by Lea Santos
“Maybe. Maybe not. To be honest, I’m not up for taking the risk.” Not with her, Grace added silently.
“Look, Mad trusts me,” Iris said. “I think I’m the first woman she’s related to on a non-flirt basis, so we’ve developed a sort of rapport. A big sister, little sister thing. She confides in me.”
Grace’s heart revved. Was Iris offering to help her get inside Madeira’s head? That’s exactly what she needed to figure out her motives. “What has she said?”
Iris pressed her lips together in apology. “That’s the thing about sharing something in confidence. You have to know it will go no further. I want to respect Mad’s privacy. She deserves that from me.”
Grace’s face heated thinking she might have sounded like she’d been pumping Iris for info—which, of course, she had been. One hand fluttered to her neckline before reaching out to touch Iris’s forearm. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize.” Iris grinned. “Trust me, I would’ve paid hard, cold cash for the inside scoop on Toro when we were stumbling blindly toward love.”
The implication brought stars to Grace’s vision. Could the entire world see she was falling in love with Madeira? Before dismay could swamp her at the thought of being so vulnerable and transparent, Iris went on.
“I will tell you this.”
She paused, and Grace found herself holding her breath.
“You should give her a chance.”
Her air whooshed out. Not exactly a revelation. “Oh, well, sure you’d suggest that. She’s your family. You’re not the one who might end up hurt, though.”
“Granted. But I know her.” Iris’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Not Ms. Thief of Hearts, mind you, but little Mad Pacias—Mosquito. The woman she rarely lets out.” She glanced toward Madeira, and Grace read the true affection on the woman’s face. “But she lets her out with you, and that’s…quite something. She wouldn’t intentionally hurt you, Grace. She’s one person who shouldn’t be judged by her track record. And I’m not making excuses—I know she’s got a long one.”
“There’s no need to defend her. I haven’t exactly been an angel myself.” Grace twisted her mouth to the side. Odd how she no longer felt quite so ashamed about her checkered past. She didn’t exactly know what had changed her perspective. “But I’ve also been hurt one time too many by women like her. Much as I wish things could be different for us, I think Maddee and I should settle for friendship.”
“I understand, believe me. Friendship is safe and tidy.” Iris tossed her long hair over one shoulder. “Madeira mentioned you’ve been dating. Any luck there?”
The question had been innocently posed, yet its impact nearly doubled Grace over emotionally. “Not really. I’ve had some good dates, but none of the women are—” She bit her lip.
“None of them are Madeira?”
Grace sighed. “Damnit, yes. I don’t know why I insist on using her as my standard of comparison. I mean, seriously, how will anyone ever measure up?”
“Grace, listen to yourself. To the words you’re saying from the heart. I know you’re scared, but let down your guard a bit. I’ve given the same advice to Mad, because both of you need to. What’s life without risk?” Iris paused. “Do you know I turned down a multimillion-dollar modeling contract to stay in the U.S. with Torien?”
Grace gaped. “I’m on a teacher’s salary. I can’t even imagine.”
“She was worth it. Love is worth it.” Iris leaned in and raised her brows. Her tone lowered to a conspiratorial level. “Take a risk on my little sis. I wouldn’t give that advice to any woman except you, Grace. Then again…I’ve never had the opportunity, considering you’re the only woman Mad has ever brought home to meet the family. Ever,” she added, her tone firm, “in case you missed that word the first time.”
Before Grace could grasp the impact of the statement, Iris had patted her leg, stood, and walked away. Grace still hadn’t digested the magnitude of being Maddee’s first take-home date, or the implication of it, when a new shadow fell across her lap. She glanced up, and her stomach contracted with a combination of nerves and lust. “Hey.”
Madeira held both palms up to face her. “Whatever stories my sis Iris told you, I assure you none of them were my fault. I was framed.” She grinned.
Grace hiked her chin. “Those sound like the words of a woman with a guilty conscience.” She patted the glider next to her, and Maddee sat.
“No comment.” With a sigh, Maddee spread her arms along the back of the swing, one hand resting loosely on Grace’s shoulder. For a moment, they simply swayed in the balmy air, watching the activity around them.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Madeira said.
“I love Iris.”
“Everyone loves Iris. But yes, she’s awesome. My sister is a lucky woman.”
Grace pondered what Iris had told her and decided she had nothing to lose by asking for details. “Tell me something.”
“Anything you want to hear, fierita.”
Grace turned to regard her with a level gaze. “Why have you never brought any of your girlfriends home?”
Madeira cringed. “I knew Iris was spilling my secrets.”
“Why haven’t you?” Grace wouldn’t let her weasel out of answering this question. She needed to know.
Madeira sobered and studied Grace for a moment, then tilted the corners of her mouth down and tipped her head to the side at the same time. Her tone came out unabashed, straightforward. “How many players do you know who would bring their women home to the family, Gracie?”
“Not many,” Grace admitted. Madeira’s explanation made sense. But why the change now? Because Maddee considered her a surrogate sister of sorts?
Madeira twirled her fingers in Grace’s hair, which she pretended not to notice. “When you were living la vida loca, did you bring all your dates home to meet DoDo?”
She splayed a palm on her chest, horrified. Images of Rat and Lurch drifted into her mind. “God, no. But then again, I’m not so proud of my behavior back then.”
“And you think I am proud of mine?”
Grace hiked one shoulder. “My wild days were a long time ago.”
“You’re evading the question.”
“I don’t know, Maddee. Your, ah, lifestyle didn’t seem to bother you so much when we first met.”
“Based on what? The articles in the newspaper? The same newspaper whose articles convinced me that you wanted to stand on the beach with me in Provincetown, exchange rainbow-colored rings, and pledge your undying love? That you’d stop at nothing to reach that goal?” She raised one brow pointedly.
Realizing how shallow her judgment made her sound, Grace glanced away. Her chest flamed and she bit her lip. She had based their entire relationship thus far on hearsay. How would she feel if Maddee had done the same with her? She had never considered herself the kind of person who relied on stereotypes and preconceived notions to judge other people. These months around Madeira had taught her some lessons about herself that were hard to accept. She sighed. “I guess this is your way of implying I owe you an apology for all the assumptions I’ve made about you?”
“An apology?” Madeira considered it, pulling closer to the warmth of her body, stroking the side of her hair with her fingers.
Grace didn’t resist. Maddee felt too good, too right. Grace didn’t want to be anywhere else.
“Actually,” Madeira said, her tone warm and rumbly, “I’d be more than happy to settle for a second chance.”
Grace’s stomach flopped.
She wanted to believe.
She did.
God, why was this so hard?
“S-second chance at what?”
Maddee eased Gracie gently over to rest on her shoulder, a sigh lifting her chest. “Stick with me, babe. If fate’s on our side, we’ll muddle through and find that answer together.”
Chapter Fifteen
Gato escaldado del agua fría huye.
The scalded cat flees
even from cold water.
Madeira had a busy work week after the barbecue, so Grace didn’t see her again until the night of the auction, and then only in quick flashes as she appeared on stage or passed through the crowded event hall. By then, Grace was feeling quite proprietary—dangerous considering Madeira would be auctioned to the highest bidder pretty soon while Grace stood by and watched. The thought stuffed her with dismay. She could only hope some philanthropic dowager would win her as opposed to one of the many well-dressed young women with greedy eyes and fat purses wandering through the event hall, leeringly examining the available singles—male and female.
Dixie’s of Denver, a local company that rented event space all over the city and up in the mountains, had donated their largest facility for the auction. Blossoms, a local florist chain, had provided the centerpieces for all the tables, and Coasters, a large liquor retailer near the foothills, had supplied the hooch. The place was packed.
Grace had to admit, piggybacking the auction’s advertising on the “Samaritan Soul Mate” media coverage had been divinely inspired. The event had received so much press, the expected donations of auction items had more than doubled, and attendance at the event was standing room only. The EMS Benefit Society thought they might be able to afford two additional ambulances, including a costly mobile trauma unit, thanks to the extra money.
Unfortunately, Madeira was the hot commodity.
Grace had caught glimpses of her interviewing with various media representatives throughout the evening. No doubt she’d bring in top dollar. Grace clenched her jaw and jabbed the button down on a blender full of piña coladas, annoyed for this misplaced jealousy. It was for charity, for Christ’s sake. Grace had entertained a fantasy of bidding on her herself until she read an article about how much Madeira was expected to collect. Once again, the Thief of Hearts was out of her reach. C’est la vie.
As she poured the coladas into their bulbous glasses, she scanned the schedule for the evening, printed on the back of a merchandise list she’d picked up earlier. Forty-five minutes of each hour was dedicated to displaying auction merchandise, items that ranged from ski lift tickets and bed & breakfast weekends to quilts, artwork, and even a new car. The singles themselves presented the items, thereby acting as walking advertisements for the main event and grand finale—the singles auction.
During the remaining fifteen minutes of each hour, EMS officials showed slideshows and provided statistics about emergency medical service in the city.
Volunteer waiters circulated through the crowd with trays of hors d’oeuvres donated by Grab-a-Bite Catering, and Grace mixed drinks as fast as the paramedic and EMT wait staff could deliver them. DoDo’s table was setting records for knocking back booze, Grace mused, as she placed the last one on the tray. All of the dolled-up Bees drank fruity frozen concoctions except for Magdalena, who preferred whiskey straight up. Grace quickly jabbed paper umbrellas in each of the glasses, scanning the crowd for an idle waiter. “Simon,” she called, spying him taking a break near the back of the room.
He turned toward the bar, then shoved off the wall immediately to approach her. “You rang?”
She indicated the drink-laden tray, wiping perspiration off her forehead with the crook of her elbow. “Can you deliver this to my grandmother and the ladies?”
“Again? Gladly.” He squatted and deftly shouldered the heavy tray, his smooth, confident actions telling Grace he’d worked in food service sometime in his life. “DoDo’s table is tipping bigger with every round. I’m going to win that week off if it kills me.”
Grace laughed. Though all tips went into the ambulance fund, the “waiters” were in competition with each other to see who collected the most. The winner received a week of paid vacation, with each of the five workdays donated, one half-day from each of the remaining waiters.
Taking a momentary break to catch her breath, Grace watched with pleasure as a fierce bidding war ensued over one of the three quilts DoDo and the Bees had donated to the cause. The king-sized scrap masterpiece included original feedsack cloth from the 1930s as well as reproduction fabrics to make up the difference. The fact that it had been hand-pieced and quilted drove the price up to three thousand dollars, and the enthusiastic bidding continued.
Grace glanced at her grandmother’s table. The ladies stared with rapt attention at the stage, flushed with pride that their creation was so in demand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, a quick break in the bidding. We’d like to reintroduce you to one of our available singles for the evening,” announced the Master of Ceremonies, Bill Fulton, a seasoned, well-spoken paramedic who served as the media contact for the department.
Grace watched Madeira strut on stage. Excitement and envy warred inside her, and she pressed a palm to her abdomen. Madeira looked so incredibly hot in low-slung black tuxedo pants, white cuffs gleaming with rhinestone cuffl inks, and a white tank. Her bare arms and shoulders gleamed with honed, oiled muscles. Not an ounce of fat marred the picture of pure decadence Maddee presented. Whoo-boy. Madeira made the so-called “hot” Hollywood lesbians look like a motley Girl Scout troop.
The audience whooped and whistled, applauding their approval as Madeira sauntered from one end of the stage to the other, blowing kisses and bending to touch the hands of the women up front who reached out to her as if she were some kind of a rock star. In spite of herself, Grace’s stomach soured as she struggled to maintain a pleasant expression. She had to be the world’s biggest idiot for putting herself in the position of watching this.
“EMT Madeira Pacias purportedly helped with this quilt, created by the Peacemakers Quilting Bee.” A spotlight shone down on DoDo’s table, where all the ladies beamed, tittered behind white-gloved hands, or waved.
“Dolores Obregon tells us Madeira, the infamous Thief of Hearts, spent many an afternoon threading needles for them so they could finish this work of art in time for the auction. Isn’t that just sweet,” Bill joked.
Madeira flashed a playfully threatening look, and the audience ate it up.
“Let’s show Madeira and the Bees some respect by bidding often and bidding high for this one-of-a-kind quilt.” Instantly, the bidding rose to forty-five hundred.
Grace turned away to wash some glasses, smiling when one of the volunteer bar backs brought her two cases of Cab Franc from the storage room. She needed to keep her focus on tending bar, not on Ms. Unattainable. To do so, she silently reminded herself this was all for a good cause.
“What’s a guy got to do for service around here, cupcake?”
Grace spun, recognizing the endearment as well as the voice. Pleasure spread through her like the sun’s warmth on a winter afternoon. “Harold!” She ducked around the edge of the bar and embraced the stout reporter like a long-lost friend. He clapped her back.
Funny. When the Samaritan fiasco happened, Harold had been her nemesis. Now she felt nothing but fondness for the wizened old wordsmith.
Grace held him at arm’s length, smiling. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Are you nuts?” He patted Grace’s cheek with a hand that smelled of Old Spice and cigarette smoke. “This is news, dollface. You know Harold and news. I wouldn’t miss it.”
The crowd roared when the Bees quilt went for $7,500. Both she and Harold glanced at the stage, but Grace’s gaze immediately sought and found Madeira. She squatted at the edge of the stage, deep in conversation with a shapely blonde whose gym-toned bod had been poured into a low-backed black cocktail dress.
She looked gorgeous.
She looked enthralled.
She looked…familiar.
Grace swallowed, but it wasn’t easy.
“You going to bid on her?”
Harold’s question jerked Grace’s attention back. She raised her chin and sniffed. “Who? Madeira?”
“Who else?”
Grace tossed her hair. “She’s too rich for my blood, Harold. I’m an elementary school teacher, remember?” She moved to the business side
of the bar and braced her hands on the formica top, doing her best to look placid and unaffected. “What’s your poison, mister?”
“A 7-Up.”
She smirked. “And here I imagined you’d be the beer and chaser kind of a guy.”
“I was.” He fished his wallet out of his back pocket. “Ten years and twelve steps ago. Now I stick to soda.”
“Good for you,” Grace said, meaning it sincerely.
“I have to say,” Harold eyed her closely, “I was a bit surprised to find Madeira still on the roster of eligible singles tonight.”
Grace filled a tumbler with ice and snatched up the spray hose of 7-Up, pegging Harold with a droll stare. “Exactly what info are you trying to wheedle out of me, bucko?”
Harold laughed. “Kid, you’re a tough cookie.”
A grudging smile lifted one side of her mouth as she handed over the fizzing soda and took the two crisp dollar bills Harold offered, stuffing them into the till. “I could say the same to you.”
“One of the many reasons I like you so much. You remind me of me, and I like me.” Harold beamed. “Seriously, what’s up with you two? I haven’t seen hide nor hair of either of you since the press conference.”
“Nothing’s up, I guess. Hard to say.” She sighed. There really was no simple way to describe her relationship with Madeira. “But I can guarantee you one thing. I won’t be bidding on her tonight. Do you know they expect her to go for ten grand?”
Harold whistled low. “That ought to bolster her ego a bit.”
“As if she needs it.” Grace shrugged. “But, hey. It’s for a good cause.” Who are you trying to convince?
“Of course.” Harold bent his head forward and sipped from the straw. Colored lights from behind the bar shone through his thinning pate to the gleaming pink skin beneath. He reached out and plucked a maraschino cherry from the dispenser box on the bar, dropping it into his drink. The bubbles cradled it like diamonds around a ruby. “That’s precisely why the paper put up some good bucks. We’re hoping to win her.” Harold grinned. “What a human interest scoop that’ll be, eh, sugarplum?”