She glanced back down at the crinkled map in the passenger seat, brushing aside the wadded Snickers wrappers covering it. If her navigation was correct, she should be knocking on Esme’s door in no time. And if fate was on her side, the doc would be willing to hear her out.
*
Three hellish days had passed since the ill-fated appearance on The Barry Stillman Show. Esme—bundled in voluminous sweatpants and feeling like lukewarm death—slumped cross-legged on the floor of her living room across from her best buddies, Lilly Lujan and Pilar Valenzuela. Between them, on the dark brown carpeting, sat serving dishes filled with various comfort foods: enchilada casserole, mashed potatoes, chicken mole, and a Sara Lee cheesecake. Not to mention the pitcher of margaritas. Their forks hung limply from their hands as they took a collective break from gastronomically comforting themselves.
Esme leaned back against her slipcovered sofa and laid her hands on her distended abdomen with a groan. If only Gia Mendez could see her at this moment, she thought. How beautiful would the makeup artist claim she was now?
Esme’s eyes were still tear-swollen, and she’d broken out in a rash on her neck from the stress. Her hair was smashed on one side, spiked out on the other, since she’d spent most of the last two days lying listlessly on the couch channel-surfing to kill time between her crying jags. Now she was bloated, and she just didn’t care. The entire universe already knew she was ugly. No sense trying to hide it.
Oddly enough, a memory other than being humiliated on television kept popping into her mind, squeezing her heart. She’d been just a little girl, one who loved playing dress-up and watching Miss Universe on TV. She would close her eyes during commercials and picture herself accepting the crown for the USA in English, then thanking her parents in Spanish. At that point, she still believed it could happen. At that point, she still wanted it to happen.
But one summer afternoon, her aunt Luz and her mother were sharing iced tea on the front porch, while Esme played with dolls in her room. Her window was open, inviting a breeze that carried the voices of mama and Tía Luz.
“Look, Luz. Photographs of the children from the church picnic last week.”
The sounds of Tía thumbing through the prints came next, and Esme’s ears perked when she heard, “Ah, there’s little Esme.” A pause. “Such a smart girl.”
“Gracias,” murmured her mother, and Esme could hear the smile on Mama’s face.
“Thank God for her brains. She certainly didn’t get the looks. With those skinny chicken knees and thick glasses, she may never find a husband, but she’ll always find a good job.”
Esme froze, a crampy feeling in her stomach like when she’d eaten too much raw cookie dough the week before. She set down her dolls and curled up on her side on the floor, hoping her tummy would stop hurting. It made her want to cry. She tried to stop listening, but she couldn’t help herself.
Her mama tsk-tsked. “Don’t be cruel, Luz. Not everyone can be beautiful, nor does everyone need a husband. She’ll grow into her looks.”
“We can only hope she’s a late bloomer,” Tía Luz added.
But she hadn’t bloomed at all, no matter what Gia claimed about her looks three days earlier. If she had, she wouldn’t have ended up as a guest on Barry Stillman’s horrific bookworm makeover show. Pushing the painful memory from her mind, Esme scratched at the red bumps below her ear and hiccuped.
“You still have those?” Pilar asked.
“I get them when I’m under”—hiccup—“stress.” She nudged up her glasses, then took to scratching the other side of her neck. “They’ve come and gone since the”—hiccup—“fiasco. I’m probably just gulping”—hiccup—“down my food too fast.”
Pilar got up, stepped over the smorgasbord, then plopped herself onto the couch behind Esme. “I’m gonna plug your ears, and you drink your margarita. It may not get rid of ’em, but after all that tequila, you won’t care.”
Esme let out a mirthless chuckle, then did as she was told. It worked. She smiled up at Pilar, who’d begun playing with Esme’s unruly hair, and absentmindedly brought her fingernails to her neck again.
“Honey, don’t scratch your rash. You’ll make it worse,” Lilly told her softly. “Did you use that cream I gave you?”
Esme nodded and rested her hands in her lap. If anyone knew what being judged for your looks felt like, it was Lilly. She and Esme understood the concept from different perspectives, though. Lilly, a natural beauty with wavy, waist-length black hair and huge green eyes, had gone on to a great modeling career after being named Prettiest Girl in high school. At thirty, she was one of America’s most recognizable Chicanas, having graced the pages of Cosmo, Vanity Fair, Latina, Vanidades, and Vogue, to name a few. In looks, she and Esme were polar opposites, always had been. But in their hearts, along with Pilar, they were soul triplets.
If only she’d looked like Lilly onstage. Maybe then Gia would have felt something for her other than pity. Lilly never lacked in attention from gorgeous women. Esme closed her eyes against the wave of embarrassment she’d relived repeatedly since the filming in Chicago. On the airplane, she felt like everyone was staring at her. Look! There’s the ugly professor!
She’d medicated herself with several tiny bottles of cheap, screw-cap wine during the flight, and had finally convinced herself she was being overly paranoid. Still, it had taken every ounce of her courage to walk through Denver International Airport with her head held up, even with Lilly and Pilar flanking her for much-needed moral support. Of course people had seen her. The Barry Stillman Show had 30 million viewers, she’d since learned via a Google search. She just wasn’t sure who had seen her, and that’s what scared her most.
It had felt so good to finally walk into her comfortable home in Washington Park and deadbolt the door behind her. And after a half an hour of quiet, she’d started to feel better, thinking maybe no one had seen the show. Then her phone had begun to ring. It seemed everyone she’d ever met in her life had seen the goddamn show. Her answering machine had been clogged for two days with uncomfortable messages of sympathy and pity—just what she needed. A local full-service beauty salon had even sent a courier bearing a gift certificate, much to her utter dismay.
The phone rang again, and Esme glared at it. “I could die,” she whispered to her friends, chugging down another healthy dose of margarita. She wiped salt from her lips and added, “Who could that be now? The president? I think he’s the only one who hasn’t sent condolences for the untimely death of my dignity.”
Lilly clicked her tongue and cast a beseeching look at Esme while Pilar reached over and switched off the ringer. “When we realized what they were doing, we tried our hardest to get backstage to warn you, Esme, I swear,” Lilly told her.
“They wouldn’t let us,” Pilar added, digging her fork into the cheesecake. “Rat bastards. Your mama laid into them with a barrage of Spanish cuss words. Made my hair stand on end. I think they didn’t know quite what to do with her.” She popped the bite into her mouth and chewed, her eyes fixed apologetically on Esme’s face.
“I don’t blame you guys. It was my fault for walking into their trap.” She furrowed her fingers into her hair and laid her head back against the couch. And what a trap they’d set, with a juicy enticer like Gia Mendez to lure women in. Or men, for that matter. She couldn’t imagine a soul on earth who wouldn’t find Gia Mendez sexy. God, I’m so stupid.
“It’s unconscionable what they do to people, Esme. You should complain,” Lilly said, dishing up another serving of enchiladas.
She shook thoughts of Gia from her mind and graced her friend with a wan smile. “Eh, it wouldn’t do any good. Besides, I just want to forget it ever happened.” To forget that I entertained even one thought that a sex goddess like Gia Mendez would look twice at a woman like me.
Miss Universe, she wasn’t.
“How much time off do you have before the new semester starts?” Pilar asked.
“A little over a month.” A littl
e over four weeks until she had to face Vile Vitoria again. The thought of Elizalde made her want to fistfight. “God, that arrogant woman,” she growled. “Who does she think she is, anyway?”
“That’s right,” Pilar said, wrapping her arms around Esme’s shoulders from behind for a hug. “As if you’d ever give her the time of day anyway.”
Esme didn’t think she’d go that far, but she only said, “I’ve got to think of some way to get back at the jackass.”
“Oh, revenge.” Lilly nodded her head. “That’s always a good, healthy way to recover from trauma.”
Recognizing the sarcasm, Esme rolled her eyes. “In any case, I’m hoping by the time I go back it will be old news to everyone and my own embarrassment will have waned. I want absolutely no reminders of that debacle.” Especially none of a brown-eyed artist with fingers that made a woman scream for edible body paints.
The doorbell chimed. Twice.
Esme looked from Lilly to Pilar and frowned. “Who could that be? TMZ?”
“Very funny. It’s probably your mama,” Lilly said, standing. “I’ll get it.”
“No, wait.” Esme groaned to her feet. “Let me. It’ll probably be the only exercise I get all week.” Padding across the brown carpet in a tequila-induced zigzag, Esme made her way to the dark front hall leading to the door. Lord knew, she needed some fresh air.
July in Colorado heated right up, but the temperature dropped with the sun, bringing cool breezes in with the moon. Maybe she’d sit with Mama on the porch instead of bringing her in. The darkness would hide some of the puffiness around her eyes, and staying outside would prevent Mama from witnessing their little pity party on the living room carpet. The woman would be aghast that they were eating so much food from dishes set right on the floor. Mama was nothing if not proper.
Esme stopped in the dark hallway, leaned against the wall, and pulled in a long, deep breath. Just the thought of seeing her mama brought on renewed feelings of shame. Oh, her parents had handled everything much better than she had. It didn’t matter—she still felt guilty. She knew, deep down, they had to be embarrassed that their daughter was known nationwide as an ugly wallflower. No matter how long it took, she was going to put the incident to rest for all of them, just as soon as her anger at Vitoria Elizalde dissipated.
Esme flipped on the porch light before she threw the deadbolt back and pulled on the heavy, carved wooden door. She started speaking as the hinges squeaked.
“It’s late, Mama, you shouldn’t be ou—” Her words cut off as her mind grasped the realization that the lean, muscular woman looming larger than life on her porch bore no resemblance whatsoever to her mother.
She wasn’t sure if her heart had stopped or was beating so fast she couldn’t feel it. Either way, she looked like hell and had a guacamole smear on her sweatshirt, and here she stood face-to-face with—“Gia”—hiccup—“w-what are you doing here?” Amazingly calm question considering her life had just passed before her eyes. Esme hoped she wouldn’t fall down, because she could no longer feel her feet. And, physiological impossibility aside, she’d just proven that a person could exist without a heartbeat or the ability to draw air into the lungs. Gia Mendez? Here?
“Esme. Forgive me for…just showing up.” She spread her arms wide and let them drop to her sides, as if searching for what to say next. Her long, silky hair hung free of the ponytail Esme remembered, and the yellow glow of the porch light made it shine like a sheet of black gold. Gia looked just as good in dark jeans and a well-worn University of Chicago sweatshirt as she had the day Esme had met her.
Looking at her, Esme fought the ridiculous urge to sit on the floor. Instead, she stood stock still and bunched the avocado-stained front of her sweatshirt into her fist. With her other hand, she poked her glasses up on her nose. “I…I thought I made it clear you should”—hiccup—“leave me alone.”
To her dismay, Gia flashed a devastating, sweet smile that pulled a dimple into her left cheek. Esme hadn’t noticed that the other day. “Don’t tell me you’ve had those hiccups since you left Chicago.”
She shook her head and hiccuped again.
“Esme, we need to talk.” Gia took a step forward, and Esme eased the door partway closed, hiding half of her body behind it. Gia stopped, stared at her.
Her gaze dropped to Esme’s neck as she swallowed. “No,” she said. “We don’t need to talk. I want to”—she held her breath for a moment and staved off a hiccup—“forget everything about that day.” God, she wanted to be angry at Gia Mendez. She didn’t want to feel her heart beating in anticipation at the mere sight of her, or worry that Gia had noticed her disheveled hair. She didn’t want to smell the woman’s pheromones on the night air or yearn to feel Gia’s strong arms around her for comfort. “Denial is my drug of choice. I’m going to pretend it never happened.”
“It shouldn’t have happened, Esme.” Gia laid her palm high up on the door frame, leaning toward her. “I feel just—”
“Don’t.” Esme held out her hand. Attraction or not, Gia had been a part of the trick; Esme couldn’t forget that. “Don’t apologize now, after the fact, because I really, really thought you were a nice woman, Gia Mendez. An apology will only make me want to slug you, and I’ve had too much trauma and too much”—hiccup—“tequila to resist the urge.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Gia said, after pausing to chew on her full, sexy lip.
Her pointed gaze, filled with inexplicable affection, flamed Esme’s cheeks. She expelled a sigh and hung her head. How much could one woman take? It had been a long time since Tía Luz had pointed out her flaws, and though her glasses weren’t as thick these days, her knees were just as knobby. She couldn’t let a woman like Gia, a woman solidly out of her league, affect her. It would only bring her more pain. After a moment, she looked up. “Look. You were only doing your job, okay? I understand.”
Gia opened her mouth to speak, but Esme waved her words away, reminding herself to be angry. Gia had tricked her. She’d shamed her. She’d left her face bare, even knowing what kind of trap Esme was walking into. “It’s fine, Gia, please. Just…leave me to my life and go back to yours. There are a lot of other ugly women whose faces you can ignore, too.”
“Esme?” called Lilly from the front room. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she yelled back, a little too sharply, her eyes never leaving Gia’s face.
“Slug me if you want, but I am sorry, Esme. More than you’ll ever know. You probably don’t believe that.”
“Did you come here to convince me or yourself? Because you’ve already told me one lie. You’ll have a tough job on your hands if you’re working on me.”
“Esme,” Gia breathed her name, a pained gaze imploring.
The tall artist didn’t try to touch her. Esme didn’t try to move away. Time stilled between them as they stared at one another. Gia dipped her chin, Esme raised hers. Crickets chirped from the darkness beyond the porch. A gust of wind rustled the leaves on her old grand cottonwood tree and lifted a lock of Gia’s long hair across her face.
“Why are you here?” she whispered. “You live in Chicago.”
“Not anymore.” Gia tucked her hair behind one ear as she added, “I don’t work for the Stillman Show anymore.”
“You don’t?”
“You are an attractive woman, Esme.” The words came out husky. “A beautiful woman. I mean it.”
Esme ignored that. She had more pressing questions. “Did you get fired?”
“Quit.”
Surprise fluttered through her and she let go of the door. “Why?” she asked, moving closer to lean against the jamb.
“Because I never again wanted to see hurt on a person’s face like I saw on yours as you left the studio. I can’t stop the show from bringing people on under false pretenses, but I can sure as hell remove myself from the situation.”
Esme sighed and broke eye contact, focusing instead on Gia’s low-heeled black boots. Why did she have to be so
nice? So sincere? Why couldn’t she leave Esme to her sulking instead of invading her doorstep with her stature and warmth, filling Esme’s nostrils with the feminine scent of her skin and her ears with that silky-husky voice? “I can’t feel responsible for you losing your job, Gia.”
“I’m not blaming you.”
She raised her gaze back to Gia’s. “What will you do?”
Gia shrugged. “I’ll get by. It’s time to give my painting a chance, and…who knows?”
Esme shook her head slowly and reached up to scratch her neck. Gia’d quit her job. She’d quit her job and packed up her life, and now she was standing on Esme’s doorstep hundreds of miles away trying to convince her she wasn’t ugly.
Why?
Feeling another bout of hiccups coming on, she whispered, “I have to go.”
“Can I come in?”
“No.” She started to shut the door.
Gia held it open. “Esme, wait. I want to see you again.”
“To assuage your own guilt? I don’t think so.”
“That’s not why.”
So she said. But, really, how would Esme ever know?
Gia reached out and ran the backs of those lovely fingers slowly down her cheek. “You have a rash.”
“Adds to the whole beauty package, wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t, querida.” Gia’s hand slid from Esme’s cheek to her shoulder and rested there.
Esme’s eyes fluttered shut, and she choked back another wave of tears. This woman could break her heart if she allowed it. “Leave me alone, Gia. Please.”
“I can’t.”
“Esme?” Lilly and Pilar peered into the hallway, then looked from their friend to Gia, their eyes widening in surprise. Neither moved.
Radclyffe & Stacia Seaman - Romantic Interludes 2 - Secrets Page 26