Love in All the Right Places (Chick Lit bundle) (15 page)

Acknowledgments

I wanted to write a contemporary Pinoy romance that wasn’t set in Manila. So I moved south and came closer to home. Thank you very much for reading this and allowing me to share a bit of that home with you. But none of this would have been possible without the help of some very special people:

Mina, whose patience, guidance, and generosity paved the way for a bunch of #romanceclass hopefuls;

Chrissie and Camille, for the daily support and late-night encouragement that pushed me to keep on writing;

Ron and Chachic, whose sharp eyes and insightful comments helped polish this novella;

Mike, for the amazing cover art;

Thea, Dianne, and Adriann for the unexpected help from unexpected quarters;

Da Kyong, who was at the right place when I was at the wrong time;

and finally, my fact-checkers, cheerleaders, and source material (also known as my flesh and blood).

Saeamat.

Chris Mariano takes the same route Gio takes whenever she comes home from Boracay. Unlike Gio, she is yet to meet her K-drama hottie. When she’s not writing, she supports Eskritoryo Pilipinas, an organization that encourages kids to appreciate Filipino literature and culture. She divides her time between Manila and Aklan.

She blogs at http://ficsation.blogspot.com and tweets at @dementedchris.

Visit also:
FB page:
https://www.facebook.com/ChrisMarianoAuthorPage
Book teaser:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpxImmRUqPw
Ask Gio:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xNqSXVGVwZ8

Agay Llanera

For Kal—you will be forced to read this when you’re old enough

Prologue: The End

Life is filled with expiration dates. Some, like chocolates, medicine, and makeup have theirs clearly stamped, while others prefer to keel over without warning, upsetting you with their demise.

Cases in Point:

1. My shih tzu Poochie gagging on a chicken bone someone had fed her at my seventh birthday party.  She gasped out her last breath, leaving behind my first lesson on mortality.

2.
My laptop conking out while I was writing the second chapter of my college thesis. I went through all five stages of grief as I carried the poor thing from one repair shop to the next, until finally accepting that
I
was, in fact, the
poor thing, as I had to start my work from scratch.

3.
My first and only relationship ending after graduation. Benj and I were together for three blissful years before he left for the States to pursue his master’s degree. We gamely continued the long-distance romance; but after just a month of FaceTiming, he called it quits.

And now this.

Though I knew Mama Maring’s expiration date could come anytime soon because she was pushing eighty and was severely weakened by a spell of pneumonia, her death still came as a shock. 

I was in the thick of work on the day it happened—in the middle of an afternoon shoot, right beside the train tracks intersecting España in Manila.  My celebrity guest was late, a twenty-something heartthrob basking in the recent success of his indie film, where he portrayed a troubled youth growing up in this very setting.

My idea was to film the actor spending the day with his character’s real-life counterpart—twenty-year-old Brian whose family was one of those that settled right beside the tracks. He had put himself through high school and was now supporting his parents and siblings.

I had to admit, I wasn’t sure if the artsy concept would fly with my boss. But she gave the nod without her usual nitpicking. Our late night show,
Profiles,
typically featured politicians, CEOs, and entrepreneurs. I guess she figured local showbiz’s current hottie would bring in the much-needed ratings.

So being the excitable puppy that I was, I volunteered to be totally hands-on for this shoot, mentally raking up my film class notes to make sure everything was shot perfectly, even sketching storyboards to visualize the shots.

But of course, I couldn’t control everything. Aside from my tardy host, the sky threatened rain.  And rain meant filming indoors, which meant I had to forget about my storyboard and come up with a new shooting sequence on the spot.

After what seemed an eternity, a massive van pulled over, and out bounced a beefy woman whose flushed face was framed by a tangled nest of curls.

“Sorry, sorry!” She gripped my hand and shook it, along with the rest of my body. “We just wrapped up an interview with BBC, and it took longer than we predicted. Where should we go?”

I started leading the way when Jeff Javier himself stepped out, looking impossibly suave and sexy in a fitted white tee and faded jeans, causing the crowd, cordoned off by the linked arms of the barangay captain’s minions, to heave in massive squeals of delight.

After smiling and waving to the crowd, he stretched out his hand to me. “Hello. I’m Jeff.”

The sun was nowhere in sight, but I
positively
melted. 

His
mestizo
features were flawless; not a single pore visible on that creamy skin. My eyes drifted from his mocha eyes to that upturned nose, down to those pearly whites framed by the softest strawberry lips—and got stuck there.

I tore my eyes from his full mouth and met his gaze. “Hi. I’m Crissy, executive producer of
Profiles
.” I smoothed back my messy ponytail and wished that, for once, I had ditched my default shooting attire: a loose shirt, waterproof cargo pants (highly functional but sadly unflattering), and battered sneakers.

But this was no time for fashion regrets.

I faced the crew, clapping my hands. “Okay, everyone! We’ll be rolling in a few!” I flicked on the megaphone and addressed the general public. “Make sure that both you and your cellphones are switched to silent mode. Please
no
unnecessary noise while we’re filming.”

There were some shuffling and murmuring as everyone got their phones and punched buttons. I couldn’t help grinning when I caught Jeff doing the same with his iPhone. 

* * * *

Surprisingly the shoot proceeded smoothly, with only a few minor snags, including a screaming fan who managed to break through the human barrier, avidly clinging to Jeff for dear life. But Jeff was a pure professional. He laughed with the crowd as the hysterical woman was peeled off him.

In three hours, we had shot everything we needed. By the time the first fat raindrops started to fall, we were almost done with packing up.  After Jeff’s manager offered her cheek for a good-bye
beso-beso
, Jeff followed suit, a film of sweat glistening on his smooth forehead.

I flinched a little before meeting his warm cheek with mine. Benj would often have a sheen of oil in that very same spot. He was conscious about it, so I had always kept a pack of rice paper tissues in my bag so I could blot out the shine whenever it appeared.

I shook off the memory, and climbed into our van, adjusted the aircon vent toward me, and sank into the seat. The euphoria of filming wore off, and I realized how tired I was. I was about to nod off when I remembered my phone was still on silent mode. I fished it out of my bag and spotted three missed calls and a text from my mom:

Mama Maring passed away this PM. Please call ASAP.

Chapter 1: Flashback

The first time I introduced Mama Maring to Benj, she knew right away how crazy in love I was.

“Get married right away!” she whispered when he excused himself to go to the washroom.

“Mama!” I laughed, half-giddy, half-appalled. “Seventeen isn’t exactly marrying age.”

“In my day, it was.” She looked at me slyly. “But maybe it’s better if you wait until you graduate.” 

Mama Maring never married. Mom told me that she fell in love only once, in her teens, with a man five years her senior. But the engagement fell through when her fiancé was killed in a motorcycle accident. 

She was the only grandparent who had survived long enough to meet me—though technically, she was a grandaunt, a sister of my real grandma, the mother of my mom.

But this was not the memory I shared in my eulogy. Instead I talked about how I would always remember Mama Maring as the perfectly coiffed grandmother,
who regularly had home-serviced perms and pedicures. I talked about her matching handbags and belts and shoes, her unwavering loyalty to Revlon cosmetics, and how she enjoyed a flourishing career in a company that supplied clothes to major department stores, climbing her way from being fashion assistant to head of operations.

I talked about her fierce independence. Even after retirement, she had refused to live with relatives and rented her own apartment. Each time she got sick, she hired a nurse to look after her. She was way ahead of her time, I said, a role model for women across generations.

* * * *

“What’s that?” Bea stole a sideways glance at my drink before refocusing on the road. It was a breeze driving in Makati on an early Sunday morning; we were the only humans visible on the street, save for the occasional jogger panting on the pavement.

“Caramel frapuccino with white chocolate chips and extra whipped cream, sprinkled with cocoa.” I offered her my venti cup.

She took a sip and made a face. “Honestly, Crissy, this isn’t coffee.  It’s a calorie-bomb that explodes into flab. Not to mention, it’s outrageously overpriced.”

Self-consciously, I stretched my loose top over my bulging waistline.

“I deserve it,” I insisted. “It was hell week at work.”

Bea rolled her eyes while shifting gears, knowing all too well that I bought these drinks almost every day. “What you deserve is a break. You haven’t had a real vacation in years!” She snuck another peek at me. “So have you thought about Boracay?”

I shifted in my seat. “I don’t know, Bei. Summer is really a busy time for us. You know how crucial ratings are.” I licked the buttercream frosting off my cinnamon roll. “Besides, I’m pretty much broke right now.”

“I told you we could use my aunt’s time-sharing for the resort! As for the plane tickets, just leave it up to me to score bargain
fares. Once we’re there, we’ll scrimp on food.”

“You sure ‘babe’ won’t mind?” I teased, using her term of endearment for Mark, Mr. All-Around Nice Guy and her boyfriend since college.

Bea rolled her eyes. “Mark and I have been to Bora so many times. Besides, I want some girl talk for a change.” She paused as she maneuvered a wide U-turn. “Lately we haven’t really been spending enough BFF time.”

Touché. We both knew that my grueling work schedule left me almost no free time for socializing.

Finally, we parked in front of a building, where I spotted Mom waving to us.

“Welcome, girls!” She beamed when we walked over. “Bea, I’m so glad you’re helping us out.”

“No problem,
Tita
!” Bea pecked her on the cheek.

I did the same, but Mom pulled me in for a tight bear hug. “Two weekends in a row! It’s such a treat seeing you this often, sweetie!”

Because I lived away from home, I tried to visit my parents during weekends. 
Tried
is the operative word. Most times I got stuck either in the office for some last-minute stress, or in the condo, hibernating to work off the stress.

Mom led us to the elevator and punched a button.  “Management gave us until this week to clear out her apartment.” 

We got off the floor and entered Mama Maring’s unit. “I thought we could divide her things into three piles— ‘keep, ‘donate,’ and ‘toss.’” Mom swept her hand over the massive mound in the middle of the room and ruefully smiled at me. “Though I think your dad would have a fit if I kept any of these and added them to the junk at home. You girls help yourselves.”

Our eyes widened at the mad jumble of old scarves, belts, clothes, and accessories on the floor. I had always known Mama Maring to be packrat, but it was still a shock to take in all the stuff she had accumulated through the years.

“Just look at this gold mine!” Bea practically shrieked.

As we sorted her belongings, we saw more vintage collectibles buried beneath the clothes; there were vinyl records, postcards, soda caps, pencils, and matchbox covers. There was even an authentic fifties radio that shone in lacquered maroon, complete with AM and FM radio dials.

“Obviously, it won’t be practical to keep these.” Bea gestured to the collectibles. “And it would be a shame to just give them away. So I think we should sell them.” She then turned to me triumphantly. “At the same time, you can raise funds for our Bora trip!”

Trust Bea to instantly see the business side of things. After all, she ran a mishmash of online businesses herself, selling everything—from secondhand books and Korean cosmetics to accessories and homemade cookies.

“I think that’s a great idea!” My mom smiled at me. “You really need a break.”

We turned on the radio (it still worked) and got down to business.  I couldn’t help feeling nostalgic as I sorted the items that I had admired as a child—Mama’s lacy ankle-length champagne gown studded with seed pearls that she wore only once, her pair of pink-rimmed cat-eye sunglasses that made her look like a funky schoolteacher, and her colorful collection of chiffon scarves. Mama had promised to give them to me when I was old enough, and she did offer them to me when I turned eighteen.  But by then, I was preoccupied with the current fashion trends, and fifties attire had no place in my closet.

If Mama was disappointed or hurt, she didn’t show it. In fact, she would always compliment my choice of clothes. But all that ended when I started immersing myself more and more into my work, which didn’t exactly require a dress code. I had good-naturedly brushed off Mama’s lectures on my dying fashion sense, which was probably quite dead by now—another item that had expired on me.

I hope Mama could see Bea now, gushing as she tried on some of the outfits in front of the full-length mirror. I didn’t bother taking her cue since the clothes were obviously not my size. Even with Bea’s slim figure, they were still snug.

She checked the inside label of a pair of pedal pushers. “A twenty-three-inch waistline! How on earth did she ever manage that? Corsets?”

Mom mused, “I don’t think Mama ever wore corsets.  In those days, it was normal to have a twenty-one-inch waistline.”

Bea gasped over this as Mom calmly continued. “Just imagine— back then people weren’t into junk food or greasy fast food…”

“Or frapuccinos,” Bea piped in, then smiled at me knowingly.

I made a face at her while scrutinizing my latest find: a gorgeous navy blue dress peppered with small, white polka dots. I could imagine the straight neckline resting just below Mama’s prominent collarbones. It had a hint of sleeve—they’re called continuous sleeves, I think. A red sash encircled the waist, punctuated by a bow at the back. I held it in front of me and liked how the skirt fell in a hoop mid-way down my calves. Curious, I peered underneath and saw the crinoline petticoat.

“
Awww
, you’d look like a prom queen in that.” Bea clapped her hands excitedly. “You should definitely keep it.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Where would I wear it? And more importantly, how would it fit me?”

“You can always have it altered.” Mom ran her hand on the fabric. “This print isn’t hard to find. The seamstress can just add the extra cloth at the back so it won’t be so obvious.”

Woefully I looked down at my flab, and back at the dress.  “This is a thin-dress—you know, a dress fit for the thin. It highlights the waist, which, at this point, is something I’d rather camouflage.”

“There are ways to make your waistline worth flaunting,” Bea suggested with a grin.

“Yes, I know.” I cut her off before she started lecturing me on my sedentary lifestyle. Bea was a fitness freak, constantly trying to drag me to her workouts, which alternated between badminton, running, swimming, and, just recently, air yoga.

Mom was still examining the dress. “There’s something inside the pocket.” She took out a wrinkled photograph of a young man channeling James Dean—complete with the slicked-back hair, the white polo tucked in tight jeans, and pointy leather shoes. His arms were folded while he leaned against a gleaming Vespa.

But unlike the
Rebel without a Cause
star, there wasn’t anything brooding about this guy. He was laughing at the camera, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Who’s he?” Bea leaned closer.

Mom flipped the photograph and we saw words written in clean, confident lines.

My darling Maria,

       I look forward to the day when we can explore the nooks and crannies of the earth, your arms wrapped around my waist, the wind whipping our faces, our hearts pounding as one.

     I may be reckless with my ways, but never with your heart. You are the only one who has tamed me, and I will love no other for the rest of my life.

Love you tender,

Lito

“So
this
is Lito,” I whispered.

Who’s he?” Bea asked and I proceeded to fill her in on Mama Maring’s one and only love.

Mom added, “When he died, Mama threw herself into work. Her sisters tried to set her up with other boys, but she flat-out refused. She said Lito was the only one for her.”

“Sounds familiar,” Bea quipped.

I flushed. Since my breakup with Benj, I had refused all the dates Bea set up for me. But that didn’t mean that I still believed that Benj was “the one”—did it?

“Well, what’s wrong with focusing on your career?” I declared a bit too defensively. “There’s nothing like work to keep you sane after a tragic romance—right, Mama Maring?” I turned to the framed blown-up photograph resting on the wall.

It showed Mama, in her twenties, totally rocking the vintage look. Her curls were wrapped in one of her scarves, her long neck accentuated by a Sabrina top fitted over a pair of slim-cut capris. She was smiling at the distant horizon.

“I happen to know that this was taken
after
her fiancé’s death,” I announced triumphantly.

“Singlehood seemed to have suited her,” Mom agreed and then turned to Bea. “How about your love life, dear? Should we expect wedding bells soon?”

To my surprise, my usually cocksure friend blushed and lowered her eyes. “I-I think it’s too early for that,
Tita
.”

Now
this
is interesting
,
I thought. Bea rarely lost her composure.

“Oh, twenty-six is a good marrying age.” Mom smiled. “You’re not too young to be naïve about romance, and you’re not too old to worry about your ticking biological clock.”

I tried to catch Bea’s eye, but she was avoiding my questioning look. Mental note: give her the third degree later about said blushing incident.

After a few more hours of sorting, we had lunch delivered. As I munched on my cashew chicken, I found myself staring at Mama Maring’s smiling face. Truth is, I couldn’t figure out how she could look
that
happy even after her traumatic love life.

Silently, I asked the girl in the portrait, How did you move on? What made you whole again?