Play Dates. Maggie Wells

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СКАЧАТЬ They were halfway to the kitchen door. Pablo was actually making off with his date. “Hang on a second!”

      He dodged a waitress shouldering a loaded tray and ducked into the steaming kitchen in time to see Carita turn away from the counter. Plates of food in varying stages of assembly stood arrayed in front of her, the apron tied at her trim waist miraculously white.

      “Look what your feckless Irishman has brought us, Carita.”

      The lines in Carita’s work-worn face smoothed into a blank slate. They slowly reformed as brackets around her red-painted lips and a delicate fan of crinkles at the corners of her eyes. “Ah, so this is why the worthless boy has forsaken me,” she said with a fatalistic shrug.

      Rushing out from behind the counter, she tugged Monica’s hand from Pablo’s grasp and clasped her palm in both of hers. “Now I understand.” Carita looked past Monica to seek him out. Their gazes met and held, and he saw all he needed to see. Affection, acceptance, understanding, and forgiveness. “But know if I were but ten years younger, he’d choose me.”

      He couldn’t fight both of them off, so he gave in and stepped forward. Surrendering to their bullying didn’t mean he was giving up his date, though. Placing a hand at the small of Monica’s back, he moved in close at her side. She jolted at the contact, but didn’t pull away. Instead, a delicate shiver ran through her. Colm bit the inside of his cheek as his blood began to sizzle. There’d be no early escape. They were stuck in this kitchen until they were stuffed to the gills.

      Bending at the waist, he kissed Carita’s cheeks with every bit as much affection as Pablo had shown him, but with more restraint and, he hoped, less slobber. “If you’d even looked at me twice, Carita, I’d choose you.”

      “Oh, go on.” Giving him a swat with the edge of her apron, she nodded to a scarred wooden table in the corner of the kitchen. “You go sit.” Shooing them along, she snapped her fingers and Pablo jumped to attention. “Get them a bottle of the Chilean chardonnay.”

      Knowing the effort was useless, Colm put up a token resistance. “Uh, I was drinking beer and Monica had sangria.”

      Carita shook her head adamantly. “No red wine. No beer.” She tapped her temple, nudging them closer to the table. “I knew today would be special. As I lay in my bed last night, a thought came to me…I needed to make my Mamita’s lechona today. Now I know I make lechona for you.”

      Shooting him a half-amused but mostly bewildered glance, Monica slid into one of the hard slat-back chairs. “Maybe we could eat in the dining room?” Colm suggested, nodding toward the swinging door. “We don’t want to be in your hair.”

      “Ay, my hair!” Carita patted the messy knot of silver-streaked ebony piled atop her head. “You sit here. If I take my Mamita’s lechona out there, they will stampede my kitchen.”

      “Lechona?” Monica asked, her bright eyes eager and inquisitive.

      Carita clapped her hands. “Very special. Must cook all day.” She nodded to the brick oven in the wall. “I put it in at four o’clock this morning, and now I serve to you.”

      She fired off a barrage of orders in Spanish so fast Colm could only pick out a word or two, then bustled to her ovens.

      Reaching across the battered table where he’d eaten so many meals, he touched Monica’s hand to get her attention. “I’m sorry. I wanted to take you someplace special, and I don’t go to too many restaurants that don’t give a toy with your meal.” He frowned as he took in their anything-but-romantic surroundings. “I should have known they’d take over.”

      “This is amazing,” she said, her gaze darting from point to point as she soaked up the frenzy of activity. She flipped her hand over and wrapped her fingers around his, giving them a gentle squeeze. “I gather you’ve known them a long time?”

      “Years. They used to have a place over on the west side. I worked the neighborhood when I was fresh out of the academy.” He tugged at his collar, wishing he’d opted for a shirt instead of the sweater. Between his nerves and the heat of the kitchen, he’d end up nothing but a puddle by dessert. Eager to distract her from his growing agitation, he forged ahead with his story. “Some of the gangbangers over there decided they wanted to target the non-Mexican Latinos.”

      “Wow. I had no idea there were such tensions between the Hispanic communities.”

      “Because most white people hear someone speaking Spanish and lump them all together. At least, I did.” He glanced up as Pablo approached with a chilled bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. “I was nothing but a pasty Irish kid from the south side. Everyone who speaks Spanish is Mexican, right, Pablo?”

      His friend set the glasses in front of them and poured the golden wine. Sets of flatware rolled in linen napkins appeared on the table. Colm turned to thank him, and was smacked upside the head. Hard. He shifted to Monica, his mustache pushed to the limits as he turned on the charm. “Run away with me, pretty lady. You deserve much better than this ignorant mick.”

      Colm smirked as he took a cautious sip of the wine. “Hey, I think you left some of your accent out in the dining room, a-meeee-go.”

      “Hush, both of you,” Carita hissed, bumping her husband aside with her hip. “The poor girl is going to think she’s visiting the lunatic asylum.” She served them beautifully arranged plates. Rice and pork spilled out of triangles of crispy golden crust. Wedges of lime, seared tortillas, and whole red potatoes occupied the rest of the space, but the mouthwatering scent of garlic, onion, and spice made it clear they were mere supporting characters.

      “Mm, Carita mia,” Pablo groaned as he caught a whiff of the bounty she’d placed in front of them. Drawing his wife to his side, he lowered his eyelids and gave her a long, smoldering look. “Tell me you saved a bit for your Pablo.”

      Giggling like a girl, she shoved him away. “Get to work, Don Juan,” she chided. “We’ll leave these two to enjoy and perhaps you’ll get yours later.”

      Monica looked up from her plate. The gleam in her bright blue eyes told him she was thinking exactly what he was thinking.

      Swallowing the lump of nerves and desire knotting his throat, he raised his wine glass. “To getting bossed around.”

      Her eyes twinkled with mischief when she lifted her glass to touch his. She smiled sweetly as she murmured, “And here I thought you’d want to drink to getting yours later.”

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