looked at him her heart melted like some love struck kid. She couldn’t help it. He stood before her, tall and perfect, looking like some burnished Aztec god.
And he knew it.
“No excuses necessary,” she said, setting down the glass cleaner and walking over to him. She put her arms around him and held his body close. “I missed you,” she whispered.
“And I you, my love.”
He kissed her. Every kiss made this otherwise strong and independent woman weak in the knees. There were times she wanted to kick herself or give herself a hard slap across the face to snap back to reality. But he affected her like a forbidden drug and she had no intention of kicking the habit. Armando was the only man who ever won her over. The others had been a pleasant diversion, but handsome Armando had totally mesmerized her with his Latin charm. Despite the age difference and the unwelcome advice and warnings from well-meaning friends, when he proposed she’d said yes with no hesitation. The wedding was simple, a small ceremony performed by a shaman right at the gallery, surrounded by artists and close friends. Local drummers performed the wedding march while tribal dancers twirled and scattered flower petals along the path.
It was perfect.
After the ceremony, Armando moved into Barbara’s living quarters above the gallery. Their life together was good. And as non-traditional as Barbara herself.
“Should we go upstairs?” she asked him.
Armando pulled away from her and smiled. “I am so tired from the trip, my sweet. I just need to shower and take a little siesta. Perhaps tomorrow?”
Barbara pouted and turned away from him.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “The day will belong to the two of us and we will never leave the bedroom.” He pulled her back to him. “Mañana will be romantico.”
“Sí, mañana.” She started to hum the old Peggy Lee song as she returned to her cleaning. “‘Mañana is good enough for me’.”
* * * *
Maggie Reardon slammed the door of her small adobe, the same house in which she’d been raised. She’d booked the kid, gone back to visit with her friend Carlos, and filled out the necessary paperwork. Now the punk was somebody else’s problem and it was time to relax. She unbuckled her gun belt, placed in on the side table and collapsed into the overstuffed chair her father had sat in as far back as she could remember. She missed him. She missed them both. Her overweight black cat jumped onto her lap, meowing impatiently for his dinner. She pushed him off and onto the floor, where he sat glaring at her.
“Just hold on there, Prowler,” she said to him. “Your turn’s coming.”
As she was pulling off her shoes the phone rang. She tossed a shoe onto the floor, barely missing the cat, who puffed up his fur in protest but didn’t budge. She debated not answering. All she wanted was an Irish whiskey and a relaxed smoke. But the ringing wouldn’t stop . She reached across to the phone on the side table and as she picked up the receiver she removed the second shoe with her other hand and dropped it to the floor. It hit the tiles with a thud. Prowler voiced his disapproval with a low growl, but refused to move even an inch out of the path of her missiles.
“What,” she said into the phone, impatience and exhaustion in her voice.
It was Marty, her latest ex-boyfriend.
“We really need to talk, Maggie,” he said.
“We did talk, remember?”
“But I miss you.” The same annoying whine was in his voice, the sound of a child determined to get his way.
She said nothing. His voice grated on her and made her bristle. But it also conjured images of his wavy blonde hair and sky blue eyes and the smell of his cologne and the feel of his touch. She found herself weighing the pros and cons of their relationship just as she had weeks before. The right decision was made, even if he had been the instigator. It was a done deal.
“Talk to me, baby. Please. We can work this out.”
“We did work it out.”
“You know it was a mistake. You’ve gotta miss me as much as I miss you.”
“No, I don’t gotta. It was best for us both. You know that, Marty.”
Maggie only half listened as Marty stated his well-rehearsed argument. He told her how good they were together. Good for who, exactly? Somewhere during his monologue she interjected something about him needing a mother rather than a lover, but her truthful gem either went over his head or he’d chosen to ignore it.
“Marty, we were good in bed, that’s all,” she interrupted. It had taken her awhile to figure out that a man could be a great lover but not be good for much else. Initially, all those flying hormones had fogged her judgment, but when all was said and done, being proficient in the bedroom didn’t produce enough glue to hold the rest of the relationship together. So sad, so true.
He droned on, making point after weak point, until she reached the end of her patience.
“I’m tired,” she said and hung up.
When the phone rang again Maggie Reardon ignored it. Instead of answering she walked into the kitchen, Prowler at her heels, and opened a can of cat food. That was about all the nurturing she had the stomach for.
* * * *
Barbara Atwell turned on the window air conditioning units in the gallery’s three public rooms on her way to unlock the front door. She flipped on the exterior lights and set ashtrays on the porch for the smokers. The artist’s reception was a half hour away and things still had to be put in order. Some days she was overwhelmed and today was no exception. Armando hadn’t come downstairs yet to set up bottles of Chianti and champagne for the bar. The folding table was waiting for food, but Rocco and Adrian hadn’t yet arrived with bags from The Trader’s. Barbara placed paper plates and plastic forks on the table, along with napkins, then stacked cocktail napkins at the bar alongside plastic cups. Beads of perspiration gathered above her top lip and impatience knotted her stomach. Where was help when she needed it? It had eased slightly, but the day’s heat promised a warm night magnified by a room filled with people. The air conditioners churned out what coolness they could, but upgrading wasn’t in the budget.
She was ready to snap.
Wine bottles in hand, Armando entered the room. He walked across the floor and put the champagne in the mini-fridge behind the counter and placed two bottles of Chianti on the bar. He turned and gave Barbara a well-practiced apologetic grin. “That should get things started,,” he said. There was no way she could get angry when he flashed that smile. He played her like a honky-tonk piano and she gladly tap danced to his tune. And oh, what a glorious dance it was.
“About time,” she said. She wanted to say more, maybe scold him a little, but his presence calmed her mood and helped her relax. She let it go. They were holding hands like honeymooners when Rocco and Adrian came through the front door, laden with grocery bags and giggling at some off-color joke.
“Oh, you can be so naughty,” Adrian laughed, her stocky body shaking so hard she almost dropped one of the bags.
“That’s why you love me, baby.”
“Permit
