Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (32 page)

Star giggled louder and stroked his head with her hand. “Can you believe we’re doing this again? I’ve fantasized about this
night for months.”

Theo looked up into Star’s face. “But this is better than a fantasy. This—we—are real.”

The next morning, Star and Theo cuddled under the blanket, with Cody snoring between them. She slipped out of bed, and not
thinking, took the blanket with her.

“Hey, hey, hey, mujer! It’s freezing!” Theo complained as he tugged on the corner with one hand and rubbed his leg with the
other. She retreated and drew the blanket under her chin. “Sing me the song.”

“What song?” he said as he curled up next to her, clasped her hands in his, and blew on them for warmth.

“The one you sang to me when you were drunk at Día de los Muertos. The Lola Beltran song. Please?”

Theo slapped the bed in embarrassment. “I knew you’d bring that up. I was in
pain
that night, girl. Pain!” He flopped to his back, clenched his heart, and bluffed an attack. He then sat up against the headboard.
“Only if…”

Star rolled onto her stomach and propped her head up in her hands. “Anything.”

“Move with me to Santa Fe. Today. Grab the basics and we’ll start fresh in New Mexico. They’ve rented me a killer condo. You
won’t have to worry about anything.”

For a second time in only a few short hours, Start was struck silent.

“I don’t care if you don’t have your life planned, or if you want to sing in a circus, or knit that Victims of Violence blanket,
whatever. I just want you to be with me. We’re both serious, right? We’ve come a long way since the summer.”

She crawled up to him and rested her head on his bare stomach. Why did this conversation have to come on the heels of such
a perfect night? “I can’t.”

He let out a chuckle, as if she were joking. “Right! Are you trying to torture me some more?”

“I’m serious.” She sat up, pulled the sheets up to cover her, and gathered her long tangled hair to one side. “First of all,
I have the CraftOlympics in two weeks. Everyone is counting on me.”

“What day does the event end? Come out after that. You can tell me the whole story on our road trip.”

“There’s more. You know the back house at La Pachanga?”

“The junk shed? What happened, you didn’t spray paint that too, did you?” he teased. Eyes wide in mock shock.

She smacked his chest. “It’s no longer a junk shed. It’s my new crafts boutique; I’m buying the property from my parents.
I’m going to be a business owner! I’m excited, Theo. I’ve made progress, progress you inspired. If I let all this go to move
with you, it would be just another thing I started and didn’t finish…” Star bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

“Come here.” He motioned for her to scoot over, then wrapped his arms around her tightly. “I get it. I know it’s short notice.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I love you. And I won’t let anything come between us ever again. We’ll make it work long distance.
We have to.”

T
he same hour, a day later, Chloe had something new in common with Star.

She had reconnected with her lost love as well.

Chloe rolled over to the other side of the bed, reached for a tissue and blotted her face to save the embarrassment of sniffling
in front of Gustavo. She rarely bawled and wasn’t about to begin now, even if she was happier than she’d ever been in her
otherwise miserable life. She thanked Star under her breath. If Chloe had never reported on the mural, she would have never
stopped at the coffeehouse. And she would have never met this tropical paradise of a man.

Gustavo exited the bathroom dressed in his drawstring pants from the evening before. He handed Chloe a bathrobe to slip on.

“Do you regret last night?” he asked. “I know it was… unexpected.”

“No way. No regrets here,” she assured wholeheartedly as she combed her fingers through her hair. “To think just a bit ago
I planned to launch a new career, say goodbye to my friends, leave my home—all to move back to a place that never brought
me any happiness. And now, here I am, lying in this luxurious honeymoon suite at the Venetian, married to a Puerto Rican–Jamaican
reggae singer whom I met two nights before. I love Vegas! I love you.”

“Months before,” he corrected. “Don’t forget about the coffee place. What did you order again? A double cup something…”

Chloe twirled one of his black dreads around her finger and replied in a sultry manner. “Triple Underwire Sugar-Free Vanilla
Latte.” She paused. “We haven’t even discussed where we’re going to live, or what you want to do now that the band is over
and I’ve quit my job. We’re both homeless. Just wait until my mother hears about this!” she joked.

“Easy,” he said, lying down and using her lap as a pillow. “I’ll move to Phoenix. I’ve always admired the desert. It has a
healing quality to it. I’ll buy us a house where we can raise our children. Your mother will adore them.”

“Seriously?” Chloe asked, surprised. She gripped his face and turned it toward her.

“Yes. In my town, when I wasn’t touring, I worked as a chef. It’s my other passion besides music. Maybe I’ll hook up with
a restaurant or open my own. Know anybody looking for someone who makes great Puerto Rican or Caribbean food?”

“Actually, I do. Remember my friend Star? Her parents own La Pachanga and have been on the hunt for a new chef. I’m sure they’d
love to spice up the menu.”

For an instant, the old Chloe tried to appear. Thankfully, Gustavo didn’t have kids or a previous wife, but she had just said
“I do” to an unemployed musician. She couldn’t count on Star’s parents offering him a job and opening a restaurant most likely
translated into her footing the bill
and
the house payment.

But the new Chloe didn’t care. She loved this man in a way no teleprompter could spell out. They really could be homeless,
and living in an alley, but as long as he stayed by her side, she’d be elated. As soon as she returned home, she would make
a brand-new to-do list that involved a life they could create together. Maybe she would join a public relations firm or launch
her own consulting business. Anything was possible, as long as it didn’t involve television or crafts.

Gustavo sat up and leaned over to the Tuscan-inspired nightstand. He filled two drinking glasses with bottled water. “In case
you’re worried,” he said, “I have some money stashed away.”

“From the band?”

“My mother is an investment banker, and taught me how to save. I’ve made the most of every penny from Reggae Sol. We should
have enough for both of our lifestyles.” He handed her a glass, so they could clink them together.

Chloe let her body fall back on the cushy pillow. “Right now, I want to work on making those
children
you mentioned,” she said, suddenly feeling frisky and oddly maternal at the same time. She set the glasses aside and slid
under him, but before they could get rolling, the phone rang.

No one knew where they were or what they had done. However, Chloe had overheard Gustavo tell the band manager only to call
him in case of an emergency.

Gustavo answered and after trying unsuccessfully to speak, handed the phone to Chloe.

“It’s for you. Your friend Star. Everyone is wondering where you are.”

J
ust because you’re married now doesn’t mean you’re excused from wearing the damn shirt! It’s been two weeks, the honeymoon
is over!”

Chloe replied with a sarcastic chuckle. “What does being married have to do with it? Nana Chata you don’t understand,” she
challenged, standing in Ofie’s newly reconstructed, more subdued, and clean-scented living room. “It’s not about me being
married. Those professional crafters will crucify me with embossing powder and a heat gun if I show my face at that convention.
I’ve been banned… shut out… forbidden! I impersonated an expert—week after week. Year after year! In front of hundreds of
thousands of viewers. I betrayed them.” Chloe tried to reason with the stubborn matron. “I can’t show my face! I’d much rather
wear a SpongeBob SquarePants disguise.”

“Sorry. This nana is not pickin’ up what you’re throwin’ down,” Nana Chata said, annoyed as she swiped her hand over her head
and walked away.

It was the morning of the CraftOlympics and the group met to prepare and drive to the Phoenix Convention Center together.
As soon as they arrived Larry walked in holding a large box. “I had T-shirts made for you!”

The black cotton jerseys were emblazoned with red glittered tattoo hearts and hot pink letters that read, “Craftista amigas
para vida.” Crafty friends for life. Even Benecio put one on under a black suit jacket.

In fear of being recognized at the high-profile event, Chloe refused. She had grown to enjoy cardmaking as a pastime and genuinely
wanted to attend the conference for ideas. But she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. So for the three days of the
convention, she planned to Greta Garbo it in a Burberry trench, floppy hat, and a pair of oversized Chanel sunglasses.

Ofie, on the other hand, couldn’t stop chatting about her speed crochet competition, and called every name in her phone book
to inform them, including the exterminator, the plumber, and the cable guy. Ever since she signed up Ofie did nothing but
practice, practice, practice. She still could only create squares or rectangles, but she worked it like Michael Phelps in
the water.

Ofie churned out Christmas blankets, scarves, pot holders, pillows, and wristbands using different grades and weights of yarn.
Twenty minutes before she conked out every night, she trained by crocheting with jute, for the same reason a baseball slugger
warms up with bat weights. When she switched to yarn, her fingers flew faster than Superman on speed. Hours from now she would
be on the main stage of the convention, battling it out, lucky hook in hand. In the meantime, Larry and Anjelica took turns
massaging her wrists and timing her rows until Nana Chata shooed them away and requested a moment alone with her daughter-in-law.

Ofie didn’t know what to expect from Nana Chata. After her breakdown she knew Larry had spoken with her, but didn’t know the
specifics. Whatever he said had worked. Nana Chata had sent Ofie a store-bought apology card and flowers. Twice. More important,
she released the reins, allowing Ofie to reign as queen of La Casa Fuentes. Ofie knew she deserved that title, but deep inside
she felt connected to Nana Chata. Aside from her African drumming group, the family was all she had.

It didn’t take much for Ofie to forgive, and she and Nana Chata had been spending time together once or twice a week. Still,
a weird, uncomfortable distance lingered between the two. Neither mentioned the subject of Nana Chata’s scathing remarks on
the phone that day, even though the words still haunted Ofie.

“Ofie, come here and sit,” Nana Chata ordered in her usual fashion.

Ofie put aside her crocheting and sat next to her mother-in-law on the floral-patterned loveseat—a hand-me-down from Ofie’s
parents before they moved to Utah in the late nineties.

Wearing crisp new capri jeans, and her craftista shirt, Nana Chata sat like a boxing coach, legs spread apart. She put her
hand on Ofie’s head and looked sternly into her eyes. “I’m proud of you, m’ija.”

Ofie felt birthday-party happy. She had lived for years feeling invisible and unworthy to Nana Chata. To hear these words
made her want to break down and sob like she did every time she watched
The Joy Luck Club
. “Thank you! I hope I come through today. I really want to win the prizes for our family.”

Nana Chata shook her head. “No, not the yarn stuff. I mean, yes for that, too, but mostly I’m proud of you for being a good
wife to my son, and a good mother to my granddaughter. I’m sorry you heard me that day. I didn’t mean it. Ay, menopause and
all that… sometimes my meds are out of whack and I unleash. Ay, that didn’t come out right… What I’m saying is… taking care
of my family is what I know best. It’s all I know and it’s what I love to do most.”

Ofie reached out and took Nana Chata’s hand. “I owe you an apology too. You’ve done so much for us, and have never asked for
anything in return. I needed to hear the truth. Even with the craftistas, you are always there to help and keep everyone on
track. I don’t know what we would do without you, Nana Chata. And I’m so happy you have your drumming group!”

Nana Chata tossed her head back, laughed, and patted Ofie on the knee. “I do. And I owe that to you. For making me go to La
Pachanga. I didn’t want to go to eat that day at all. I only went because I knew you
didn’t
want me to go. Ha! Pero, I ended up liking it. And finding a boyfriend too!”

“What?” Ofie asked, not sure if she had heard Nana Chata correctly.

“Never mind. I’ll save that for later. All I want to say is that I love you. I always have, and no matter what happens today,
you are a champion.
The
champion. Got it, kiddo?”

Ofie threw her arms around her mother-in-law and hugged her so tightly, Nana Chata coughed. “I love you too, Nana Chata.”

Anjelica ran into the room, with Larry right behind her.

“Mommy, Star is here. Look what she made you!” Anjelica held up a colorful glass prayer candle decorated in turquoise glitter,
paint, sequins, and an illustrated image of Ofie. Across the top was a small banner that read “Santa Ofelia.”

It was a gesture of good luck, although they all knew Ofie didn’t need it.

T
he nineteenth annual CraftOlympics opened for business at the Phoenix Convention Center. A row of jumbo charter buses snaked
from the front of the building all the way around to the side. As each set of transport doors opened, eager craft enthusiasts
raced to the convention entrance, praying they would be first in line to win one of the top-dollar door prizes.

The eight-hundred-thousand-square-foot consumer show could be described as Fashion Week Meets ComicCon: Costumed mascots,
cameras, speeches, demos, runway models, agents, movie stars, and editors. Everyone who attended was on a mission. Retail
buyers from chain stores and craft boutiques hunted for cool, innovative merchandise that would fly off their store shelves
and motivate shoppers to craft. More than four thousand vendors showcased all those new products, such as computerized silk-screen
machines, glitter vacuums, yarn spun from soybeans, kits that allowed you to create custom colors, even decorate-your-own
patron saints. Each business trotted out celebrity crafters from around the country to demonstrate glitters, glues, resins,
varnishes, papers, and scissors.