CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“One more move and I’m done for the day,” Alfonso declares.
“Okay,” I agree, even though I may be even less in the mood for salsa than he is. For one thing, it’s hard to feel comfortable dancing with someone you think might be a murderer. And for another, my feet are killing me. Advice for the future: metallic slides and salsa do not go together.
“I’ll teach you an open break to an underarm turn,” Alfonso says.
It sounds complicated. And it is. It’s got seven counts. Anything more than three seem like too many at the moment.
“It’s easy,” Alfonso insists when I’m having trouble. “All you have to do is a solo turn to the right.”
“I’m trying.”
“One more time. Back. Replace. Together. Forward. Turn. Replace. Close.”
We’re in two left feet territory now. I feel like I’ve never mastered a dance routine in my life. I try to loosen up and the result is that I let fly a turn that launches me straight into Alfonso.
“That’s it!” He scowls at me. “I’m done.”
“I’m sorry. You really did teach me a lot, though. I’ll be much better the next time I’m on a dance floor.”
He nods, eyeing me. Then he edges closer. “So you ready to show some appreciation?”
Uh oh. I wonder what form he expects that to take.
“I know a guy who throws very exclusive parties.” His voice is suddenly so quiet I can barely hear him above the salsa music. “You have to be real special to get in. It’s for the rare few. And it just so happens he’s having one of those parties tomorrow night.”
“And you think I’m one of the rare few?”
“You could be.” He runs his eyes over my body. “You might make some nice new friends if you play your cards right. Friends who might be real valuable.”
This is sounding very bizarre. “And why is it good for you if I go?”
He chuckles. “Let’s just say the host is always grateful if I introduce him to lovely ladies who have the right attitude. Discreet ladies with an open mind who like to go wild every so often and have some fun. You like the nicer things in life, right?”
“Sure,” I say, even though I’m getting a picture here that I don’t like one bit.
“That’s what I thought.” He’s so close to me now that I feel his breath on my face. “You go to this party ready to have some fun and before you know it you’ll be able to get yourself some of those nicer things. You with me?”
When I don’t immediately answer, Alfonso takes me in his arms again and runs me through our salsa moves. But this time he does it faster and more powerfully. “You’re letting me lead, right?” he whispers when we whirl to a stop. “That’s all you have to do tomorrow night. Let the man lead you wherever he wants to go.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Alfonso is pimping me. What other explanation could there be?
Clearly he senses my hesitation. “You owe me.” Now there’s a note of belligerence in his tone. “I spent a lot of time on you.” He lifts my chin with his finger. The motion is gentle but it freaks me out just the same. “Don’t worry. You’ll be amply rewarded. Just dress up real nice. Show a little skin like you did Saturday night. Then just let what happens, happen.”
“Give me the address,” I croak.
“Good girl.” Quick as a flash he hands me a business card. “That’s for you and you only. And remember. What happens at that party stays at that party. It’s like Vegas in Miami.” He gives me a smarmy grin. “You won’t regret it.”
He spins away. I grab my handbag and make for the exit. Once I’m back in the Durango I have to sit for a while before I can stop shaking.
I was wrong to think Alfonso Ramos was giving me a salsa lesson for free. There’s nothing free about it. He talks about me being “amply rewarded” but clearly someone will compensate him for bringing me to this so-called party.
I wonder how long he’s been doing this. I wonder how many women he’s roped into it.
I wonder if Peppi was one of them.
Eventually I’m calm enough to drive. By now the sun is setting and the sky is glorious shades of purple and orange. I take no joy in it. Not tonight. I fight my way through the commuter traffic longing to see my daughter and my dad and my BFFs and to shower off the disgust I feel from spending the afternoon in the arms of Alfonso Ramos.
He is a revolting individual. I cannot believe he goes to clubs and recruits women to do this. No wonder he’s always clubbing. For him it’s a moneymaking proposition.
I find Rachel in her bikini when I get to Mario’s. I grab her in a hug.
“You wanna try out the hot tub?” she asks, extricating herself.
“Sounds good to me.” A long therapeutic soak will help cure what ails me. “Where’s your grandpa?”
“Out for a ride,” she calls over her shoulder.
I have no difficulty cajoling Trixie and Shanelle to join us. As I put on my bathing suit—a black maillot with halter straps and ruching at the sides—I worry about my father. I’m wondering if “out for a ride” is a euphemism for “at the bank signing real-estate documents.”
I secure my hair on top of my head with a butterfly clip and slap out to the hot tub in my flip-flops, whose cutest feature is berry-colored rhinestones. “Is Mariela home?” I ask Rachel as I lower myself into the bubbling water. I know I’m not responsible for Mariela but still I feel as if I am.
“Maybe she does have some school project because when we all got back from Doña Paloma’s, the UPS truck had just delivered her some big box and she took it upstairs to her room. She screamed down at me to leave her alone but what else is new?”
Trixie and Shanelle appear in bikinis bearing plastic glasses of white wine. “No glass in the pool area,” Shanelle says as she hands me one.
“You could serve it in a water bottle tonight and I wouldn’t care.”
Shanelle arches her brows. “There’s a story there, girl.”
“You’re not kidding. I’ll tell you about it later.” I’m dying to unload about the day’s events to Shanelle and Trixie but I don’t want to do it within Rachel’s earshot. I sip the wine, resisting the impulse to down it in one gulp. “Did Doña Paloma start to feel better as the day wore on?” I ask Rachel.
My daughter nods. “I took her to get her hair and nails done. Usually she has a lady come to the house but I thought it was better if she got out. Tomorrow she promised to show me all her flamenco dresses. I want to get her to model them so I can take photos and write an essay about flamenco dance for my school project.”
“That sounds really good, Rach. And how did the sewing go?”
That query launches both Trixie and Shanelle onto a rave about the glories of the sewing room. I hear how many opening-number outfits have been finished, how many still need to be made, and how even Doña Paloma threw herself into the effort.
“I can’t believe it’s Tuesday night already,” Trixie concludes. “I don’t know how we’re going to get everything done by Thursday. I feel pretty good about the opening-number choreography, though, and maybe I can finish a few more outfits before Jasmine’s party.”
“That’s tonight!” I shriek. I totally forgot about the Sugarbabies launch party. Any notion I had of a productive evening during which I kick up my stilettos and cogitate about my murder suspects is shot.
Then again, I’ll certainly make an effort at the party to find out more about Jasmine and Peppi’s relationship.
I’m in my room admiring my dress selection for the evening—a pink cap-sleeve sheath with a lace overlay and a bateau-style neckline—when the doorbell rings. I hastily zip up the back and run to answer. The last person in the world I expect to see is standing there. “Jason!” I cry.
Except for his less-than-delighted expression, he looks fantastic. He’s wearing jeans and the raspberry-colored button-down sportshirt I bought him before he set off for pit school. Between the deep tan, dark longish hair, recent training regimen, and natural good looks, I can easily see why he’d be picked for a beefcake calendar.
We hug. It’s not as exuberant as our hugs usually are but given the chill between us over the past few days, it’s not bad.
In the back of my mind I’m worried, though. Did he come all the way to Miami to resume our fight about my investigating? So we could have a knockdown, drag-out in person instead of over the phone? “I can’t believe you’re here!” I cry.
“You’re not happy?”
“I’m just surprised! Come on in. Rachel!” I call in the direction of the hot tub. “Guess who’s here!”
She careens toward us dripping all over the pristine hardwood floor. “You made it!” she screeches.
So again Rachel knows what Jason is up to before I do. Then I remember that he had to get Mario’s address from somebody and he didn’t get it from me.
Jason and Rachel hug tight. Over her head my husband eyes me. “You must have plans tonight,” he observes.
Rachel pipes up. “One of the murder suspects is throwing a party to open her boutique and Mom’s going. Don’t get mad,” she adds but I doubt it’ll have much effect.
The commotion draws Trixie and Shanelle from their room. After another round of squeals and hugs, I offer Jason a beer and we settle around the kitchen island.
I watch my husband take in the luxurious surroundings. I’m glad at least Mario’s Z8 is in the garage so Jason doesn’t have to envy that, too. “Mario here?” he asks.
“No, he’s in L.A. on a shoot,” I say.
“Dad has a shoot, too,” Rachel crows, and fills in Trixie and Shanelle about the pit-crew calendar.
“They’re shooting 22 guys,” Jason says. “I’ve done the math.”
“They’ll pick you,” Rachel asserts. “They’d be stupid not to.”
Trixie and I exchange a glance. Since I asked if she’d let me ride with her back to Charlotte, she knows even better than Shanelle does how Jason and I have been on the outs lately. “Did you fly down or drive down?” she asks Jason.
“I flew. I heard one of the drivers was coming here for an overnight so I asked if I could tag along.”
So Jason wanted to see me sooner rather than later. Just like I wanted to see him. And he exerted real effort to make it happen.
Rachel screws up her face. “Tag along? Does that mean he bought your ticket?”
“No, we came in his private plane,” Jason answers, “my first time,” and that sets off another round of oohs and aahs.
It hits me how resourceful Jason had to be to get here. He’s changing, too, I realize, just like I am. He’s getting bolder. His world is expanding through his pit-crew training, just like mine is through my Ms. America win.
“How long are you in town for?” Shanelle wants to know.
“Only one night. We’re doing chassis alignment and I don’t want to miss too much,” he adds as Rachel noisily objects to the short stay. “Plus Zach is flying back tomorrow and I need to hitch that ride.”
“You two have such little time why don’t we give you a chance to catch up?” Trixie says to me.
“Yeah, we could get more sewing in,” Shanelle says. “Come on, Rachel,” and just that fast my friends make sure Jason and I are alone.
Jason tips more beer into his mouth. Then, “Where’s your dad?”
I unleash the story of what Pop is up to. At a few points during the telling, I get close to tears. Especially during the part where I relay how hurt my mom would be if Pop moved to Florida with Maggie.
Jason nods, his eyes never leaving my face. “Don’t worry, Happy. I don’t like it, either. I’ll talk to him.”
“You think you can talk him out of it?”
“It makes no sense for him to dig himself in so deep with Maggie. Not so fast, anyway.”
“That’s what I think.”
We look at each other. In a distant part of the house, I hear Rachel and Trixie and Shanelle chatting and laughing.
“I like it when we agree,” I say into the kitchen’s silence.
“There’s been less of that lately,” Jason says.
“Is that why you came down here?”
He rises from his stool and walks around the island to take me in his arms. “I love you,” he says quietly. “That’s why I came down here.”
He kisses me, and as always when he kisses me I remember how much I love him. I remember why I married him, which wasn’t because I “had to” but because I wanted to. And I remember why every day and every month and every year since, I’ve stayed married to him.
