Love Thy Sister (Mina's Adventures Book 1)

by Maria Grazia Swan

  Tall and perfect, but not very happy judging by the frown on her face.

  Mina waited. Would it be the speech about tidiness, the one about discipline, or the one about taking charge of your life? She could almost recite them from memory. Did all older sisters preach so much, or just the Italian-born?

  “At least no one will ever attack you in the middle of the night.” Paola said. “They’d trip and break their neck before they ever got to you.” Her eyes fell on the letter. “Don’t tell me. The purple poet strikes again.”

  “It’s not purple, it’s lavender—soft, romantic lavender.”

  Paola leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “Mina, are you in love with this man?”

  “In love?” Passion, yes. Excitement, definitely. But love? Tough question. “I don’t know. Maybe.” Right now the only thing she knew she wanted for sure was for Paola to leave her alone.

  “If you don’t know, then you’re not.” Paola picked her way across the room as if she were negotiating a minefield. She sat on the edge of the bed, pushed her tight gabardine skirt up so as not to wrinkle it. “And a good thing, too. Men are all the same—selfish, uncaring.”

  “One of those days, is it? What happened to your bad back?”

  Impeccable Paola. Mina didn’t know anyone else who spent hours combing her hair to make it look, well...uncombed.

  “So,” Paola tapped the letter with a glistening red nail, “how goes the romance with your French traveling salesman?”

  “Patrick isn’t a salesman; he’s a marketing genius. He scouts the best locations for the chain of trendy restaurants he—”

  “Never mind the reasons, the man travels. Probably has a girl in every city. Bet he inputs those flowery letters into his computer, then all he has to do is add the woman’s name and pronto, the printer spits out half a dozen every minute.”

  “This isn’t printed, look.” Mina wet a finger in her mouth and smeared Patrick’s signature. “See? Plain ink from an old-fashioned fountain pen, a family heirloom. I’ve seen it. Are you happy now?”

  “And you are not in love?”

  Mina sighed. “What were you doing in Santa Ana? Your back sure got better fast.”

  “Did you find the papers?” Paola fingered the single strand of pearls she always wore. They shimmered against her silk blouse, the same shade of violet as her eyes. That color must have come from the father’s side, Paola’s father of course. Paola and Mina were half-sisters, sharing the same mother, and Mamma had brown eyes.

  Mina envied her sister’s eyes. Once she tried on colored contact lenses that, according to the ad, were guaranteed to make her generic brown eyes blue. Instead, they looked like the reflection of a dark sky in a puddle.

  Right now her sister’s eyes looked far away. “The papers, right.” Mina paused. “I flushed them down the toilet.”

  Paola didn’t flinch. “Fine. I’ll look at them later.”

  “By the way,” Mina picked up Patrick’s letter. “I think Elena ate your chocolate. Actually, I unwrapped it, but she ate it. I’m telling you now so you don’t raise hell on Monday morning.”

  “What?” Paola’s hand hit the lavender paper, sent it flying.

  “Calm down, will you? Maybe it fell on the floor when I knocked over the trash. It’s just a damn candy, Paola, I’ll buy you a box at the store.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Who?”

  “Elena.”

  “Of course she’s all right. What do you think I did, beat her up?” She smoothed out Patrick’s letter, now crisscrossed with wrinkles. “Not that I wasn’t tempted.”

  “Mina, listen to me. After Elena ate the chocolate, what happened?”

  “How would I know? She hid in the ladies room, hope she got Montezuma’s revenge.” She caught a glimpse of Paola’s expression. “I didn’t mean it. Anyway, when she came out she said I was loca. Why? Is she allergic to chocolate or something?”

  Paola’s eyes glittered. “I’m sorry. I’m overreacting. It’s this whole mess with Michael and the business.”

  “You sure don’t have much luck when it comes to husbands.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. They were both college graduates. Mamma approved.” Paola gave a rueful laugh. “Povera Mamma, impressed with a lousy piece of paper and a black robe.”

  “Or a wimple,” Mina said. “She actually wanted me to be a nun.”

  Paola grinned.

  “Don’t laugh,” Mina said. “In her mind it was the ideal occupation. It would have kept me out of trouble and on that side of the Atlantic. She couldn’t stand the idea of me leaving home to join you.”

  Paola reached over and stroked Mina’s cheek.

  “Do you miss her?” Mina asked.

  “I miss the person she was before...”

  “Go ahead. Say it—before she married my father. As if I didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Besides, I was already fourteen by then, almost ready to leave the nest.” Paola hugged her younger sister.

  “Help, help!”

  “I wish you’d stop that childish nonsense.” Paola said. “You’re old enough to face your emotions instead of hiding behind jokes. Is that what you say to your Frenchman in tender moments? Help?”

  Mina gave her a wicked grin. Tutto bene. “We don’t spend our tender moments talking.”

  “I know you. That’s impossible.”

  “You’re right, Paola. We exchange recipes while taking off our clothes.”

  “Mina! What ever happened to acting like a lady?”

  “You mean like this?” Mina stuck out her tongue and flapped her hands next to her ears. “Good,” Mina said. “That got you laughing.” She patted her sister’s head.

  “Watch it, you’re ruining my hair!”

  “You call that ruining your hair? Wrong. This is ruining your hair.” Mina pushed her fingers into Paola’s mane, rumpled it, then sprang off the bed and ran for the door.

  Paola hopped after her, brandishing her sandal. “I’ll get you for this!”

  The telephone rang.

  “I’ll take it in my room,” Paola said, still laughing. She hobbled toward her bedroom. Mina headed downstairs. Almost three p.m., could it be Patrick?

  “Is it for me?” Mina called, halfway down.

  No answer. She hurried back upstairs to find Paola standing pale-faced in the doorway of her bedroom, the sandal still in her hand. “Michael wasn’t on the plane,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Mina, would you kindly remove your feet from the dashboard?” Paola weaved in and out of traffic, a flashy red shark in a pool of guppies.

  Mina hoped there were no cops on the freeway tonight. “Okay, va bene.” Mina’s feet dropped to the plush tan carpet with a thud. “God, you can be a pain! What’s the big deal? Michael has missed planes before.”

  “You don’t understand. He didn’t miss the plane. He disappeared at the boarding gate. He must have noticed Brian following him.”

  Mina snickered. Brian Starrs, would-be detective. She could hardly believe her sister had hired a college kid to follow her sneaky husband. “Where did you find this guy, anyway?”

  Paola’s eyes were glued to the freeway, but a muscle twitched at the corner of her bright red lips. Bathed in the amber glow from the dashboard, her perfect profile was highlighted against the flash of city lights.

  For years, Mina had asked her mirror the same question; why was Paola the one with the face, the body, the class? Their mother had never said it out loud. There were times when Mina had felt her mother staring at her. She’d ask why, but Mother would shake her head and turn away. Yet, the silences left no doubt.

  Mina had no inclination for complicated cosmetic routines. She figured what you saw was what you got. After she moved to America, her sister taught her the one and only makeup habit she practiced. Mina and her black mascara were inseparable. She kept her face natural, but thickened her long
eyelashes with Rimmel, the mascara that gave her large, round eyes a sensual kind of secrecy. At least, that’s what she told herself.

  “I can’t believe this traffic. Where is everybody going?” Paola said.

  “We’ll get there. The restaurant isn’t going anywhere, and your private eye is on the meter.” She carefully avoided saying sleuth, which, with her lingering accent, always came out slut. “He won’t care if we’re late. How did you hook up with him, anyhow?”

  Paola switched lanes again. “Adams, my lawyer, introduced us. And please, don’t call him a private eye—he’s just a nice young man trying to earn extra money to finish school.”

  Mina shrugged. “Why go through all this trouble to prove Michael’s been unfaithful? Doesn’t California have a no-fault divorce law?”

  Paola’s voice dropped an octave. “This has nothing to do with infidelity.”

  “Really? Then what’s going on? Why did Michael go to Chicago? I’m your sister, you know. You could let me in on what’s happening.”

  “That works both ways, signorina,” Paola said. “You never told me you quit your job. The third one in six weeks.” Paola called her signorina, only when she was really ticked off.

  Mina shrank down in the seat. “This time it wasn’t my fault.” Some choice they gave her: Work on Halloween night or be fired. Working meant missing the ultimate costume party. She knew she could get another waitressing job anytime. It occurred to her that, like Thanksgiving, Halloween didn’t figure into Italian calendars. Neither did the Fourth of July.

  “Watch it,” Mina sat up as the sign whizzed by them. “You’ll miss the exit. Brookhurst is next. So, how can the snoop—”

  “I wish you’d stayed home!” Paola whipped off the exit and through a green light.

  “Well, I didn’t. How can your nice-young-man-earning-extra-money phone you from Chicago at two-thirty in the afternoon and be in Orange County the same evening? Slow down, I see the Coco’s sign. No, no, left!”

  Paola made the turn on two wheels. Brakes screeched from the oncoming traffic.

  “You’re getting really good at this,” Mina said. “Ever consider racing professionally?”

  Her sister didn’t answer. She parked the Thunderbird, checked her makeup in the rearview mirror and, pointing a finger in Mina’s direction, said, “Remember, you promised to behave.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Paola, halfway out of the car, turned and gave her a strange look. “Just don’t embarrass me in there.” They entered the restaurant. Paola ran her fingers through her hair. “Maybe I’ll go freshen up,” she said. “I think we beat Brian here. I didn’t see his car in the parking lot.”

  She turned to go when a man in his late twenties, wearing jeans and a bulky sweater over a denim shirt, rushed from one of the telephone booths off to the side of the waiting area.

  “Paula! I was about to call you.” He took Paola’s hand in his. “Where is your car?”

  Mina resented the way he pronounced her sister’s name. “We parked in the broom closet.”

  Still holding Paola’s hand, he seemed to notice Mina for the first time.

  Paola introduced them. “Brian, this is my sister, Mina.”

  Mina looked pointedly at their hands touching. Paola quickly let go and, flushing, asked the hostess to seat them.

  Following her sister and Brian to the table, Mina felt like a child trailing along behind the “big people.” She always seemed to get swept along in Paola’s wake.

  At least the view was good. Brian’s buns were bound to garner him more than a mere honorable mention in the Levi’s Hall of Fame. He was the same height as Paola, but then she was wearing heels. That would make him about five ten. His blond hair, straight and thick, came to a point in the back of his neck, low enough to meet his shirt collar. Mina wondered what it would feel like to run her fingers through it. Slowly, all the way to where the last strand of hair met the warmth of his skin. And for no reason whatsoever, the word Spartan crossed her mind.

  He flashed a quick smile as he slid into the booth across from her. Sorriso Durbans, she thought, remembering the popular slogan for the Italian toothpaste, marketed as the one America likes best, although she’d never found that specific brand in Californian supermarkets. Brian’s smile would be perfect for the toothpaste ad. His smile had the openness she so often found in certain types of American men, the kind her friends called WASP. Yes, he was definitely worth un peccatino, a trip to the confessional.

  After they ordered, Brian said, “Michael went through the security check, then grabbed his briefcase and carry-on, and practically sprinted to the gate. The flight was already boarding. My turn came and, of course, the buzzer went off. I took the keys out of my pocket and tried again. No go. Next I tried the watch. The thing still went off. By then I was—”

  “The gun!” Mina interrupted.

  “What gun?”

  “Your gun. You know, that’s what set off the alarm.”

  “Why would I have a gun?”

  Mina opened her mouth, but a sharp kick from under the table changed her mind. “Never mind,” Mina mumbled. “Paola just explained it to me, grazie.”

  A yawning waitress brought their order. Only Brian had ordered food. Mina had a chocolate milkshake, her sister, iced tea.

  “You were saying, Brian?” Paola smiled.

  Mina took a sip of milkshake, latte sbattuto, in Italian it sounded like milk from an abused cow. Speaking of abuse, Mina reached down and massaged her sore ankle. It didn’t look bruised—yet.

  When she looked up, Brian’s head was bent close to Paola’s. “Is your iced tea okay?” he asked. Next to her sister’s dark hair, his was so light it almost looked bleached.

  Could he be any more protective? Mina wanted to throw up.

  “Fine,” Paola said.

  “My milkshake’s a little runny,” Mina volunteered.

  Paola ignored her. “So, tell me, what happened next?”

  “We finally figured it out. It was the souvenir spoon I bought for my mother.”

  “How sweet,” Paola said.

  “Are you kidding?” Mina moved her leg out of her sister’s range.

  Brian glanced over at her. Their eyes caught, held. Mamma mia! They were the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

  “Are you wearing colored contacts?” she blurted.

  He smiled.

  “Brian.” Paola’s voice held irritation. “About my husband?”

  “Oh yes, Michael. I stepped into the plane and they shut the doors behind me. I went to my seat. By the time I realized he wasn’t on board, we were airborne. I phoned you from Houston during a stopover.” He sipped from his soda. “Did you hear from him?”

  Paola shook her head: “He called the office this morning, but that was before the flight took off. Where do we go from here?”

  “Not too far, if I’m driving. My car broke down on the freeway.”

  “We can give you a ride home,” Paola said.

  “It’ll be a crowded broom,” Mina mumbled.

  The waitress appeared just in time to divert the under-the-table kicker.

  “Aside from the airport, what else went on?” Paola asked.

  “Paula, this may sound strange.” Brian spoke between bites of fish and chips. “But everything went according to the schedule you gave me. I can read you my notes.” He began to search his pockets.

  “Later,” Paola idly stirred the tea. “I wonder where he is. Maybe we should stop by the office on the way home. I’d love to give Michael a little surprise.”

  Mina finished the shake and wondered who would pick up the tab. On cue, the waitress came by and dropped the bill on the table. Amused, Mina watched them reach for it at the same time.

  “I’m your boss, remember?” Paola took the check. Brian smiled, laid his napkin on the table and got up. He helped Paola from her chair, and then turned toward Mina, who was already on her feet.

  Outside, a strong wind blew through the moonles
s night. Brian sat in the front with Paola. Mina, in back, leaned forward and propped herself between the seats, determined not to miss a word. It was after nine, and, instead of taking the freeway, Paola drove on surface streets.

  “So, you’re a friend of Adams?” Mina asked Brian.

  He half turned in the seat. In the fleeting carousel of streetlights, his eyes were as bright as lapis lazuli. “Actually,” he said, “I’m a friend of his daughter.”

  “You go to college with her?”

  He hesitated. “No.”

  “Oh, I get it. You go with her.”

  “Signorina, would you kindly sit back, buckle your seat belt and shut your mouth?” Paola said.

  Mina sank back in the seat. “Yes, Mother dearest.”

  Brian chuckled, a friendly sort of sound, not mocking in the least. Well, not friendly, exactly. Tolerant maybe, or at least comfortable, unfazed by her attempts to shock him.

  Mina knew something was wrong when they pulled onto Harbor Boulevard. She saw the blaze of lights through the trees, and scooted forward on her seat again. “Look,” she said. “The cops must have nabbed somebody.”

  Paola turned left into the business complex. West Coast Software’s parking lot looked like a carnival gone mad. Flashing lights—red, blue, white—greeted them from the dozen Santa Ana Police cars parked at odd angles in front of the entrance.

  “Paola, do you think you’ve been robbed?” Mina asked.

  Pulling as far as she could into the lot, Paola turned off the engine. People—cops and, behind the barricades, onlookers—crowded West Coast Software’s entrance.

  Paola got out and hurried toward the building without even closing the car door. Brian followed her. Mina crawled out of the back and locked the car.

  She couldn’t believe she was being the model of caution while her sister rushed ahead, but then it wasn’t her company. Mina ran to the entrance. She lifted the yellow police tape, tried to slip under it. A uniformed policeman stopped her.