by Becca Bloom
I opened my mouth to agree with her when Abuelita shouted, “No change! This interesting,” and leaned in closer to the radio.
Patricio called out, “Turn it up. I’ve been following this too.”
I translated what I heard in my mind as fast as I could. The jewel thief had struck again, leaving his calling card — a handkerchief with an embroidered black cat with long whiskers. There were several rewards offered from the affected individuals.
The news announcer then gave a rundown of the stolen jewels: diamonds and rubies, emeralds, amethysts set in something I didn’t understand. Rings, bracelets, necklaces…. The words jumbled and slurred together, but I got the gist that the jewels were of high monetary and sentimental value.
“Did I understand correctly? Most of the pieces are heirlooms dating from the colonial days?” I asked to be sure. How awful for those families to have something they held precious, a treasured piece of their family history, stolen.
“That’s right. Your Spanish is improving, Señorita James. It’s difficult to learn the language well when so many in town speak fluent English. I congratulate you,” Patricio said.
The music resumed, playing Marc Anthony’s latest salsa hit.
Abuelita boasted, “Jess smart. She catch thief.”
I laughed. While catching a jewel thief held its appeal, I had bigger fish to fry. “Not when the doughnut shop is opening in one week.”
She dismissed my comment with a wave of her hand. “Is easy. I help.”
Clearly, Abuelita’s “help” with the previous three cases we’d stumbled into had left her craving more. Either that or she was incredibly bored.
I, however, wasn’t about to take more onto my plate when it was already full. Getting a new business up and running was no small feat. My mom managed her own business as well as my dad’s, so I was aware of the time and effort involved.
Patricio’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought your skill set favored murders, not thefts.”
What a skill set to have. I chuckled at how ridiculous it sounded. “I’m just grateful I haven’t found any dead bodies in two whole months. No, my sleuthing days are officially over.”
Abuelita tapped her pointy fingernails against her chin. It made me nervous. Did she know something I didn’t?
I bristled when she finally said, “We see about that.”
I really needed to find something for her to do.
Tia Rosa said, “You no pay her attention, Jessica. She boring.”
“Abuelita boring?” Patricio guffawed. “Never. The word you’re looking for is ‘bored,’ Tia Rosa.”
Tia Rosa was of the mind that her English was far superior to Abuelita’s, and she never took too kindly to being corrected in front of her sister. She continued on as if she hadn’t heard Patricio, “I think the thief classy man like Cary Grant.” She clasped her hands by her pudgy cheek and swooned.
I had to give her credit for her good taste. Cary Grant was on my list of Old Hollywood heartthrobs. Along with Gregory Peck and Gene Kelly.
I must have sighed too loud because Abuelita gave me a funny look. I bet she and Tia Rosa had fought over which movie to see when they were younger. Abuelita seemed more like a James Cagney, Perry Mason kind of gal.
Tia Rosa shrugged. “What? Thief use the handkerchief. Is old-fashion. I think he rich man too boring. He steal for the exciting!”
Patricio chuckled all the way over to the other end of the terrace where he joined his workers.
Turning to me, Tia Rosa said, “I have good plan. Grand open in one week. You have time decorate apartment.”
Abuelita nodded, adding, “You no worry. We supervise. We make them do good job.” She jutted her chin toward the gardeners.
“I just bet you will,” I said, deciding to add a generous tip to Patricio’s fee for enduring the trouble Abuelita was sure to cause them. He and his staff would deserve every penny.
Chapter 3
I went down one flight of stairs to my apartment. Already, it had been an eventful morning, and I needed a revitalizing cup of coffee.
My mind turned longingly toward my e-reader. I’d much rather read than decorate. The one major downside of Ecuador was its lack of libraries. I’d always been a paperback girl, but the lack of books here helped me develop a special appreciation for my digital library on my device. I craved a good story. A mystery. A classic. An Agatha Christie.
After hearing the news of the jewel thief on the radio, I was inclined to reread the one where Hercule Poirot helps a prince find his priceless ruby. It seemed like an appropriate choice. But it would have to wait until later tonight.
My place wasn’t so bad, I thought begrudgingly. Tia Rosa was exaggerating.
I opened my door. Who was I kidding? Tia Rosa was onto something.
There was no furniture in the living room yet. My laptop sat on the kitchen counter beside the coffee maker (the only appliances I owned besides a hair dryer). My mattress was still on the floor of my bedroom, my e-reader in the middle of the pillow for lack of a bedside table to put it on.
Tia Rosa was right. It was sad. My place had no color, no personality. My mom would’ve filled the walls up in a single day.
Thinking of my mom made me miss her. I wished they could be here, but Dad got panic attacks just driving by the airport. And Mom would never leave Dad on his own for any length of time.
My two sisters? They were too busy with their latest ventures. My oldest sister, Jessenia, ran two businesses from her home besides caring for a toddler and a baby on the way. She was busy. The youngest, Jessamyn, was (hopefully) working hard in New York at her internship. It was only a matter of time before I saw her picture gracing the covers of fashion magazines.
That only left Mammy, and I could never ask her to get on an airplane. Not after what had happened to my uncle Eddie.
Wow, I missed them. It hit me hard.
I looked at the time, thinking of giving them a video call. Technology had a wonderful way of shortening the distance between the different continents we lived on, and I was grateful for it at moments like these. I needed to see them.
Mom answered on the second ring. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a beauty salon with her styled bob and perfectly lined eyes and lips. She played with the strand of pearls she always wore with her free hand. “Hi, Jessica,” she smiled.
Dad’s long, white hair fluffed into the picture before he crowded in to smile and wave. “Hey, Jess,” he said, taking turns with Mom as they gave me a quick family update.
My parents were a lesson in contrast, much like Abuelita and Tia Rosa were. Mom, the professional entrepreneur who ran her own thriving photography business. Dad, the brilliant sculptor who felt everything far too deeply. He was the best dad in the world when his thoughts focused on the beauty around him. However, the presumed death of his twin brother, Uncle Eddie, had dimmed his wonder.
His eyes looked clear today. That was a good sign. Depression, and the medication he took to manage it, had changed him. Travel suited him … so long as it was done in an RV and not in an airplane.
“We’re eating an early lunch at a quaint diner just outside Albuquerque,” said Mom, still fiddling with her pearls.
Last time I’d called, they’d been in Idaho. “Albuquerque?” I asked.
Dad leaned into Mom, his face filling up the camera. “We’re here for the International Balloon Fiesta. I’m so excited! All the textures and colors… It’s an artist’s dream.”
Mom shoved him away, her eyes looking beyond me. “Unlike where you are, Jessica. You look like you’re in a hospital room. Are you okay?”
I should have called from the shop, from Adi’s apartment, or from Sylvia’s restaurant. Anywhere but here. “I know, I know. My place is awful, but I haven’t had time to decorate with everything that needs done for my shop to open on Saturday.”
“That’s your place? You live in that? Honey, you must surround yourself with inspiration — with real, authentic art,�
�� I heard Dad say. Mom must have had a death grip on her phone.
She pursed her lips, exhaling through her nose. “I wish I could be there to help you. We’d turn that empty shell of a house into a home in no time at all.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis.
“I wish you were here too,” I said before I could stop myself.
Dad turned the screen to him. His eyes drooped like a puppy’s. “I’m so sorry, honey. I went to one of those airplane simulators.”
“Really?” I asked, shocked.
Mom turned the camera to her. “They had to carry him out. It was like that scene in the Meg Ryan movie I absolutely adore. You know the one with the charming jewel thief?”
“French Kiss?” I liked that movie too. A romance set in Paris? Yes, please. I almost told her about the jewel thief here but thought better of it. I wasn’t going to get involved anyway.
“That’s the one,” she said, clearly trying to cheer Dad up and change the conversation when she rambled on about other movies she’d seen with Meg Ryan. Which naturally led to Tom Hanks and then progressed to her favorite Pixar animation.
I was more interested in the Balloon Fiesta. “Do you think Mammy will convince you to go up in a hot-air balloon?” As soon as I asked, it struck me that Mammy wasn’t there. She’d have pried Mom’s phone away from her by now.
“Mammy decided to take a little side trip to visit a close friend she hasn’t seen in a while,” Mom said.
“Well, her friend must be pretty special if she’s willing to miss the balloons.” Mammy loved everything bright and bold.
Dad twisted the camera to him. “She is. Mammy insisted on it, and we weren’t about to argue with her.”
Mom pulled the camera back to her. “You know better than to argue with your mother. You’re like Jessica — allergic to confrontation.”
Their food arrived, interrupting their tug-of-war with the phone. They propped it up on the table between them, so I could see them both.
I also had a great view of their food. Mom had a Cobb salad with bleu cheese dressing on the side. Dad had chocolate cake a la mode, drenched with chocolate syrup.
“I see you still eat dessert first,” I said, trying not to grin. I loved that about him.
“Life’s too short not to. And my little pastry chef lives too far away to share her latest sugary delights with me, so I’m making do.”
“Yeah, it looks like you’re really suffering, Dad.”
Mom rolled her eyes and poked at a pickle with her fork while she looked longingly at the gooey chocolate creation in front of him.
Her eyes didn’t leave Dad’s dessert as she spoke. “If you haven’t thought about it already, you ought to add cinnamon rolls to your menu. Yours are the best, and you could offer mini rolls as samples to customers without cutting into your profit too badly. The more variety you offer to your clients, the steadier your bottom line will be. People get tired of only one product.”
I had counted on Mom trying to tell me how to run my business, but I didn’t mind. She had far more experience than I did and was consequently much more business savvy than me. Case in point: I was happier that she called my cinnamon rolls “the best” than at the prospect of making more money from them.
Dad wiggled his bushy eyebrows as he swallowed his first bite and licked the syrup off his spoon. “If you make it, the people will come. Just focus on your art, and the money will take care of itself.”
Before the conversation spiraled into a heated debate on practicality versus inspiration, I said my goodbyes, blowing kisses until I saw Mom make a dive for a bite of Dad’s cake and the screen turned black.
Talking with them had made me hungry, so I ate the leftovers Sylvia had put in my fridge. Lord love her. While I possessed a certain talent for baking and frying pastries, I couldn’t cook to save my life. I ate at her restaurant just about every day.
As I scooped the last of the chicken salad out of the bowl, I looked out of my front window at the park. People strolled along the walkways, admiring the trees and flowers and taking pictures. Artisans displayed their wares on the wide sidewalks — from woven bracelets to carved balsa figurines and painted scenes on leather.
I wondered if I would find a painting I liked down there. It wouldn’t hurt to look.
Washing my dish and retouching my lip balm, I went down to Adi’s. She haggled so much better than I did, and she had great taste.
She was on the phone with a client when she let me in. Drawings covered the top of the giant table she had in the middle of her studio. Covering the mouthpiece, she whispered to me, “I promised this lady I’d have her gown done by tomorrow, but she keeps changing the design.”
Her cell phone rang, and she held a finger up for me to wait while she got off her land line to answer her cell. “Ugh! She’ll probably want to change the color or the fabric again, and she still expects me to finish her dress on time. If I didn’t know Abuelita would love to see me fall flat on my face, I’d dump all the fabric the woman’s made me waste in her lap and tell her to do with it what she will. Then maybe she’d go and bother another designer.”
Adi and Abuelita pushed each other’s buttons, each of them too stubborn to admit how alike they were. Sylvia often served as a referee between her daughter and her mother, and she’d been the first to encourage both to leave her kitchen to pursue their own ambitions. I imagine Sylvia enjoyed the peace and quiet Adi and Abuelita had left behind in her restaurant.
Holding her phone up to her ear, Adi’s shoulders eased down, and she smiled. “It’s Jake,” she mouthed.
“Where is he?” I asked, trying to sound cool when just thinking about his lime-green eyes, chiseled jaw, honey skin, and dark, curly hair set my heart aflutter.
Adi fell quiet, her eyes darting around the room and avoiding me before she hung up.
That was weird.
“Oh, he’s nowhere important,” she said too nonchalantly, leaning over her work table.
“Okay…” I said, knowing she was hiding something. “Will he be back in time for the grand opening?”
“He wouldn’t miss it for the world. His sweet tooth is as bad as Abuelita’s.”
“Is that possible?” I asked, heading toward the park. I’d just have to haggle on my own today.
Chapter 4
I took a second to pause in front of my shop window, admiring the gold letters etched on the glass. The Sugar Shack. It was just like I’d dreamed it would look — with a few South American adjustments — and I loved every inch of it. It was the kind of place to put a smile on your face, to change a rough day into a good one. Just looking at it filled me with hope and promise.
I crossed the street to the park, surveying the paintings strung along the wide sidewalk. There were a lot of dark neutrals and oddly shaped portraits, like badly done Picassos. One imaginative artist had colorful trains flying above cultivated fields and brightly painted, straw-roofed country houses. Not one piece captured my interest.
The people around me were more fascinating to study. Retired couples wearing safari gear, brave foreigners traveling with small children, the occasional solitary wanderer with a backpack as large as the one who carried it…. How did they end up in Baños? What was their story? Would any of them stay as I had? Would they think I was crazy for setting up half-way across the world, away from everyone and everything I’d known? There were moments when not even I could believe what I was doing.
Entertained in my own mind, I wandered down the sidewalk until I saw Miss Patty, the local art teacher and gallery owner. She’d helped me improve my technique in the comic drawings I did for fun.
She stood in front of a collection of paintings that, to me anyway, seemed to portray human suffering with its series of disfigured faces contorted into scowls and screams. I looked away, focusing instead on her bright, silky tunic fluttering in the breeze.
“Hi, Miss Patty,” I said.
Without looking up, she pointed at the paintings in front of her.
“It’s a disappointing showing today,” she said, turning and giving me an air kiss by my cheek. She smelled like flowers and vanilla.
“I came down to see if there was anything I liked for my apartment, but I like brighter colors.” I tried to be nice. The artist hovered around us.
Miss Patty shook her head. Leaning into me, she dropped her voice. “These are so depressing. Disfigured people in shades of mud.”
That summed it up nicely. “I don’t suppose you have something livelier at your gallery?” It would cost more, but if I found a piece I loved, I wasn’t afraid to invest a moderately tidy sum. What was the likelihood of that anyway? Growing up in a houseful of artists had made me discerning and picky.
Miss Patty’s eyes positively sparkled in excitement. “As a matter of fact, I recently discovered a talented artist. I’ve already helped him sell nine pieces.”
She patted her pockets, her eyebrows furling in concentration. “I have all his paintings on my phone … if I can find it.” She resumed the search once again, having made the round of her pockets and coming up empty-handed. “Wait, I was at the internet cafe before I came here. I must have left it there. Do you want to come with me? It’s on the way to my gallery.”
I followed, the rhythm of her clicking toe rings tapping out a rapid tempo.
I hoped Miss Patty could help me add some cheer to my home.
The owner of the internet cafe handed Miss Patty her phone before she could let go of the door handle.
“Thank you!” She shook her head, heading back out to the sidewalk. “I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached.”
“Why do you go to an internet cafe if you have Wi-Fi at your gallery?” I’d used it before during one of our classes.
“I’m a paper gal. This cell phone is more than enough technology for me, and I mostly only use it for pictures. Which reminds me!” She stopped, poking at her screen, then holding it in front of me. “Here. Just scroll through the next nine pictures. If you like them, the tenth is in my gallery right now.”
My heart beat faster as my eyes locked on the first image. I scrolled through the pictures, craving more when I reached the end. “If the colors are as vivid as they are in these pictures, I’d love to see what you have.” I tried not to sound too excited.