A Time to Gather (31 page)
“Esteban,” Bobby said, not missing a beat, “I was going into taco withdrawal. I had no choice but to make up with her.”
Rosie snorted, not buying that excuse. “Like there’s no other place to get a decent taco?”
His face went deadpan. “No, actually, there isn’t. And if we’re estranged, I wouldn’t be welcome here.”
Her father roared. “Bobby, you are always welcome here, no matter what snit she’s worked herself into.”
“Snit?” Her voice rose. “Snit?” She would have said more but the men’s laughter drowned her out.
Bobby rubbed his palms against his tearing eyes. “Rosie, your gullibility always takes me by surprise.”
“Ha-ha. This one was no laughing matter. I almost killed an innocent man. I almost quit my job.”
“But you didn’t on either count.” He leaned across the table, his face suddenly somber. “And just think.” His eyebrows shot up. “You got a new boyfriend to boot!”
“Boyfriend!”
Again their guffaws cut off her protests. She sat back and gazed around the patio. In spite of the propane heaters warming the area, not many people braved the outdoor seating.
“Rosita,” her dad said, “you started all this, you know.”
“Started what?”
“This laughter. You are so happy tonight. You showed up here giggling. I haven’t seen you like this since—well, since I don’t know when.”
Bobby nodded. “Mm-hmm. And curious how it’s come on the heels of that Erik Beaumont business.”
“Yes,” her dad agreed. “Very curious. Why would she be delirious because this stranger, who she
arrested
, went into rehab? Explain that one.”
“I have no clue, Esteban. We’ll have to go on circumstantial evidence alone.”
“I see it this way: she spends a night carting him around the county and then she’s happy.” Esteban smacked his hands together once and spread them open. Ta-da. One plus one equaled two. “It must be love.”
“I agree.”
Rosie huffed. “Are you two about finished?”
“Rosita.” His tone admonished gently. “We’re happy for you.”
“You don’t even like the guy.”
“I cherish his sister Lexi. If his lovely mother were not married, I would invite her to dinner. He comes from good stock. There is hope.”
“There’s always hope when somebody checks in with Greg and Jillie.”
“You talked with them, didn’t you?” Esteban smiled broadly. “That’s why you giggled.”
She sighed to herself. Why fight these guys?
“Yes, I talked with Jillie today. He’s only been there twenty-four hours, but he’s embraced them. He’s totally open to them praying with him. Totally open to God being real and working in him.”
Her dad nodded. “Praise God.”
Bobby’s eyes leveled on her. “Ready for rehab is cause for, ahem,
giggling
?”
She positioned her mouth to speak, but a split second passed before the reply came. “Sure.”
He smiled. In that momentary hesitation, he knew that she admitted what she’d been denying to herself.
She was falling in love with
that pathetic waste of oxygen, aka Erik Beaumont.
H
ey, Lexi.” Rosie spoke into her cell phone, waiting next to the squad car in the restaurant’s parking lot for Bobby, who still lingered inside with her dad.
“Hi.” Lexi stammered through the lone syllable.
Rosie sighed to herself. She disliked that her new friend had reverted to her hesitant mode, no doubt pushed there with a shove from Rosie. At least she’d answered her phone, unlike the previous five attempts Rosie had made that day.
“Lexi, I apologize for yelling at you at Erik’s the other night. For saying I might shoot him. I behaved despicably as a friend and about sixteen levels below professionally as a cop.”
“We were both upset.”
“No excuse. I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”
A beat passed. “I do.” She didn’t sound convinced.
Rosie remembered their conversation about forgiveness, about Lexi’s dad asking for it. “Don’t let me off the hook. It might not seem like a big deal, but I was rude to you, Lexi, and it disrupted our friendship. It’s not something we gloss over.”
“Okay.” Her voice gained strength. “Okay.”
“Okay. I just needed to clear the air about that. So, how are you after your crazy Monday night spent playing hero? At last count you made two rescues, Erik and Tuyen.”
“I, uh, I’m better than I was yesterday. Danny and my boss convinced me to take off work today. I’ve been painting.”
“The giraffe?”
“Yeah.”
“Great.” She smiled. “I gotta see what you did with those eyelashes.” Lexi chuckled. “Give me a few weeks.”
“A few weeks for eyelashes? That’s a long time. I’d never have the patience. You know, if you get tired of painting or landscaping, you could go into rescue work. Seriously, you seem to have a knack for it. First your family and those firefighters. Then Erik, twice that I know of. And now Tuyen. You could be a medic or something. Be a heroine every day.”
She groaned. “Not you too. I just got off the phone with this journalist who wants to include me in his article about heroes. Like I told him, during the fire I remembered a safe place before my eighty-year-old grandfather did. No big deal. And Erik? He’s my brother. I’m worried sick about him so I try to help. Tuyen left a note that I pointed out was obviously suicidal, so then we searched for her. My dad’s the one who saved her life. I am not a heroine!”
“A heroine pays attention and does what needs to be done, Lexi. That’s you.” She spotted Bobby walking across the parking lot toward her. “I’ve got to get to work. Let me know if you need a letter of recommendation for your EMT application.”
“Yeah, right.” At last there was a grin in her voice.
“Unless you want to be a cop.”
Lexi giggled. “After that fiasco at the bar?”
Rosie laughed. “Probably not. See you.”
“’Bye.”
As she closed up her phone, Bobby reached her side. “You’re laughing. Erik again?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Ha. I was talking to Lexi—ohmygosh!”
Fiasco at the bar. I just got off the phone with this journalist.
She flipped the phone back open and hit the Send button.
“What is it?” Bobby asked.
She held up a finger. “Wait.”
Lexi answered. “Hi—”
“What journalist? What were you talking about?”
“Huh?”
“You said this guy wants to include you in an article.”
“Yes. He’s writing about heroes. Gag me with a spoon.”
“Lexi, who is he?”
“Nathan Warner. Some freelance reporter. Local. He talked to the firemen who were with us that night. They told him about me. I don’t know why I said yes to an interview, but I did. Erik’s call interrupted it.”
“A stranger out of the blue contacts you.”
“No, he contacted the fire department.”
“What’s the article about?”
“Heroes. A ‘where they are now’ sort of thing. He’s a nice guy. Why are you asking all this?”
Rosie shut her eyes and examined what triggered her concern. It happened now and then, a vague feeling that reminded her of searching for a misplaced bowl. She could almost hear cupboard doors creak open and bang shut. It was there, but she wasn’t sure exactly where.
She blew out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know. Something doesn’t jibe. Erik’s a reporter. This guy’s a reporter. That strikes me as odd. And out of the blue—”
“Not out of—”
“Close enough. Are you going to see him?”
“He’s a nice guy.”
“Lexi.”
“Friday night. I’m meeting him at a restaurant downtown for dinner.”
“I want to investigate him, and I’d rather you be close by. Meet him at the Casa instead, okay?” She met Bobby’s gaze. “Tell him you have a craving for tacos.”
F
riday night, Lexi smiled at Nathan Warner. She hadn’t heard from Rosie again and assumed the guy had passed inspection, which was great news to her. Not only was he cute in that boy-next-door way, he was as easy to talk to as Danny.
They sat on a back, covered patio she’d not seen before at the Casa del Gusto, a cozy area with walls high enough to block out the parking lot, lush plants, and plenty of heaters. Esteban personally waited on them and the few other patrons as if it were his private dining room.
Across the candlelit table, Nathan grinned. “Ahh. This is an amazing
mole
.”
“I helped Esteban create that sauce.”
“No way.”
“True.”
“Wow. I’m impressed. The owner-chef seats us at his best table. He serves us complimentary appetizers and now, come to find out, you had a hand in this.” He pointed his fork at the plate. “What other hidden gifts do you possess? Off the record, of course.”
“You don’t have to keep saying that, ‘Off the record.’”
“It’s to remind myself I’m not working.”
“Are you a workaholic?”
“Not exactly. It’s more like the nature of reporting. I mean, everyday life is ‘copy.’ There’s always something to take notes on. Who knows? I might be able to use it in a piece some day.”
“That’s like art is for me. I see something and wish I had my camera to capture it so I could paint it later. A flower. A shaft of sunlight. A squirrel. The most commonplace stuff.” She noticed the tilt of his head, the little smile. “What?”
“Nothing. Just you.” The smile stretched. “You’re creative
and
a heroine.”
“I thought we already established that I’m not comfortable with that misnomer.”
“But I believe the sooner you believe you are a heroine, the sooner you’ll . . .” He pooched his lips
together.
“The sooner I’ll what?”
He hunched his shoulders and relaxed his mouth. “Armchair psychology. Sorry.”
“The sooner I’ll what?”
His shoulders straightened. His eyes, a mix of gold and bronze, locked with hers.
The intensity of his gaze created an almost physical response in her, not exactly unpleasant. There was no way she could turn from it.
He said, “The sooner you believe that you really did save lives, that you really did perform heroic deeds—no matter how inadvertently—the sooner you’ll like yourself.”
The truth of his words didn’t nail her to the chair as much as did the compassionate tone. It propelled her to a level of intimacy she’d never felt with anyone. Suddenly she wanted to unleash all the hurts and fears that bound her to the belief she was unworthy of being called a heroine. Or, really, of being complimented at all about anything.
“I’m dyslexic. I barely made it through high school.”
“That’s a tough one.”
“In middle school, the other kids called me ‘Dyslexi Beaumont.’”
“Eww. You probably don’t even like your name.”
“Not much. I tried to go by ‘Allie’ for a while, short for Alexis, but it never stuck. And I . . .” Skidding to a halt, she closed her mouth.
He waited, tenderness written all over his face.
At last, in a hushed whisper, she voiced words she’d never spoken aloud. “I’m bulimic.”
Nathan reached across the table, palm up, an invitation. A silent moment ticked by.
She unlaced her fingers from their tight clasp on her lap and laid a hand in his.
He squeezed gently. “I’m sorry for your pain.”
An unfamiliar sensation trickled through her. She imagined a desert streambed receiving the first rain droplets after the dry season, drawing in the life-giving liquid.
Nathan smiled. “Allie.”
T
hey lingered over coffee and
empanadas
, easily moving onto other topics between bites of the yummy pastry with pineapple filling. To Lexi’s relief, Nathan did not cast sideways glances at her as she ate. Nor did his demeanor change. He remained funny and attentive, curious but still repeating “Off the record.”
“Nathan, don’t you want to talk about anything on the record?”
“Next time.” His brows rose up and went back down.
Hm. Next time.
“So what do you paint?”
Throughout the dinner she had touched on many topics concerning her family, things like the re-wedding event and the hacienda refurbishing. But as far as really personal issues went, she peaked at dyslexia and bulimia.
He winked. “Allie, you mentioned ‘art’ in the same tone you might say ‘I just won a million bucks, tax free.’”
She smiled.
“So what do you paint?”
“It’s not like my work hangs in a gallery.”
“Tut, tut.”
She laughed. “Did you just say ‘tut, tut’?”
“I did.” He had such a great smile. It curled his mouth, lifted his cheeks, and crinkled his eyes. “It means ‘enough with the self-denigration.’ Tell me about your art.”
“Well.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “If you insist. I work in oils. My current subject is Gigi, a stunning giraffe who lives at the Wild Animal Park.”
“Are you any good?”
“Nathan! I can’t answer—”
“Sure you can. It’s easy. Do you dabble? Do you do paint-by-numbers? Is this some passing hobby?”
“No. I’ve been painting since I was two. It’s like—it’s like
breathing
.”
Again with the intense gaze. “That would be better than winning a million bucks, tax free.”
“Yes.”
“My cousin owns La Rive Gauche.”
“The gallery in La Jolla?”
“You know it?”
She nodded. “Who doesn’t?”
“If you like, I’ll introduce you to him. We have a good rapport. He’d love to see your work.” Nathan smiled. “You look absolutely horrified.”
“I’ve never shown—”
“Maybe it’s time.”
“But—”
“Think about it, okay? Meanwhile, I’ll keep bugging you.”
“That sounds like tons of fun.” She rolled her eyes.
“It could be.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Yikes! It’s the cops.”
Lexi turned and saw Rosie and her partner, in uniform, entering through the arched doorway onto the patio. She noticed then that the other tables had emptied. No waitstaff were around.
“Hi, Lexi.” Rosie reached them, smiling, dragging a chair behind her.
“Hi.” She heard the question in her tone.
“Mind if we join you for a few minutes?” She sat.
“Uh, no.” Lexi looked at Nathan. “This is Esteban’s daughter.”
Rosie shook his hand. “Officer Delgado. My partner, Officer Grey. And you’re Nathan Warner?”