Miss Scarlet's School of Patternless Sewing (25 page)

“Hey, kitten, ready for a spin around the city?” he cooed.

Scarlet admired every feature of his ensemble. “Que rico, hombre! Que rico! I love it! What brought this on?” she asked, tracing her finger around his shoulders as she circled him.

Marco blushed a bit, slid his hands in his pockets, and leaned against the doorframe. “After I left your house earlier, I went back to the shop. I didn’t breathe a word about tonight, but Rosa got hyped up when she saw me, like she knew…. She dragged it out of me. Next thing I know, we’re at Second City Resale and I’m trying on fedoras. But if it’s too much for you, I can change. I have my other clothes in the car.”

“Are you kidding? If I had punched in an order in a wishing machine for the perfect date. You are what would have come out.”

*   *   *

Marco had made reservations at Sangria, an upscale Latin restaurant, gallery, and nightclub. It had been decorated for the holidays with hundreds of silver glittered balls, hanging at different lengths from the ceiling. But even as beautiful as the restaurant looked, the first thing Scarlet noticed was how much of a true gentleman Marco was. He went all out, opening every door for her, taking her hand, making her feel like the night was all about her.

Ever since Scarlet took a break from working, her body—inside and out—felt recharged and hungry. She and Marco ordered an appetizer platter, two entrees, desserts, and various cocktails and shared all of them. They discussed funny pranks they played in high school and compared notes on new galler
ies in downtown Phoenix. Both agreed they loved downtown Glendale more because of its small-town charm. They then moved on to affectionately analyzing the lives of all of Scarlet’s students, especially Rosa. Scarlet recounted the entire Daisy drama that Rosa had told her and Mary Theresa, and then made Marco swear on his lease not to repeat it.

The lights dimmed above the dance floor across the restaurant, and a Brazilian samba showered down from the overhead speakers. Sangria nightlife had begun. Scarlet tugged Marco up and forced him to the dance floor, which was already packed.

For the next forty-five minutes, the handsome couple freestyled through mambos, merengues, cha-chas, rumbas, and tangos until they could barely catch their breath. Marco led Scarlet to a tall black-lacquered cocktail table in a private corner. After requesting two Picasso Punches from the waitress, he moved in close and adjusted Scarlet’s hair back behind her ear. She, in turn, scrambled her fingers through his hair to mess it up.

“You’re a brat,” he said, fan-folding the white cocktail napkin.

“A crazy brat at that!” She laughed, taking the napkin from his hands and blotting her nose. Still panting from the spontaneous dance session, Scarlet made up names to go with their one-of-a-kind moves: the Santeria Shimmy, the Beyoncé Bossa Nova Booty Bounce, and the Tango Tackle. She chattered on and on about the outfits Carmen Miranda used to wear during her dance numbers and the way she posed her hands around her chin while singing. Marco just smiled and watched until the waitress appeared with their order.

Scarlet removed the drinking straw from his glass and inserted it in hers. Seductively scooting the fancy drink between them, she motioned with her eyebrows for them to share. They both went in for their respective straws at the same second and
conked heads. Scarlet, laughing, massaged her forehead and Marco lifted the icy glass to soothe it.

“Round two,” she said. This time they succeeded. With their faces barely three inches apart they sucked down as much as they could of the first drink.

Scarlet stood back, winced from the alcohol a bit, and fanned her face before nuzzling up under Marco’s neck. She liked him—
really
liked him. And she knew he wanted her to.

Marco gently gripped her neck and gave her a short, simple kiss. Soft, sweet, and as delicious as a strawberry tart from La Purisima Bakery. He pulled away to gauge her reaction, and she responded by anchoring her fingers on his lapels and reeling him in for another. The waiter came by and dropped a package of mistletoe on the table.

“It’s on the house,” he said with a smirk.

Embarrassed—but only a little—Scarlet slipped it into her purse and then put her arms around the back of Marco’s neck. “Thanks for having my back today… and every day.”

He kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear, “Always.”

*   *   *

“What are you in the mood for?” Marco asked, sitting on the edge of his wood-framed sofa, scrolling through the large silver laptop on the coffee table. “Adele? Shakira? AC/DC? The world of Internet radio awaits us.”

“Keep trying,” Scarlet sang out as she unbuttoned her red wrap coat and tossed it across a set of black fiberglass bar stools. They, like everything else she noticed in Marco’s living room, were nothing like the feel of his record store. Aside from two wireless speakers that hung from the corners of his ceiling, no trace of music adoration could be found. Otherwise, the atmosphere was that of a well-disciplined bachelor with eclec
tic taste: blue/gray tones, modern vintage accessories, packed bookshelves,
National Geographic
and
Oceanography
magazines, two laptops, random dishes and cups, and your typical fish aquarium. Her favorite accent was a shark-themed paint-by-numbers lampshade on the recycled-wood end table that he’d colored in with black marker.

“Earth, Wind & Fire?” he offered.

Scarlet’s eyes narrowed and she winced. “Not even close. You were kidding about Internet radio, right? I want to hear the at-home version of Vega’s Vicious Vinyl.”

“Prince?” he ribbed, still searching. “Miley Cyrus?”

“You’re scaring me,” she said as she ran over and pretended to wrestle him out of the way of his comfy command center. He held his hands up to surrender and went to the kitchen. “Let me do this,” she said, as if she were the expert. “Sweet niblets, you were serious. You seriously don’t have any albums or CDs here?”

“I have a few in my room.”

“Well, sorry, Mr. Vega, but we’re not doing Internet radio tonight. I’m breaking into your playlists. I love my LPs, but I’m a downloading diva too.” Scarlet opened his iTunes program and scratched her head. “You have one playlist and it’s called Miss Scarlet’s Revue?”

“You’re so nosy, I knew you were going to find that,” he said, leaving the kitchen with two icy Coronas. He used his shoulder to turn off the lights, leaving only the glow from the hallway lamp.

“It’s just some tracks I put together. I was going to burn them on a CD as your Christmas present. I chickened out.”

“Awwww. You were going to give me a gift?” she asked, punching the keyboard mouse with an exaggerated click. “Let’s see whatcha got.”

One of Scarlet’s faves, Pérez Prado’s 1955 classic “Cherry Pink (And Apple Blossom White”), began to play. Marco set the beers on the table and reluctantly summoned her to the center of the flagstone floor for a dance. He blamed his recent interest in dancing on Rosa and her love of Latin music that she often pushed on him.

One beer swig later, Scarlet joined him. He slid his hand around her waist, tucked her in close, and they swayed to every note, groove, and beat of the song. At one point, he even dipped her.

When the song ended, he lifted her chin and searched her eyes, as if he didn’t know if he would ever have the chance again. Eartha Kitt’s “Santa Baby” came on, and the swanky sound inspired Scarlet to pull away and twirl.

“I can’t figure you out,” she said, finishing a complete circle and then coming back in so they could continue their moves. “You own the coolest record store in the world, but you don’t have any music in your house?”

“That’s because it’s not my store.”

“Not your store. What do you mean?”

Marco sighed and stared down at Scarlet as they paused from dancing to hold hands. “It’s my little brother’s store…. He died a week before he could open it.”

Scarlet pulled back and paused. She thought of the picture Marco kept on his office desk. “Oh, Marco, I’m so sorry. You’re running the shop in his honor, is that what you mean?” All her questions about him clicked into place. He could pass as a walking encyclopedia of music of every era, not because it was his passion but because he wanted to sell records to keep his brother’s dream alive. “Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

They began to dance again, in place, and much slower than before as Marco told her the story, nary a hint of emotion.

“Where to start? OK, well his name was Michael and he was a drummer in a punk band when he was in high school. Had the Mohawk and the tattoos—all of it. He dropped out and fell into a bad crowd. Drugs, stealing, all that. He even spent time in jail at Tent City. My parents were livid. They disowned him when he stole their car and wrecked it. I talked him into going into rehab. While he was in there, he met this girl, and she gave him hope, you know? Like… he had a whole new spirit to start over. Their dream was to open Vega’s Vicious Vinyl. He got out and got a decent job, he saved up enough to make a down payment for the store. He took all kinds of jobs to save money. My parents still didn’t want anything to do with him, even when he showed them the paperwork to his bank loan. They didn’t believe in him. By that time, I was almost done with college and dating this yuppie chick, and all I wanted to do was impress her. She didn’t like his tattoos; she didn’t want me to help him. I chose her over him. So anyway, one night we’re at a party for her work and I get a call. He needed me to pick him up in Tucson. His car broke down, and he needed a ride back to town to make it to work on time in the morning. I… didn’t call him back.”

A thick lump formed in Scarlet’s throat as she saw Marco’s eyes fill with tears. She knew he didn’t want the tears to escape, but then he blinked. Hard. And two streams that had been pent up for who knows how long poured down the sides of his cheeks.

Scarlet cradled his face between her hands. “He didn’t make it home?”

“He hitchhiked. The driver fell asleep on the long drive back… they crashed into a semi in front of them.”

At that moment, “Santa Baby” ended, leaving the air empty and silent. Scarlet still held Marco’s face as more tears raced down over the tops of her hands. She realized his quiet demeanor
all along wasn’t from shyness or arrogance, it was sadness. They both held their breath until the tender serenade of Sam Cooke’s “Nothing Can Change This Love” floated down from the speakers. She had never heard the song but fell instantly in love with it. And Marco.

She stood on the tips of her toes and kissed his dry lips with every last drop of energy inside her. Still holding on, she pulled him down to the floor with her and didn’t let go. He curled his strong arms around her petite body and accepted her warmth. She knew no words could heal his wounds or even console him, but perhaps being his friend and lover would.

*   *   *

Eight hours later, Scarlet’s eyelids flickered open as she woke up snuggled against Marco’s back on the futon in his bedroom. She doodled with her finger across his toned shoulder blades and then kissed them one at a time. Any other time, she would be up sewing by now, but as long as she made it by nine to meet her class to finish the dresses, she’d be fine.

Marco rolled over and ran his fingers up her abdomen, between her breasts, and to her lips. “Thank you,” he said, then kissed her good morning.

“Whatever happened to your brother’s girlfriend?” Scarlet asked, resting her hands on his chest.

“She’s Nadine.”

At that moment Scarlet’s clutch began to beep on the barstool. Marco slipped on his boxers and sprinted out, grabbed her bag, and handed it to her.

“I missed a lot of messages yesterday,” she said, tapping through the screen, holding the sheet over her chest. “Six! And they’re all from the same number—212 area code; that’s New York. Oh no, what if it’s House of Tijeras asking for the money?”

She pressed the speakerphone button and set the phone on the nightstand while she crawled into a Changing Hands Bookstore T-shirt that Marco set out for her.

“Hello, my name is Nexa Shinenfeld from
Fashion Faire Weekly.
This call is for Scarlet Santana, the author of DaisyForever.com. I’m contacting you because the Met Costume Institute is planning a celebration in honor of fifty years of Daisy de la Flora’s career. We’d like to discuss the idea of possibly hiring you as a consultant for a cover feature to coincide with this high-profile event. Please return my call at 212-555-6382, as soon as possible. Thank you.”

Scarlet snatched the phone and then fumbled it so much it bounced back and forth between her shaky hands. Marco caught it, dialed the number, and handed it back to her. He sat back and listened as Scarlet presented a polished, businesslike attitude throughout the conversation. Good thing Nexa couldn’t see Scarlet’s foot shaking more than Charo’s booty on a Las Vegas stage.

After a series of “uh-huh, I see, hmmm,” Scarlet politely said good-bye and disconnected the call.

“They want to hire me for a fee of five thousand dollars, fifty percent upon agreement,” she said dryly. “Between that and the dress order, I’ll have more than enough for my tuition.” She tossed the phone onto the sheet in front of her as if she didn’t want to be near it.

Marco slid over and put his arm around her stiff shoulders. “Talk about the Law of Attraction… problem solved,” he said.

Scarlet didn’t move or even change her expression.