pot, added water, threw in half an onion, a few cloves of garlic, and turned on the stove. “Abrazo, mi’jo,” she crooned to Antonio.

  Sure, I got lectured and he got hugs. She could overlook the string of vapid women that paraded through his life, as long as she came first in his eyes. I shook my head and tapped my foot impatiently.

  Antonio gave her a quick hug back before crunching another chicharrón.

  “You look terrible with that goatee, you know,” she said. “It is not a surprise no respectable girl wants you.” She reached up and squeezed his cheeks together, softening the criticism.

  “Drop it, Mami. I’m not shaving.”

  She shook her head and went back to her pintos, pouring
salt into her palm and then adding it to the pot. Enough said for today, but we all knew the topic of Tonio’s goatee was far from dead. His goatee, my career—she’d rant for the rest of her life and never give up the fight. Only Gracie was safe, bless her perfect heart.

  “Hey, Lola.” Antonio grinned at me.

  That Cheshire cat smile. Oooh, I knew immediately that he was up to something. “Hey,” I said.

  I picked up my bag and started to back out again—for real, this time. My mother could lecture me about my career and my cousin’s quinceañera tomorrow.

  Antonio spoke to our mother, but he looked at me. “Mami, I heard from an old high school friend just now. Jack Callaghan. You remember him?”

  The hair on my neck stood up. Had Jack called Antonio the second I left the bar?

  “Por supuesto. El guapo. Of course I remember.” She moved to the counter, picked up a ball of tortilla dough, and slapped it between her hands, flattening it into a puffy disk.

  Antonio drew out his next sentence. “I invited him here for dinner Sunday.”

  “What?” I wiggled my finger in my ear. Surely I hadn’t heard right. “He’s a mujeriego, remember, Mami? Always looking for a new woman.” And after seeing him again tonight after so many years, I was pretty sure I’d welcome the opportunity to be one of those women, given enough time.

  “I am certain that he has grown up, just like Antonio.”

  I held back my laugh. My brother hadn’t grown up. He was still looking for a good time and not much else. There was no reason to think Jack wasn’t still exactly the same. “No way,” I said. “He can’t come here.”

  My mother threw down her tortilla dough and gaped at me. “No way? Dolores Falcón Cruz. What manners are these?”

  Ah shit. Pissing my mother off was not the way to keep my tummy full.

  “We will not turn away a friend at our door,” Mami said. She picked up her dough again. I grimaced at her strength—I suspected that she wished it was my head she was slapping between her palms. “I raised you better than that.”

  I reconsidered. If we had dinner with Jack, maybe I’d come up with some more questions to ask him about Emily Diggs. Okay, that was an excuse. I wanted to see him again. I couldn’t deny it. “You’re right. You raised me better than that.”

  She slapped another ball of tortilla dough. “He is your brother’s frie—” she stopped. “What did you say?”

  I smiled to myself. God, it was good to throw her off every now and then. “I said you were right.”

  Antonio grinned. “Great. He said he misses your cooking, Mami.”

  If it hadn’t already been a done deal, that statement would have carved it in stone. Appealing to Mami’s culinary pride—checkmate.

  “He will come to Sunday dinner.” My mother squared her shoulders and waved her hand out toward Antonio. “Punto.”

  I heaved a sigh. She was being so melodramatic, even though I’d already given in. Hospitality was the cornerstone of her existence. Magdalena Cruz lived for visitors, and her kitchen had a revolving door.

  I had a sudden thought. “It is too bad that Antonio can’t find a good woman, what with the goatee and all… .” I trailed off, mirroring Antonio’s Cheshire cat grin.

  “Whatever it is, Lola,” he said, peering at me, “the answer’s no.”

  Mami looked from him to me. Years of experience had taught her how this worked. “The answer to what is no?”

  “I have a friend who has a crush on Tonio.” I spoke pointedly. “A really nice girl, Mami. A secretary.”

  Her face softened as she pondered this. “A secretary. Ah, much better I think than the—how do you say?—Hooter girl you bring home last month.”

  Antonio scowled at me. “I liked the Hooter girl.”

  “I know!” I exclaimed, smiling at my brother. Sweet revenge. My mother had my back now, so I went for the jugular. “Me, you—and Reilly. We should go out.”

  Antonio backed away. “No way, Lola. Not that girl from Camacho’s. She’s—” He looked at Mami. “—short.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him and smirked. You can’t talk your way out of this one, hermano. “If she wears high heels”—really, really high heels—“she’ll be my height.”

  “But you’re—” He flailed his arms around and looked me up and down. “—and she’s—”

  “All set to go dancing Tuesday night,” I finished.

  Mami went back to the tortillas. “How do you know this girl?”

  I tore off a piece of hot tortilla and folded it into my mouth. “She works for Manny.”

  Her face softened. She might hate my job, and Manny might be my boss and divorced, but he was wickedly handsome, presumably Catholic, and Mexicano. And that was just too much of a good thing. “Now, there is a man you could marry.”

  “Mami, he’s my boss. And we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about Tonio going out with Reilly.”

  She gave a curt nod, a smile tickling the corner of her mouth. “I will make mole for Jack,” she said, “and Dolores will help me.”

  Her voice was terse and a little threatening as she turned to Antonio. “And you will see this friend—¿cómo se llama?—Reilly.” She waved her spoon again like a magic wand. “Punto.”

  And as if the word of God had been spoken, that was that.

  Chapter 4

  The pounding on my bedroom door jolted me awake. I jumped out of my bed, my muscles tightening as I cocked my arms and curled my fingers. For a second I thought I’d dreamed it, but the banging started again.

  “Lola! Wake up!”

  “What?” I demanded, shaking away the sleep. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Chely.”

  I slapped my forehead and fell back onto my bed, ignoring Salsa’s garbled protest at her interrupted sleep. The day before flooded back into my mind: Manny, Tomb Raider girl, the ex-wife, Emily Diggs, Jack at the Forty-niner, Sunday dinner, Tonio’s going out with Reilly… . What would today bring?

  I closed my eyes and drifted off again… .

  More pounding. “Lola!”

  I shoved the covers off, stumbled across the room, and flung open the door. “It’s too early for this,” I said, frowning at her.

  “You have to stop her.” Chely was frantic, panic in her voice. “She’s ruining my life with this quinceañera.” She darted a glance at my pajamas. “Cute boxers, but the shirt’s kinda thin.”

  I ignored her fourteen-year-old assessment of my pj’s. “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic? A quinceañera can’t ruin your life.” But as I rubbed my eyes, I reconsidered. Knowing my aunt, it probably could be destructive. I’d barely made it through the whole rite-of-passage thing, and my mom had been relatively sane.

  The delectable smell of dark roast percolating from the kitchen caught my attention. I followed the scent like a zombie. Chely padded behind me, Salsa trotting behind her. If we had Gloria Estefan playing in the background, we could have started our own conga line.

  I talked to Chely over my shoulder. “You wanted this, remember? For what it’s costing, you could have gone for braces.”

  She shrieked in my ear. “You think I need braces?”

  I smacked my forehead and spun around to face her. “Your teeth are fine, Chely. It was a joke.” Obviously not a good one, but still…

  She bared her teeth at me. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. They’re perfect. Now, what’s today’s drama with the party?”

  “My mom wants it powder blue and baby pink!” she wailed. “And your mom, like, isn’t helping. She actually suggested butterflies and clouds. Or worse, hearts. Can you believe it? Butterflies, clouds, and hearts. I’ll never be able to show my face at school again.” She buried her face in her hands and wailed louder. “My life is over.”

  Butterflies, clouds, and hearts sounded exactly like what my traditional mother and her even more traditional sister would suggest. My shoulders slumped slightly. My heart went out to my cousin. I
started toward the kitchen again, desperate for coffee. “I’ll talk to them, but I can’t promise—”

  I stopped short at the living room. Men’s laughter and guitar strains? At this hour? In my apartment? Chely plowed right into my back, lurching me forward.

  Antonio reclined on the couch, his black acoustic guitar propped on his legs, his feet resting on the coffee table. As usual, he looked like he was up to no good.

  “Hey, sleepyhead.” Then he looked at my flimsy pj’s, and his eyes darkened. Did his teeth just clench? “You remember Jack, don’t you?”

  I rubbed my eyes, sneaking a look at the man sitting across from my dopey brother. Oh my God, he looked good. All whiskers and tousled hair.

  “Morning, Lola.”

  I choked on air. “Morning, Jack.”

  Chely’s breath hit my shoulder, and her hand lightly touched my lower back. I couldn’t tell if she was helping me keep my balance or helping herself stay upright.

  Jack’s gaze slipped down my body, and I froze. My nipples felt suspiciously perky. Shit. Double shit. Why was I wearing white?

  Finally his gaze settled back on my face. Yeah, that took a while, buddy. His eyes were pools of blue, lighter and clearer than they’d been last night. I admit, I have a thing about eyes—mirrors into the soul. He gave me that cockeyed grin, and darn it if my body didn’t actually quiver. What was wrong with me? I was an independent woman, a freethinker who was bucking culture and tradition. I could lust after this man, but I couldn’t actually fall for him.

  He was a womanizer, and I knew he’d never be my parents’ or grandparents’ first choice for me. He had too many Cruz strikes against him out of the gate. First, he wasn’t Mexican. Not essential, but a definite plus to my parents. Second, his parents were divorced. Again, mine would freak over this. (Although my mother was able to accept that Manny was divorced, but then, he had the Mexican thing going for him.) Third, and most important, I couldn’t remember if he was Catholic. And that was a deal-breaker for Mami and Papi. It would be an uphill battle for me if I ever chose a Protestant as my one and only.