Club Cubana and now this—he had to be following me. He had the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow and looked tired, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well for quite a while. His hands were in his pants pockets and he was leaning his back against my car, looking like a bored Calvin Klein model facing another twelve-hour photo shoot.
“How have you been?” he asked nonchalantly.
How dare he look so handsome and be so damned casual after I’d wasted valuable minutes scouring the ends of the earth for him!
“What are you doing here?” I snapped.
“I was driving to your apartment when I saw you pull out of your parking garage. I followed you here because I needed to see you,” he said. “By the way, you look great, Sam.”
You better believe I look great. I look awesome as a matter of fact. And what about my four phone messages?
“Have you been out of town?” I demanded.
“No, I got your messages, Sam. Sorry I haven’t called but ... Listen, we have a lot of things to talk about. Can we go somewhere?”
“There’s a coffee shop across ...”
“I meant somewhere private.”
I followed him in my car. Every time we stopped at a stoplight or stop sign, I looked into his rearview mirror searching for some clue in his eyes about what he was thinking. But each time he had the same blank expression. My sweaty hands slipped on the steering wheel and I wiped them on my jeans.
Robert had suggested going to my place, but I’d insisted on going to his. I wanted to see where and how he lived. Was he a slob? A neat freak? Was he hiding a wife and five children? There were a number of strange things going on that I wanted answers to.
We pulled up to an eight-story brick building in a trendy part of the city, which is always distinguished by the number of coffee shops, gourmet grocery stores, and art galleries about. Taking the elevator, up to the fifth floor, we walked to the end of the hallway.
“I hope you’ll forgive the mess,” he said, as he put his key in the lock. “My cleaning lady’s been sick.”
Sun streamed into the room from two skylights, one overlooking a granite-covered island in the kitchen and the other over the fireplace in the living room. The floors were well-polished oak or maybe maple, and the walls, exposed cream-colored brick. Two butter-colored leather chairs so fat and plump they could almost double as small love seats were set on a red oriental rug. The mess, as far, as I could see, was a couple dishes in the sink, a little dust on the tables and lamp shades, and a pile of clothes crumpled on the floor next to the queen-size bed in the corner of his efficiency apartment.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said, not looking at me. “After Sarah died, I sold our house and bought the first place I looked at. This is it. It’s small but it’s home.”
I looked up at the cathedral ceilings and the generous expanse of floor space that could have doubled as a dance floor in a small club. This was small? It was at least four times the size of my apartment in Manhattan.
We settled ourselves in the living room area with our drinks. The coffee table was the DMZ zone, with a Corona on my side of the table and a Miller on his.
We drank in silence for several minutes. I kept hoping he’d say something, set the tone, since I had no idea what he was thinking or feeling. But I had a strange feeling that my entire future depended on what was going to happen here this afternoon. One wrong move could mean the difference between a future with two well-worn rocking chairs and visiting grandchildren, or a singular hell in a cramped apartment with a baker’s dozen of cats as my entire source of joy and meaning in life.
I looked up and caught Robert staring at me.
“It killed me to see you with that guy at the club, Sam,” he blurted out suddenly.
“I looked for you downstairs to explain, but you’d left,” I said. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
“I needed time to think, sort things out,” he said, and then took a swig of his beer. I kept forgetting that it took men at least nine times as long to think about things as it did women.
“I know I probably don’t have a right to ask,” he said, “but what’s going on with you and the salsa instructor?”
Robert looked hurt and upset, but I reminded myself that this wasn’t the time to let my emotions cloud my judgment with a man, yet again.
“Actually, I have a question for you first. What were you doing at Club Cubana?”
“I had a meeting with a client,” he said.
“A client?”
“Yes, Roberto Lopez. He’s a lawyer who wants to relocate to Chicago. I wanted to set up a meeting at his office, but he suggested Club Cubana so I agreed to meet him there.”
“Roberto Lopez, who’s he?”
“That tall, built guy I was on the balcony with. You know, the guy I was with when I saw you with the salsa instructor.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“He’s a lawyer?” I asked. And if he was, why in the hell did they meet at a salsa club instead of Robert’s office?
“Yes, he does personal injury,” said Robert.
“And his name is Roberto Lopez?”
“Yes, why? What’s wrong, Sam? Do you know him?”
“No. Yes. Well, I’ve met him at the club, but I don’t really know him,” I said.
Why would Sebastian Diaz, if that was his real name, lie about what he did for a living and give Robert a false name? It didn’t make sense.
“Why didn’t you meet him at your office?” I continued. “And where is your office anyway? There’s only a P.O. box listed in the phone book. I must say that seems a little strange for a business.”
“It’s downtown. My associates and I share a small space with three closet-sized offices, three desks, three computers, and no view. We don’t meet with clients at our office. That’s why I didn’t have the address listed. I’ll take you there if you want to—”
“No, no that’s okay,” I said, suddenly ashamed at my suspicions about Robert, who seemed genuinely upset and who was clearly waiting for me to give him some answers about Javier.
“About the salsa instructor,” I said. “He was giving me private dance lessons. He has ... had a crush on me, and well, the truth is, I liked him too, only I didn’t realize it until a few days ago.”
“I want you to know, I understand,” he said. “I don’t like it but I understand.”
“Anyway, he’s got a girlfriend,” I said.
“Sam, I’ve done a lot of thinking,” Robert said, as he began peeling the label off his beer bottle. “I’ve behaved like a spoiled kid. I had no right to act the way I did when you said you weren’t ready to make love. I want you to know I respect your decision and we can wait as long as you want. Will you forgive me and give me another chance?”
I’d been doing a lot of forgiving when it came to Robert. But he seemed so vulnerable this afternoon, as though he might break in two if I said the wrong thing. Before I could answer, Robert came over to me and put his arms around me and then Plan D, which wasn’t planned at all, happened.
* * *
The fire in the fireplace crackled and tiny flames from candles around the apartment flickered and danced. A ghostly stream of light from the moon came in through the skylight in the kitchen.
“This arrow is pointed directly away from me,” Robert said, tracing the Cupid tattoo on my stomach.
His clothes did a good job of hiding his pudgy stomach. He didn’t have a beer belly exactly, more like the stomach of a reasonably fit middle-aged guy who hadn’t done a sit-up since high school. But the extra pudge hadn’t lessened Robert’s lovemaking abilities. He was far more passionate and skilled than my ex-fiance, David, had ever been. Then again, Robert was older, and had been married before.
“You don’t seem like the tattoo kind of woman.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I do,” he assured me, bending down to kiss it. “It looks good on you.”
�
�Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you salsa?”
He laughed. “Salsa? Only with chips.”
“I’m serious, I don’t know what it is but I love it, I can’t get enough of it. Are you at least willing to try it, for me?”
“I don’t think dancing is my thing, Sam,” he said.
“What is your thing?”
“You,” he said, kissing my collarbone and breast before propping his head back on his hand with his elbow jammed into a pillow.
“The other one is getting jealous,” I said playfully.
“We can’t have that,” he said, bending down to kiss my right breast. It tickled and felt sensuous at the same time.
“So maybe dancing is out, but don’t you have a passion, something you love to do?”
“Besides making love to a beautiful woman who I’m crazy about?”
“Yes, besides that.”
“My job, I guess. I’m proud that my business is a success,” he said. He leaned over and we kissed for a while, but I couldn’t fully enjoy the moment because his last statement made me wonder if he was a workaholic like David had been.
I told Robert I was starving and he offered to cook for me. In his kitchen, the Spanish tiles felt cool on my feet. I stood on the other side of the island in one of his long-sleeved button-down shirts that just covered my behind. As I watched him cook, we talked about one of my favorite topics, traveling, and about going to Hong Kong together some day, a city both of us had always wanted to visit.
“So what are you doing for the rest of your life?” he asked me as he handed me a plate of steaming fettuccine Alfredo. “Are you busy?”
I smiled at him, not knowing what to say. Was he the right man for me? I certainly hoped so.
Sixteen
Double Dipped
I’d like to say it ended happily ever after, but that only happens to a few select women, the ones for whom the grass really is greener. And not just during the summer months. You know this type of woman. We hate her.
She floats through life and every good thing the universe has to offer comes to her effortlessly, as if she were a giant walking sponge—great jobs, her parents and siblings for best friends, oodles of cash netted through every investment she makes. She was the kind of woman who, if she hadn’t married her soul mate at twenty-one, was having the time of her life being single. She’s turned down five marriage proposals by the time she’s twenty-nine and hasn’t spent a single Christmas, birthday, or Valentine’s Day without a man since puberty. Usually, in fact, she’s dating three or four men at once, juggling them with the ease of a short-order cook at Denny’s. All of them, of course, are madly in love with her and jostling for her attention. But, if she does choose serial monogamy, then she’s doing “The Amazing Overlap.” Before giving the current guy his pink slip, she’s already met and cultivated the new one, who drops off the vine plump and juicy into her welcoming hands, at just the right moment.
I didn’t have any female friends like this, thank goodness. Otherwise I’d have to have her assassinated. But I’d certainly hoped for the best for Lessie. When we had driven over to Javier and Eliseo’s after our movie marathon, I’d left in a flood of tears after seeing Javier with Isabella. But I had assumed Lessie and Eliseo had worked things out since she hadn’t come out in twenty minutes. But Lessie had finally called me this evening to tell me that Eliseo was not going to take any role in the raising of his child, much less ending up with Lessie as she’d hoped.
I’m not in the habit of kidnapping people, especially when they happen to be dear friends of mine, but I didn’t have much of a choice given the emotional state Lessie was in. After talking to Lessie, I drove straight over to her house.
“We’re going out dancing,” I said to Lessie, who was sitting on her couch staring zombielike at a sitcom on TV. A string of canned laughter erupted from the television.
“I don’t want to salsa dance ever again,” she said. She was capable of holding a conversation, but it was like she wasn’t really there.
“You love salsa,” I said during another burst of canned laughter. It sounded like a bad joke that had fallen flat at a funeral.
“I don’t want to run into Eliseo,” she told me, eyes still focused on the screen.
“We won’t, we’re going to a new club.” I turned off the TV and Lessie finally looked at me.
“You let the pony come out of the corral for a ride,” she said in a flat voice.
“What?” Had she really gone off the deep end? What did horses have to do with anything?
“You had sex. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”
I was startled. I’d assumed she was too deep in the fog of her own problems to notice.
“But you’d better be careful, Sam. Did you know that sex can lead to pregnancy?” Her attempt at humor nearly broke my heart. I felt so bad for her, but what else could I do?
I helped her pick out her sexiest short black dress from her closet and told her to take a shower. While Lessie got ready, I went outside to her patio and sat down. The night was perfect. I could see stars—not many, but more than I’d ever seen in Manhattan. I sat there for a moment, just basking in the feeling that my life had changed, hopefully, for the better.
Lessie tapped me on my shoulder and I jumped.
“Do you want to talk about him?” I asked Lessie as I drove us to the club.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said, staring straight ahead through the windshield.
“Is Eliseo going to be involved at all?”
“Sure, once a month when the check arrives,” she said. “But at least I know that decent men still exist. Javier was wonderful about the whole thing.”
“He was?” I said, momentarily jolted to hear his name.
“Two days after I told Eliseo, Javier called me at home,” Lessie explained. “He told me he was ashamed of the way his brother was behaving and wanted to know if I needed anything,” she said. “Javier will definitely make some woman very happy someday,” she added, and once again I felt a stab of regret that it was not going to be me. Javier’s heart had been with Isabella all along. I was with Robert now, and he’d be back in just a few days.
Lessie and I walked into Babalus. It had a tropical feel, totally different from Cubana. Well-dressed couples and foursomes sat around white tables, potted palm trees were here and there, a tropical wall mural was splashed behind the bar, and the walls were covered with the warm oranges, yellows, and reds of a sunset scene. Babalus reminded me of Latin nightclubs that had flourished in the 1950s when couples went out for a night of cocktailing, dinner, and dancing. I half expected that at any moment I might bump into the white-tuxedoed Ricky Ricardo.
A twelve-piece band was playing on a small raised platform in the corner of the club. A disc jockey was one thing, but a live salsa band was absolutely mesmerizing. Each member of the band moved in unison, playing with the kind of contagious energy that could raise the dead. The lead singer, a plump Latina woman, wore an outfit that showed off every curve, a low-cut silver sequined midriff top with cleavage to her navel, and a short black skirt that skimmed the top of her chubby thighs, which were encased in black fishnet nylons. She belted out lyrics in Spanish while gyrating her hips and swinging her plump arms in time to the brassy, pumping rhythms.
“Is that the Lone Salsero over there?” Lessie asked me.
I’d never seen the man stationary before. With his back against the bar, he stood watching everyone coming in while sipping a glass of white wine. As Lessie and I walked by him, he winked and smiled at me. Yikes!
The first person I saw after Lessie and I had grabbed a table near the band was the woman who had been fixated on Javier’s “package” at Cubana about a month ago. Whenever she passed under the overhead lights, the red and blond streaks in her hair lit up like they were on fire. At the time I talked to her, I remembered her saying that Javier could make your spine melt, a comment I coul
d finally begin to appreciate as I’d become more and more passionate about salsa.
And then I saw the Lone Salsero approaching and prayed to the powers that be that he wasn’t coming for me. But a moment later, he was at my side.
“You are very beautiful,” he said in a thick accent. “Will you dance with me?” He stood there patiently, twirling one end of his mustache as he waited for my answer.
“Go on, Sam, I’ll be fine,” said Lessie, who lightly elbowed me and flashed me a wicked glad-its-not-me smirk. Seeing that smirk made all the difference. At least she was feeling better. I let the Lone Salsero lead me to the center of the dance floor and a minute later saw Lessie dancing with a man who came up to her chin. I made sure I caught her eye over the Lone Salsero’s shoulder. She rolled her eyes, but was smiling.
The Lone Salsero was an incredible dancer, not to mention astonishingly athletic. He twirled and dipped me a dozen times and by the end of just one salsa song, I was suffering from near hypoxia. Back at our table, as I tried to catch my breath, I looked for Lessie and saw her standing on the other side of the club at the bar talking to someone I didn’t recognize. I was just about to take a sip of water when I saw something that made me stop breathing once again.
Like royalty, the crowd parted when Javier and Isabella walked in. They went straight to the dance floor and the crowd circled around them. Short bursts of applause broke out when Javier flipped Isabella over in a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn, and again when Isabella dipped Javier, a move I’d never seen before. When they were through, I heard an enthusiastic round of clapping.
I sat there wishing I could make myself disappear. It was bad enough that he got back together with her, but to flaunt it in my face like this was just outrageous! I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I crossed my arms and stared dismally at the band, hoping somehow he would leave me alone for the night.
“Hi, Sam,” said Javier, and then a moment later, “I think we have some things to talk about,” he said.
How dare this man who said he loved me and then forgot me a nanosecond later have the nerve to even speak to me.
Adventures of a Salsa Goddess Page 21