“Right.” If I was distracted, he was tenfold. “I’ll call you, okay?”
I thought it was a funny thing to say over the phone. You’ll call me? You already called me. We’re literally talking right now.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. He hung up the phone without saying bye.
I decided to watch the movie without him. I let the ticket taker tear both tickets in half. One used. One unused. Then I bought the biggest popcorn and drink. I ducked into the movie with the opening credits rolling.
The movie had two scenes where I was meant to cry—and two where the producers probably didn’t mean for me to. I did anyway. I left the theater with red puffy eyes, almost running into a gang of teenagers in the hallway between theaters.
I headed for the parking lot, fumbling for my keys. I almost stepped out into oncoming traffic as a green Jeep sped by going way too fast for a parking lot. Instantly, my heart was in my throat. That’s what I get for being distracted. Flashes of Seth Martin passed before my eyes.
Get it together, Allie.
But the Jeep spun out. And this time, I was in the parking lot when it swooped by, narrowly missing me. Aiming for me. It raced out of the parking lot and onto the highway. I heard its tires squeal two more times before the hum of its engine was out of earshot.
It wasn’t an accident. I wrestled with what to do—who to call. Would Javi take it seriously? Was he still too busy for me?
I took refuge in my car and texted the only number I thought I knew for sure would come to my aid. I texted Officer Clarke.
“You didn’t want a drink because you had to go to a movie alone?” Kieran looked at me speculatively.
“Not alone,” I said. “I mean I wasn’t supposed to be alone. Javi was supposed to come. But he was busy.”
“Oh, I bet he was,” Kieran said, insinuating something, but what, I wasn’t sure.
“What does that supposed to mean?”
Kieran rolled his eyes. “The guy is a lady’s man. You can’t go anywhere with him without someone offering to buy his lunch. His lunch, not mine—not for any of us in uniform. Dude just wears a badge on his hip. You know how messed up that is? Plus, he can’t go fifteen minutes without a phone call. And I have good hearing. It always a chick on the other end of the line.”
“A chick?”
“You know—a girl. A woman.”
“I know what a chick is. I just didn’t think anyone referred to us like that anymore. Not to our face.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Kieran apologized. It seemed sincere. “Now, tell me again about this Jeep.”
I rehashed the story for the second time.
“And you think they were trying to hit you?”
“I think so. Yeah.”
“If they were trying, couldn’t they’ve done it? It’s not like you jumped between these cars, did you? And they didn’t hit anything.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “Maybe they were trying to scare me.”
“And why would they be doing that?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged.
“Listen, Allie.” His tone turned condescending. “It was probably some teenager. They were probably on their phone or something. Not paying attention. You know how kids can be. I highly doubt anyone was trying to scare you.”
“All right,” I agreed. Maybe I should’ve called Javi.
Then again, maybe Kieran was right. Maybe it was a teenager. But he was wrong about me not being the target. I thought back to the boys in the theater. Were they the same boys from the Curb Market the other day? And was one of them hiding something?
“You’re sure you don’t want to go out for that drink now? I think you could use it.”
“I’m sure.” I was sure. “I’ll see you around,” I said, hoping that I wouldn’t. This chick didn’t need his knight-in-no-so-shining-armor routine again.
12
“Did you forget?” Mom hissed. I pulled the phone from my ear, and it sank into the folds of my comforter.
“Forget? Forget what?”
After a fretful night of sleep, I was running on empty. Not even a gallon of coffee was going to save this day.
I found the phone and put it on speaker.
“You aren’t at Aunt Denise’s. We agreed on nine o’clock, didn’t we?”
I struggled to figure out what she was on about.
“Oh, the craft,” I said. “For the wedding. Did we agree? I’m pretty sure you said 9:00, and I said we’ll see.”
“And see, here it is 9:00, and you’re not here,” Mom scolded.
There was no convincing Mom to see reason. “I’ll be right over,” I groaned.
Today’s family bonding would take the place of tomorrow’s family meal—the one I wouldn’t be able to attend because of the cooking class.
I rapped gently on Aunt Denise’s door. I could hear the hubbub of chatter on the other side of the door. Mom, Aunt Denise, Grandmother, Melanie, and her two other bridesmaids.
“We thought you were going to be a no-show,” Aunt Denise said, answering the door.
No-show. With those words, the thought of Javi reared its ugly head in my brain.
“No,” I said, feigning excitement. “I’m happy to help craft.”
Mel and the other girls were sprawled out on the floor. They had already started on the DIY table arrangements.
My grandmother occupied my uncle’s easy chair. I gave her a big hug. The weight of everything made it feel like I hadn’t seen her yesterday.
“You doing good?” I asked.
“Fit as a fiddle, sweetheart,” she said. “I think I’m still stuffed from lunch yesterday.”
“Lunch yesterday?” Mom asked. “I didn’t get an invite.”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment type thing,” I lied. The truth of the matter was Mom took over the conversation when the three of us were present. Some days I wanted Grandmother all to myself. A lot of days.
“Are the guys here?” I hoped that Dustin would pop in from time to time, adding some much-needed comedic relief.
“No,” Melanie said. “They said they'd rather be seen getting pedicures than craft for the wedding.”
I pictured the two of them getting pedicures. It would be a funny sight. More than likely, they were out at a hardware store doing manly things.
“It’s a shame too,” Aunt Denise put in. “I can always use your dad’s expert hands. There’s not a craft he can’t do. You know he learned to sew in the Army. Something to do with name tags and rank and things.”
“That is a shame,” I said. Then I made a mental note to schedule a mani-pedi next week—to get it done before the big day.
I settled down on the floor with the other girls my age—although thirty-ish and hanging out on the floor didn’t do wonders for our backs. The talk ping-ponged from subject to subject, each of us settling in on our favorites. I assured Melanie she had the best catering in town. Denise fretted over the cost of everything, and Mom discussed the weather.
“You guys don't think it's going to rain for my wedding, do you?” Melanie’s sad set of puppy dog eyes circled the room.
“No, sweetie,” Aunt Denise said. “Carole just doesn’t know when to shut up.”
“I don’t know, sis. I've been checking the forecast religiously. Next Saturday isn’t looking too good.”
“I wish you’d be more religious about your religion,” Denise chided.
I came to Melanie’s defense. “I thought you said it was a ten percent chance of rain?”
“That was yesterday. Today it says it’s up to twenty.”
Aunt Denise swatted her. There was lots of swatting in Aunt Denise’s family. “Twenty percent is nothing, dear. I’m sure it’ll be clear as a summer day for us.”
“Why didn’t you plan for summer?” Grandmother asked, oblivious to the commotion.
“It’d be far too hot, Mother,” Denise responded.
“Anyway,” Mom said, “rain on your wedding day is supposed
to be good luck.”
I had had enough of the weather panic attack discussion. I wanted a way out.
“Now, this is done, where are all the pieces to your programs?” I asked. “I'm ready to get started.”
“I set that up in the dining room,” Denise said.
“Isn't it divine?” Melanie asked.
I did feel some pride. The bride and I had worked together, making our shared vision come to life. Her simple joy over this was worth every minute of effort.
“They turned out fabulous,” I agreed,
Everyone oohed and ahed over them for a second before getting down to work assembly line style. They were done in no time.
We sat around in the living room after. My aunt served up punch—always punch. I realized for the first time in the past few days I was feeling content. Carefree.
Then suddenly, Mom cried out from the kitchen. We paraded from one room to the next to see what was up. I was stunned to see a spray of blood across the kitchen blinds. Mom’s finger was squirting blood.
“Stop it, guys,” she said. “I’m all right.”
Aunt Denise retrieved a towel out of the kitchen drawer. Mom caught it with her good hand and began to apply pressure.
Melanie looked as if she was about to pass out.
“I’d feel a lot better if you’d all stop looking at me like that.” Mom turned on the sink.
“Well, what were you doing to cut yourself like that?” my grandmother asked.
“Cutting a Granny Smith apple,” she cried, exasperated, “to go with the Port Salut in the fridge. Honestly, I don't know what happened. The knife slipped.”
We checked on the wound every couple of minutes. The bleeding didn't let up.
“You know I’d do a butterfly bandage for you,” Aunt Denise said. “Except this looks too deep. I don't normally say things like this, but I think you should go to the emergency room. It looks like you’ll need stitches.”
“She’s right,” I agreed. But I knew Mom. She wasn’t going to go to the hospital without a fight.
It helped to have a few other people to add fuel to the fire. Everyone agreed she should go—everyone except Mom.
“What about the dogs?” Mom asked.
“I’ll keep them,” Denise said grudgingly.
“I'm sure they'll get you stitched up real quick like,” Melanie offered. “I'm glad it wasn't anyone else—because that bandage wouldn't look good in my wedding photos.”
“Really? At a time like this all you can think about are your wedding photos?” my aunt chastised. “I thought I raised you better.”
“It's just a cut,” Mom said. “I'll be fine. And brides have every right to worry about their wedding photos.”
It was just like Mom to come to Melanie’s defense—even while hurt.
“Another towel for the road.” Aunt Denise handed Mom a towel. “And a plastic bag to minimize the mess to Allie’s car.”
“Wait… I’m driving?”
They all kindly pointed out that my car was the last one in the driveway, and thus, the easiest to get out.
With that, Mom and I hurried out of the house. Then I tried to rush to the hospital over Mom’s protests of me driving over the speed limit. It was a non-cooking cooking wound. This was definitely never going to be mentioned on The Foodie Files. Ever.
The Lanai Hospital parking lot wasn't crowded—not like the last time I’d been here. If everything went our way, I hoped, we’d be in and out in less than two hours. Shorter trips to the emergency room weren’t on the table.
“Isn’t that your detective friend?” Mom motioned with her bad hand. Sure enough, the familiar frame of Javier Portillo disappeared through the front sliding glass doors. Mom and I parked, then went inside the emergency entrance. A lone ambulance was parked just outside it.
I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. Coach Martin had only regained consciousness the day prior—and he was the only solid lead in the case, as far as I could tell. Unless I counted green Jeeps.
We got Mom signed in. Since her wound wasn’t life threatening, we had to take a seat and wait patiently to be called back. The billboard outside on the highway claimed our wait time to be less than six minutes, but I counted ten before the nurse called us back. Then we waited even longer in a small room to ourselves before a doctor ever arrived.
“Go ahead and text him,” Mom said.
I furrowed my eye brows at her.
“We both know you want to. Go ahead. I’m not dying here today.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
I’m at the hospital, I typed ominously.
Sorry. Didn’t mean to be cryptic. My mom got hurt. She’s OK though. We’re in the ER. I saw you walk inside.
Now, the real waiting game was on.
“Can you believe this?” Mom asked, holding up the bloody towel. I wasn’t good with blood. If she didn’t get that thing away from me, she wouldn’t be the only one needing an ER visit. I was liable to faint and bust my head open.
“As a matter of a fact, no. I can’t. I didn't think Aunt Denise had a knife sharp enough to hurt someone like that.”
“She didn't,” Mom retorted. “Not until I got her a knife block for Christmas. A lot of good that did me!”
I couldn't help it. I laughed. How could I not?
The doctor tended to Mom while I squeamishly looked away. “You’re sure you don’t want anything to numb the pain?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Mom said. “I want this over with.”
I was beginning to think Javi wasn’t going to show, not going to respond at all, when his patchouli cologne wafted into the hallway outside our room.
“Miss Treadwell, are you all right?” he asked, rounding the door with genuine concern.
“Oh, this?” She held up her bandaged finger. “I’m right as rain. We’re waiting on some paperwork, then we’re out of here.”
“Well, that's good to hear,” he said.
“I'm fine back here,” Mom said, shooing us off. “You guys go and have a chat.”
“I don't need to take Allie from you now,” Javier said.
“It's no big deal,” she insisted.
And by the eye daggers she was throwing in my direction, I knew she meant it.
“You sure?” he asked. “We’ll just be a minute.”
Javi led us down the hallway to a corner out of the way.
“I know you’re mad at me,” I confessed. “And you have every right to be. I know what I did was wrong. You don’t have to—”
“Allie, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. It’s me who’s done something wrong. I wanted to apologize about last night. I was here. That’s why I couldn’t make it. Coach Martin is on the cusp of remembering what happened. I need to be here when he does.”
“But what about Calista, what I said to her?”
Javi shook his head. “I think you’ve got Calista pegged all wrong. She did tell me about your little confrontation. But she realized your heart was in the right place. And if she’s not mad, well, then I’m not. I’m more afraid of you being mad at me. Did I hear you almost got hit by a car, a Jeep?”
“Kieran doesn’t keep his mouth shut, does he?” I murmured.
“Kieran? Did you see the movie with him?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I thought you were mad at me. I called him when it happened. He thinks it was a high schooler on their phone or something.”
“And what do you think?”
“I’m not sure.” I shrugged. “It really seemed like they had it out for me.”
Javi nodded. “Is this going to be like a thing now? You’ll call Kieran instead of me?”
“No, no. Of course not. I never want to call Kieran again.”
Javi’s dimple began to show. “He didn’t say anything bad about me, did he?”
“Actually,” I said, “he might’ve. I mean, it’s not bad. I don’t want to pry into your love life.”
“My love life?” Javi scoffed. “Y
ou should know about my love life. I don’t have one. All my dates are with you.”
“But we don’t call them dates.”
He disregarded my statement. “What did Kieran say? I want to clear this up, whatever it is.”
“He said you’re always taking phone calls… from chicks.” It pained me to utter that word.
“Chicks, really? Is this the nineties?” Javi shook his head. “I’m always taking phone calls from three women. That much is true. I call the first one Mom. And the other two bare a strong resemblance to me. Sometimes I call them sis. Other times, I’m nice enough to use their names.”
“Your mom and your sisters,” I said, grinning broadly.
Javi nodded. “Not chicks.”
“Not chicks,” I agreed.
“Are we still on for tomorrow? Cooking class?” he asked. “I’m dying to spend the afternoon with you.”
Which was good because I was dying to spend the afternoon with him too.
13
The knock at my door only reiterated what I knew—Javier Portillo was waiting outside my front door. Two minutes early. For Javi, that was practically late.
Javi made a face when the door creaked as I opened it for him.
He was dressed nice—slacks, a button-down shirt, and his hair was slicked to the side, parted over his right eyebrow. He looked the part of handsome man picking up his date. I only hoped I fit the bill on the other end. I had dabbed on makeup, curled my hair, and even put on a pair of heels. Cooking in heels was going to be a challenge, but I was up for it. Today, I was up for anything.
“You ready?” he asked, giving me a once over. “You look ready. You look great.”
I smiled ear to ear.
This felt like a date. It felt… It felt right.
Javier Portillo stared at me from the door. He was showing me a side to him I’d never seen before—the nervous side.
“I'm actually excited for this class,” he said. ”I can cook. Sorta. My abuelita taught me everything I know. But I've never worked in a kitchen before.”
“You mean a professional kitchen,” I joked. “Unless you’ve been cooking at home over a hot plate.”
The Bitter Bite of Betrayal Page 6