Leopard girl smiled slightly and then drew Sean back to the tiger.
“Find out where Emily is,” Walter commanded me.
Exactly what I intended to do.
I hated to leave Emily’s son, but I couldn’t see questioning him. He was a child. They needed some family bonding—and major therapy—and I needed time to think, and some Band-Aids for my blistered feet.
I knelt down in front of Sean again and handed him his dinosaur. “I brought this for you. Would you like me to get some of your other toys?”
He hugged the stegosaurus and nodded. I added Get some more of his things from Mary Bonatee to my mental list of things to do. At the top of that list was giving him back his mother.
I said good-bye and limped out of the zoo. Driving by Saint Francis, I decided on the fly to attend afternoon Mass. Sean could use an extra prayer. Plus, if I went now, I could sleep in tomorrow. Two birds…
I circled the block, found parking, and hobbled up to the front entrance of the church. Just climbing the stairs to the vestibule calmed me. Tension melted away with every step.
I zoned out during most of the service—thinking about Emily’s children instead of the liturgy—standing, kneeling, and sitting at the appropriate times more out of habit than out of devotion. Obviously devotion wasn’t a crucial element, because I already felt much better.
After Mass ended, I headed to the rectory. You really had to want to light a candle to pray for someone, because it required walking—or in my case, limping—across the street, buying a candle for a buck, and walking back to church to light it. I guess we Catholics weren’t honest enough to be on the honor system.
If I was going to light one candle, I figured I might as well light a few. Three was a good number. I knew right off the bat that one would be for Emily and one would be for Sean.
I tapped my cheek with my finger. Who should I light the third candle for? Mary Bonatee was pretty stressed. And then there was my mother. I could pray that she chill out and stop stressing over my career so much. Although Sadie could benefit from a candle in her honor, I immediately decided against that. I didn’t feel inclined to waste a good prayer on her—especially since I was pretty sure it wouldn’t do any good.
In the end, I decided on Allison. Her mother was missing; her brother was dead. She had real angst and could probably use a good thought tossed her way. I lit the third candle and prayed for Allison to get her life together and find some peace.
And then I headed home to scour Emily’s notebook and try to figure out where she might have gone on the day she went missing.
After a midmorning kung fu class followed by an hour and a half of yoga, I was in the kitchen under the pretense of getting ready for the Sunday feast.
By mid afternoon my mother already had the mole sauce cooking, the chocolaty scent of it filling the room. She stood at the counter, rolling out a fresh batch of flour tortillas. To her, no Sunday meal was complete without homemade tortillas. I usually agreed, but I didn’t have much of an appetite at the moment. Jack was coming to dinner, and I couldn’t help but count the thousand ways I could be humiliated in front of him.
“Are you going to change?” my mother asked.
I looked down at my outfit. “What’s wrong with this?” How I managed to keep a straight face was a testament to my acting ability. I knew I looked flirty, if a little underdressed, in a low-waisted, flared white skirt and a stretchy lavender top with tiny decorative buttons up the front (which was, just possibly, a little too low-cut and a tad too tight). At least my shirt wasn’t see-through. I had boundaries, after all.
My mother yanked at the hem of my top, trying to pull it over my naked belly button. “This is too small.” When the fabric snapped back into place, she gave up. “We are having a dinner guest, Dolores. It is Sunday. You could dress nice, ¿no?”
“This is nice.” For a rendezvous in the nearest bedroom.
She gave an exasperated sigh and went back to the comal on the stove, flipping over a bubbling tortilla. My stomach grumbled, but the thought of food was nauseating. I sat down at the table across from my father. He was flipping through the newspaper, grunting as he read bits of it here and there. I studied him, thinking that I resembled him more than I did my mother, though most of my family disagreed. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Papi had a strong jaw and warm olive skin. I wanted the depth that his soulful hazel eyes seemed to hold and the strength that emanated from him.
He caught me watching him and gave me a puzzled look. “¿Qué?”
“Nada,” I said. If I found myself a man who was half as thoughtful and committed as my dad, I’d be lucky.
I turned to Emily’s journal and began flipping the pages again, still processing all the different information she’d scribbled. Apparently she and Sean shared the notebook, because his crayon drawings and careful large letters marked almost every page. He’d written, “I love you Mommy” next to a drawing of a woman. There was a portrait of a family on the lined paper, and on the next page there was a colorful drawing of a boat rocking on the ocean.
She’d written names and dates. I ran through them, hoping something would spark inspiration. Muriel. R. Case. Todd. They meant nada to me. Less than nada.
A knock on the front door interrupted my musings. I glanced at the clock—3:37. Sunday dinner was always in the afternoon, which gave us plenty of time to burn off the high-calorie meal. My imagination suddenly raced with thoughts about how Jack could help me burn calories.
My mother immediately slipped her apron off and tucked it into a drawer. Then she patted her hair and smacked her lips. Was Jack her date—or mine?
Actually, neither. He was here for Antonio today. My turn was tomorrow.
My father folded up the newspaper and joined her on the way to the door, welcoming Jack like a soldier returning home from the war. It was as if he wasn’t the player who my mother had caught feeling up some cheerleader in our backyard when he was sixteen, Antonio in the opposite corner of the yard with another pom-pom girl.
If my parents knew he’d seen me in my underwear, knew I was going to lunch with him tomorrow, knew I wanted him to take me to some corner of our yard and make me cry out in ecstasy—I had the feeling the welcome would be different. Like maybe Mami would be chasing him down the street, wielding her biggest kitchen knife, instead of primping for him.
I stood up from the table just as Antonio walked in from the utility room. He looked me over, and his mouth quirked. “Subtle.”
I rolled my eyes but grew a touch concerned. If Antonio thought my efforts to be alluring were obvious, I’d probably gone too far. Too late to change now. I leaned back against the counter and continued to flip through Emily’s notebook while I waited for Jack’s grand entrance. Nonchalant. Very cool. Good job, Lola, I thought. I was playing it smooth.
“Jack,” I heard my mother say. I could just see her kissing both his cheeks in her old-fashioned way. “It has been too long.”
“Señor,” my father’s quiet voice greeted. “¿Cómo estás?”
“I’m good, sir,” Jack said. “How about you?”
My father responded, but I was stuck on Jack’s voice. It was a let-me-take-you-to-bed-now voice, and I bit my lip, feeling twinges in places I’d forgotten existed.
They walked into the kitchen, my mother’s hand tucked in the crook of Jack’s arm. “¿Y tu familia?”
Jack nodded. “They’re fine, thanks. Keeping busy.”
My mother nodded sagely, leaving out any mention of Jack’s father. We all remembered Jack’s junior year in high school when his dad had left his mom for another woman.
“¿Y tu hermana Brooke? We see her around. A police officer. Hmph. Y mi Dolores a detective,” she added, shaking her head. What is it with these girls and their dangerous career choices? her words seemed to say.
He gave me a little smile. “They’re strong. They can handle themselves.”
Good answer, Jack. And he still had rudimentary Spanish-compr
ehension abilities. Two more checks in his “pro” column.
Mami’s expression shifted and seemed to say, What do you know? Thank God she kept her thoughts to herself.
Antonio held out his hand to Jack, pulling him into a bear hug when he took it. “Bienvenido, Callaghan.” Then he turned to Mami. “No más. Let the man alone.”
Looking Jack straight in the eyes made my vision go blurry. They had the same soulful depth I saw in my father’s. I couldn’t form a single word.
My mother marched up to me and whispered, “Saluda, Dolores.” If only she knew how I really wanted to greet him.
She went back to the stove as my father gathered up the sections of the newspaper from the table.
Jack’s grin quirked up in one corner. “Lola.” I think he tried not to check me out, but his gaze drifted up and down my body. Thank God my parents were otherwise engaged, or the scenario of Mami chasing him down the street with the knife might have become reality.
I arched an eyebrow at him and put my hand on my hip. He’d already had a preview of me. If he wanted the whole show, he’d have to buy the wine-and-dine ticket. Not that it mattered what I wore. I suspected Jack Callaghan might always make me feel naked.
I peeked guiltily at my mother, glad she couldn’t read my mind. I needed some alcohol to calm my wild impulses.
“Margaritas, anyone?” I said, proud of myself that I’d managed to put a jaunty lilt in my voice.
Jack piped up right away. “Yep. I’ll take one.” Every word he spoke was smooth and sultry and reminded me of silk sheets and a cozy morning. No man had ever given me thoughts like this, least of all Sergio, the longest relationship I’d had. I’d spent two years of my life with a cookie-crumbs-in-bed and cold-feet guy. Even after ten years, Sergio was the kind of mistake a woman wishes she could erase.
I shook the silk sheets from my brain and focused on Jack. The pictures I had of him didn’t do him justice. He’d been a boy back then. Now he was all man, from his dark brown hair to his loafers, and every millimeter of taut muscle in between.
His eyes seemed to sparkle at me. Could he read my mind? The moment splintered as Antonio slapped him on the back. “Good choice, hombre. Lola makes a mean margarita. Her own special recipe.”
I pulled out my official margarita equipment: blender, premium bottle of Tres Mujeres tequila, triple sec, a bottle of beer, lime juice, and the ice bucket from the freezer. I rubbed the glass rims with a wedge of lime and dipped them in sea salt, coating the edges. Turning my back, I downed a shot of tequila. Who needed salt and lime when you were fighting nerves and lust?
Sufficiently warm inside, I blended the ingredients together, glad for the grating noise and distraction. When I couldn’t stall any longer, I poured, turning and passing around the frosty glasses.
“Good to see you, Jack.” My dad’s voice rang thick with his Spanish accent. We raised our glasses. “Salud,” he said.
“Salud,” we all echoed.
“Good to see you all, too, sir.”
Twice with the sir. Jack had gotten respectful since he’d been gone.
He caught me staring. “Excellent margarita, Lola.”
“Thanks.” I took a long drink then slammed the heel of my palm against my forehead. Brain freeze! But a voice managed to ring out from the depths of my body like a contestant for Miss America. “Margaritas are one of my specialties.”
The corner of his mouth curved up temptingly. “Just one of the many.”
I smiled back. Were we flirting? In front of my parents? I needed to pace myself. “I’ve liked your articles so far.”
“So you’ve read them.”
Should I have admitted that? “Oh, you know. Here and there.”
He gave me a skeptical look, like he knew I scoured the paper every day for something written by him. “I’m always searching for new things to write about. Investigating, talking to people. That’s where the ideas come from.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Right, like Emily Diggs.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” He shook his head. “Do you have a picture of her? I don’t remember the name, but—”
I held up my index finger, told him to wait, and raced upstairs. Three minutes later, I returned, out of breath, my file of Emily in my hand. “Right here,” I said, opening it up and passing it over so he could have a look.
He started. “Her?”
That looked like recognition to me. “Have you talked to her?”
He nodded slowly. “I have. She showed up at the newspaper kind of belligerent. Security took her out, but I gave her my card before they got her out the door. I’d forgotten.”
My ears perked up. “When was this?”
He thought as he took another drink. “Two weeks ago?”
“She never called you?”
My mother piped up. “It is Sunday, Dolores. Stop this.”
Jack held his palm out. “It’s fine, Mrs. Cruz.” He turned back to me. “No. She never called.”
Antonio leaned against the counter, sipping his drink. Papi rifled through the refrigerator and Mami glared.
“Do you know what she wanted?” I asked. “Any idea?”
“Not really. I asked security. Something about her son. That’s all I got.”
I finished my drink and refilled my glass. Something about her son. Which son? And why go to the paper?
“Can we have dinner now?” Mami asked, staring me down. “Por favor.”
I took the file back from Jack and put it with Emily’s notebook on the counter. “Sure, Mami.”
She handed me an industrial pair of shiny silver tongs to pick chicken out of the stockpot. Standing over the stove, steam billowing around my face, I imagined I looked a little like an amber-skinned Cinderella, but deep down I knew I was Xena. What kind of girl did Jack want? I suspected that it was the dainty princess—and I didn’t want it to be.
The smile he flashed at me as he refilled his glass melted my insides a little. Well, shoot. I could be Cinderella or Snow White if that’s what he wanted—at least for a day.
Get a grip, Lola. I turned and downed another shot of tequila. Hell no, I couldn’t be Snow White. Maybe Mulan. That Disney character had it going on. And so did I. I couldn’t pretend otherwise.
“You enjoy the mole, Jack, yes?” my mother asked from the stove.
“Oh yeah, Mrs. Cruz.” He kept his eyes glued to me. “Sweet and savory. Love every last bit of it.”
A shiver shimmied up my spine. I swallowed, flipped a tortilla, and then stirred the contents of the blender with blinding focus. I jumped a mile when the phone rang. We all turned to stare at the wireless unit. Saved by Ma Bell.
Mami cleared her throat. “Excuse me, por favor. I am expecting a call.”
I cocked a brow at her back. She was expecting a call? From who? The pope?
She picked up the handset. “Bueno.” She listened for a moment then slipped into Spanish, her tone formal. “Bien, gracias. ¿Y usted, señor?”
Okay, so she really was expecting a call. I tuned her out, concentrating instead on finishing my margarita. If Jack’s words and vague innuendos could make me shiver, what would touching him, and having him touch me, make me feel?
My mother thrust the phone at me with a glare. “Para ti.”
I took the phone. “Hello?” My lips felt heavy, and gravity pulled my eyelids into slow blinks. Man, good tequila worked fast.
“Dolores? It’s Manny.”
My eyelids flew open. “Manny.” Why was he calling here? I bent at the knees and carefully set my glass on the wavy counter. Throwing my shoulders back, I stood up as straight as I could. I was professional and alert. “Is shomething wrong?” I slurred, my mouth working a step behind my brain. Okay, not so alert. I waited for Manny’s explanation, my fingertips tapping my forehead. Damn, I shouldn’t have had that last shot.
“I have a situation. Are you available tonight?”
What kind of situation? “Available? Tonight?”
> I looked over my shoulder and caught Jack’s expression. It was a combination of heady lust and disappointment.
Exactly what I was feeling.
“I need your help with a case,” Manny said.
My heart did a double somersault. I didn’t want to leave now. I really did not want to leave now, but this was my job. No man would get in the way of that. Flapping my hand at them, I made a serious face, pointed to the phone, and slurred loudly, “It’s my bossh. Mi jefe,” I said to Mami, although she’d answered the phone and already knew it was Manny. I sidestepped past them and into the living room.
“Dolores?” Manny barked.
I nodded.
“Dolores?” he said again.
Ah, revelation. He couldn’t hear my nod. “Mmm-hmm. I’m here.” I slapped my cheek, trying to knock the alcoholic blur out of my brain.
“Sadie can’t make her shift at Laughlin’s.” His voice was tense. “I need you to fill in.”
My stomach gurgled in panic. Shit! I forced my eyelids wide again and looked around. At least I could focus. I just had to ignore the haziness and soft edges around everything. “Right.” I articulated so I wouldn’t slur. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.” Laughlin’s was close by. Down the street. I could walk—since there was no way in hell I was getting behind the wheel of my car right now. I might be tipsy, but I wasn’t stupid.
“Why are you shouting? Are you all right?”
Was I yelling? I lowered my voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m fine, Manny. I’m on the job. I’ll be right there.”
“I’ll pick you up. Five minutes.” The line went dead, and that was that. Manny was on his way, and I was holding a dead phone.
Eight eyes were staring at me when I rushed back into the kitchen. I forged through the gawking crowd. “Something’s come up. I have to go.” I looked longingly at Jack. I really didn’t want to leave him, but work was work. “See you later,” I said.
The faint indentation of Jack’s dimple taunted me, and I imagined squeezing his cheeks together as my mother had done to Antonio. There was a magnetic draw to it—to him—that I’d never understood. Even after fourteen years, it hadn’t ebbed.
Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola Page 8