The Best Bet (10 page)

“Wait. I’ve got something,” he said.

He thrust his hands into the pockets of his shorts and located the handkerchief he always carried to clean his glasses. Even though he wasn’t wearing glasses, he’d brought one along out of habit.

“A man with a handkerchief. The mark of a true gentleman.” She pushed her face forward, closed her eyes and pursed her lips. “Please, clean my grimy face. Unless you happen to have a mirror with you, too.”

“No, no mirror.” His voice sounded thick and guttural, even to his own ears. He struggled not to cover her smeared mouth with his own.

He wetted the tip of the handkerchief with his tongue and wiped her upper lip clean. He lingered at the task, wanting to draw out the pleasure of touching her, needing to savor the silky, warm feel of her skin against his fingertips.

She stepped back and giggled. “That tickles.
¡Basta!
” Grinning, she asked, “How was that
, maestro
?”

The spell broken, he let his hand drop and stuffed the linen back into his pocket. “
Muy bién
, you got your point across.”

He wagged his head, picking up the thread of her teasing. “But you’ve just reminded me that I’ve been lazy about my teaching duties. I’ll have to fix that. What if I speak only Spanish for the rest of the day and you answer me in Spanish?”

“I think it would be a very one-sided conversation,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She raised her hand and shaded her eyes against the sun. “And I’m going to get a terrible headache, not to mention sunburn, if we keep standing out here. Let’s go someplace cool. I’ll think more clearly in the cool air.”

“You weren’t thinking of an air-conditioned casino, were you?” The last thing he wanted to do was return to Vegas. He liked being outdoors with her.

“No, I know a better place than that.” She crumpled the empty cellophane wrapper and cup together. “Trust me, you’ll love it.”

#

Adriana spread the old quilt on a grassy hill. They’d covered a lot of ground, going south into the desert to see Hoover Dam. Now they were north of Las Vegas in Lee Canyon, which was a local ski area in winter. It was already early afternoon, and she hadn’t eaten anything but the Moon Pie. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her of how hungry she was. Rafael must be hungry, too, though, he hadn’t complained. She was glad she’d had the foresight to pack a picnic lunch.

When they’d left Hoover Dam and Lake Mead, she wasn’t sure where to head next. There was a lot to see around Vegas: Red Rock Canyon, and the Valley of Fire, and even Bryce Canyon and the Grand Canyon were in the general area, though they were farther away.

Having visited the desert this morning, she’d opted for a cooler clime for the afternoon, bringing him to Lee Canyon, which was located in the Toiyabe National Forest of the Spring Mountains. Just a few miles and a change of altitude made such a difference. The pine-scented air wafted across her face, cool and fresh, almost chilly on her bare skin.

At this altitude, spring and winter stood shoulder-to-shoulder. In the meadows, spring rioted, holding sway. Splashes of wildflowers: pink and white primroses, purple lupines, and dusky orange Indian paintbrush, like brilliant multi-colored swatches of fabrics, spilled across the green expanse of grass. But underneath the overhangs of rocks and tall trees, winter retained its grip. Patches of snow lay untouched, bright white, looking like cotton spilled from a mattress.

Breathing in the beauty of the place along with the crystalline air, she filled her lungs with a sigh.

“Where do you want me to put this?” Rafael asked, moving up behind her. He’d returned from the car without her hearing his approach.

She spun around, realizing he’d caught her woolgathering. “What? Oh, you mean the picnic basket. Just put it on the quilt.” Lifting her arm, she pointed toward the far meadows. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

He shivered. “Yes and cool. You were right, almost too cool. We needed a change of wardrobe for this trip.”

“We’ll be okay until the sun goes down behind the mountains. Then we’ll need the heater in the car. But we’ve got several hours yet.”

She knelt on the quilt and patted the space beside her. “
Por favor, sientate
.” Rolling her eyes, she laughed. “I’m getting better
, maestro
, that was a whole sentence. At least, I think it was.”

He sat beside her and said, “
Sí, tú oración fué completa. Muy bién
. Aren’t you proud of yourself?”

“Proud but hungry, too. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

He laughed. “The Moon Pie wasn’t enough?”

“Are you kidding?” She arched her eyebrows. “Open the basket. I’ve a surprise for you.”

“¿Para mí?
He placed his hand over his heart.

He opened the basket slowly, drawing the moment out, teasing her along. The sharp aroma of cumin mingled with the musky scent of coriander and the pungent essence of chili pepper. He reached into the basket and pulled out two paper plates.

“I’m afraid to look,” he said.

She punched his arm. “Don’t be silly. And there are two more plates. Get those, too.”

Following her command, he explored the bottom of the basket and found the other plates, both covered in foil.

“Open them,” she said.

Taking the cover off the first plate, he found tamales, still in their cornhusks. The second plate contained more tamales. The remaining plates held Spanish rice and
pan dulce
, a Mexican dessert made from flat bread dusted with sugar and cinnamon.

“I wanted to bring
frijoles
, too, but I thought they might be a little messy for a picnic.”

Shaking his head, he said, “Tamales and
pan dulce
. I don’t believe it. This is like home.”

“The tamales are handmade,” she pointed out. “I got up early and went to a local
almacén
mejicano
to get them. They’re authentic. At least, I think they are.”

“It all looks great and smells wonderful.” He gulped, wanting to hide the emotions welling inside. She’d done this for him. Her thoughtfulness touched him. “
Gracias
, Adriana, this is—”

“Okay, it’s not a monument or anything. It’s food, and I’m hungry,” she repeated. “So dish it up. Unless you want me to do the honors.” Pointing to a side pocket in the basket, she said, “There are plates, plastic forks, and napkins in there.”

He opened the side pocket and found the necessary accessories. Then he filled two paper plates with tamales and Spanish rice. The
pan dulce
could wait until later.

“I forgot. There’s a cooler in the back seat.” Rising, she offered, “I’ll get it. You eat.”

He waited for her to return, busying himself with removing the cornhusk wrappers from his tamales. She returned quickly, a small cooler in hand, and flopped down on the quilt. She pulled her legs beneath her and crossed them Indian fashion before she opened the cooler and drew out two frosted Coronas.

At the sight of them, Rafael groaned. “How did you know?”

“I asked around the
almacén
. The consensus was, if you were from Texas and Mexican- American, this was the beer to get.”

“They were right.”

She smiled. “I’m glad.”

He found the bottle opener and flipped off the caps. After handing her a Corona, he took a long swig and sighed. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

Beaming, she asked, “I did good then?”

“More than good. You did perfect. Eat, eat,” he urged. “I thought you were hungry.”

She looked down at his plate and asked, “I’m supposed to take these crinkly things off?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Well, I’ve eaten a lot of Mexican food, growing up in Las Vegas. But the tamales were on a plate with chili sauce over them. I don’t—”

“Here, let me show you.” He leaned over her and deftly removed her cornhusks. “There, just the same as a Mexican restaurant, except no chili.”

“Thanks, I wasn’t sure.”

“You’re doing fine.”

He popped half a tamale in his mouth, savoring the taste, thinking of home, remembering his Mamá and
tías
preparing the filling and then rolling out the wet corn mush,
masa
, which formed a tasty tube around the filling.

“Making tamales.” He shook his head. “It’s one of my earliest memories. All the Escobedo women would gather in the kitchen and go through mounds of meat and spices and corn meal, with my Mamá directing.” He took another bite and sighed. “What dishes did your mother make? What do you remember?”

He silently congratulated himself for bringing the conversation from food to something more personal. He hoped he hadn’t overplayed his hand, though. He could tell her grief was still fresh over losing her mother. But he’d promised himself to draw her out, to get her to talk about herself and her background.

Slowly, she wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and raised her gaze to his. When he glimpsed the raw anguish in the depths of her eyes, he wanted to take the question back, but she surprised him by replying, “My mother cooked pork. She was Puerto Rican, and they eat lots of pork. Pork chops, pork tenderloin, and even whole roasted pigs at Christmas. Of course there was always rice, too, saffron or white. And beans or peas—
gandules
, as my mother called them.  Occasionally, we had
arroz con pollo
.

For special holiday celebrations, we made
pasteles
or
empanadas
. They’re like your tamales, with the filling inside, except
pasteles
are wrapped in banana leaves and boiled, while
empanadas
are coated in flour batter and fried.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “And
tostónes
.” She licked her lips. “They’re the best.
Tostónes
are made from bananas, sliced thin and then fried, a special kind of banana, called plantains. You dip them in a garlicky butter sauce. They’re wonderful, but
muy
fattening.” Her eyes grew misty. “I haven’t had
tostónes
in years. Not since my mother . . .”

He covered her hand with his and squeezed it, wanting her to know that he sympathized, that he appreciated her sharing memories, especially since the remembering seemed to bring her pain. In a way, he was sorry for drawing her out. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her.

He’d never lost a close family member, not even his grandparents. That made it difficult for him to completely empathize with her. He wondered how he would feel under similar circumstances. How long would the grief stay raw, a subject to avoid? But after a time, wouldn’t he
want
to talk about the loved one, to remember the good times?

“It all sounds very tasty, but a mystery to me.” He tried to make his voice light. “As foreign as the Chinese dishes you ordered the other night. But I would love to try them.” He squeezed her hand again and then released it. “You still miss your mother a lot, don’t you? When did she pass away?”

He’d made a decision to respect her grief but not avoid it. He could see how important her mother had been to her and maybe that was the key to getting to know Adriana better—through memories of her mother.

And maybe if she talks about it, it will ease the hurt.
.

He didn’t normally play pop psychologist, but there was something about Adriana that aroused his protective instincts, compelled him to
want
to understand the woman within. It was as if he wanted to crawl up inside her skin.

He’d never tried to understand Margarita, or any of his other girlfriends. He’d never really wanted to know their innermost feelings. Maybe that had been what went wrong. Maybe that was what had been missing.

“Is it that obvious?” she asked. “The way I feel about my mother?”

She placed her half-eaten lunch to one side and pulled her legs up to her chin. She wrapped her arms around her legs, as if hugging herself. “Sometimes, I wonder what’s wrong with me.” Glancing up quickly as if to gauge his reaction, she blushed and looked away again. “I was only thirteen when she died. It’s been over twelve years. Will the pain ever go away? Is it supposed to hurt this long? My priest told me it would fade with time, become easier to bear, but it hasn’t.” She shook her head and turned her face away.

 Even though she tried to hide it, he knew she was crying. His guts twisted, and he felt completely out of his element, uncertain of what to do for her. What perverse impulse had made him probe her background? To get to know her? At what price? As an amateur psychologist, he was definitely a flop. But her words haunted him, making him curious, too.

How long did the pain stay fresh and cutting? Having never experienced it, he didn’t know. It was probably different for each person. Was it the deep hurt in Adriana that drew him, putting his protective on alert? But this wasn’t like him. Usually, he was detached and analytical. But there was nothing detached in the way he felt about Adriana.

Drawing her to him, he cradled her in his arms, not knowing what to say, hoping his touch would soothe her. Tentatively, he reached up and stroked her hair, wanting to comfort her, as a parent would comfort a child.

With a sigh, she settled against him. She accepted the simple gift of his touch. He felt her body relax against his, nestling closer. Turning her face, she pressed her cheek against his chest. Her arms came around his waist, locking behind his back, clinging to him.

Holding her and smelling the lemony scent of her hair, a jolt of pure desire shot through him. He was growing hard and harder with each passing second. But this wasn’t about desire. She didn’t need his passion. What she needed was simple human comfort, the reassurance that there wasn’t anything wrong with her, that she had a right to miss her mother.

“My father did his best to raise me.  He’s a good man.” Her voice caught. “Sometimes, I feel as if I’ve betrayed him, missing my mother so much. As if I don’t appreciate how hard he’s worked to give me and my brother a good life.”

“I doubt he thinks that, Adriana. And you shouldn’t feel guilty because you miss your mother. That’s natural. It doesn’t mean that you love your father less, or don’t appreciate what he’s done for you.”