“Okay.” She raised her arm slowly to meet Jenny’s outstretched one.
“Nice meeting you too, Carlos.”
“Till next week, then.” She strode away with quick, light steps.
Marisol spun to Carlos, eyes flashing with a chilling stare. “What the hell?”
Carlos shrugged. “She’s hot. Really hot.”
“I’m not—”
“No. No. No. I am sick and tired of you moping around. And now with Christmas right around the corner and the girls leaving, you really need something or someone else to think about. Consider it my Christmas present to you.”
“We don’t even know if she’s single.”
“We know she broke up with her girlfriend while she was on the show. Thank goodness, that she-devil was one scary bitch. I know it’s all about editing, but seriously, have you heard more bleeps in a row on network TV?” Carlos produced the money for his poblanos. “And she called it a date. She’s single.”
“I just wanted to come in to get some chiles in quiet.”
“Mark my words. She’s the ingredient you came to get.”
Marisol punched him in the shoulder.
* * *
The next Thursday, loud pounding on her front door woke Marisol up out of a deep sleep. The clock read ten a.m., but she had had a late shift at the hospital the night before, assisting on two complex surgeries, and for her it was still the middle of the night. She stumbled through the house, finally stubbing her toe on the heavy wooden cabinet by the front door that her grandmother had brought with her from Mexico.
“Son of a bitch,” she said as a ragged painful jolt ran up her entire body. “Who is it?”
“Your fairy godfather. Open the door, Marisol.” She heard Carlos’s practiced lisp outside the door.
“For Christ’s sake. I just got home a few hours ago.” She twisted the first deadbolt open on the door, and then the second one she had gotten just a week after Carrie had moved out.
The door opened to reveal Carlos grinning from ear to ear. Dressed in a bright orange T-shirt just a smidge too tight, he thrust one of two large coffee cups into her hand. “I know. That’s why I came bearing gifts.”
“And why exactly are you here?” She tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Carlos was probably her best friend now, and he had gone to the trouble of stopping at her favorite coffeehouse, which required an illegal U-turn on the way up the hill. A long pull at the coffee, and the burst of caffeine running down her throat definitely put her in a better mood.
“To get you ready, girlfriend. You can’t show up in sweats and a Sparks jersey like you did last week.”
Marisol thrust her free hand onto Carlos’s chest to prevent him from entering. “I’m not going. Jenny’s not going to show up. We both know she only agreed because you ramrodded her into it.”
“She’s coming. I saw the way she looked at you.” He grabbed her hand at his chest and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Carlos, you always read way too much into things.”
“So you say. Did you make the tamales?” Carlos bounced through the dining room into the kitchen. He went straight to the fridge and opened the freezer. Over two dozen neat little tamales, all tucked away in their corn husks, sat modestly on one side. Carlos whistled through his teeth. “Mari, they look beautiful.”
“They turned out pretty good.” Actually, the whole day had gone better than she had expected. The quiet of the kitchen was not what she was used to—the tamale parties at Christmas existed in part to bring the women of the family together—but she had found something else that day among the pots and pans: herself. Smoothing the masa into the corn husks, spreading the cheese and chile filling, and folding and tucking the husks around the tamales acted like a therapy session for her. Carrie didn’t take the best part of her away when she left. Even if the other woman was ten years younger and ten pounds thinner, Marisol had the strength of several generations of hardy, resilient women running through her veins.
Like her great—grandmother, Lucia: the first woman in her neighborhood to start her own business, a tiny food cart that sold these same tamales from huge aluminum vats on the outskirts of Mexico City. Or her grandmother, Maria: a woman who had picked up her entire family and shamelessly manipulated the coyotes to get them to California when her husband died. And her mother, Rosa: a woman who had battled cancer with strength and dignity. Marisol conjured each one up as she built the tamales, and they had all stood beside her that day as she pulled the last tamale out of the steamer. The whole experience grounded her in a way she desperately needed. For the first time in ages, she could feel a slight thaw in her chest.
Carlos tapped his finger on three of the tamales. “Raul from the cafeteria is going to help us. He’ll steam them up, and then when they are ready, we can meet Jenny.”
“Okay, that’s a great plan and all. But don’t you think appearing with beautifully plated tamales is a little weird or desperate or something?”
“Marisol, stop.” He took a seat at the kitchen table and patted the chair next to him. She sat down, and after taking the coffee from her, he grabbed both of her hands in his. “You know I love you. And so I say this out of the kindness of my heart.”
“That’s never a good start.” She tried to slip her hands out of this sudden intervention, but his muscles rippled underneath his shirt as his grip tightened.
“When we first started working together, you were hot and spicy and full of life. Maybe not a serrano but a jalapeno, which is better. Heat with flavor. Now, honey, I know Carrie hurt you. But I’m not even sure you are a chile any more. I look at you now, and sadly, I only see a plain ol’ pepper. A sweet pepper, for sure. But I miss all that fire, and I think deep inside of yourself, you do too.
Marisol rolled her eyes. “How long did it take you to think up that metaphor?”
“The whole ride up the hill, but that’s not the point. You need to remind yourself of who you are.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “And it’s not a bell pepper.”
She raised her head to meet his gaze. Carlos pinned her with an earnest look. He was right. She almost heard the ghosts of Lucia, Maria, and Rosa saying “sí, sí” in unison from the shadows of the kitchen. She blew out a deep breath with a loud rush. “Fine. What am I wearing?”
She regretted that question ten minutes later as she stood in the middle of her bedroom. Carlos had tossed half her wardrobe onto her bed and the other half on the floor in search of just the right outfit. Nothing measured up to his casual yet sexy vision. Finally, he pulled out a thin cashmere sweater that would cling to her in all the right places.
“I haven’t worn that in ages.”
“Good. Then it will feel like a brand-new outfit. Go hop in the shower. And make it a hot one.”
* * *
Raul had been better than his word. The Dutch oven and steamer were ready for them the second they showed up. And now noon struck from an old clock tower given to the hospital by a long-forgotten donor. Carlos and Marisol—who had cleaned up well, thanks to Carlos—stood by the chile kiosk. The clock gonged its last bell.
“See, I told you. She’s not coming.”
“And I told you she is. Look.”
Jenny, long and lean in slacks and a blouse, walked briskly toward them. She held her shoulders back in a way that somehow opened up both her body and her day to the possibilities that life might throw at her. She waved as soon as she saw them standing by the kiosk.
“I’m glad you’re here. You know, I stupidly left without getting your cell numbers, and people are flakey.” She nodded to Carlos, and then let her gaze linger on Marisol. “Hi.”
“Hi.” A thin wave of heat curled in her stomach. Marisol, not actually believing deep down that Jenny was going to show up, had no plan on how to proceed.
“We’re set up over here.” Carlos led the way to a table surrounded by folding chairs, which the farmers’ market had put up to encourage more buying. Marisol lagged behind, m
ostly to watch Jenny walk, but also to try to figure out exactly what was happening in her stomach.
Three plates, each with its own tamale still steaming from the hospital kitchen, adorned the table. In the middle sat a plastic container full of a bright green tomatillo salsa. Next to that, diced red peppers completed the Christmas color theme.
“Provecho.” Carlos pulled out the plastic chair for Jenny.
“It means to make the most of it,” Marisol said as she sat down as well. “Kind of like bon appétit.”
“I will. It looks great.” Jenny picked up the plastic fork. “Very Christmassy. I like the red and green.”
The unwrapping of the tamales gave them all something to do, so the quiet wasn’t as unsettling as it could have been. Marisol watched and waited as Jenny dug into the soft, plump package of masa and brought a forkful to her mouth.
“Wow. This is good. Much lighter than other tamales I’ve had.” She cocked her head and chewed thoughtfully. “Do you tell your secrets?” The tone was unassuming, but the glance that came with the question suggested that she might be asking about more than a simple recipe.
“She does.” Carlos nudged Marisol with his elbow.
“I add pureed kernels of corn to cut the heaviness of the masa.”
“Smart.”
“You’ll have to get her alone for the all the other secrets.” Carlos laughed to soften his inference.
Marisol shot him a warning look. It didn’t say all she wanted it to—mostly that if he wanted to flirt with Jenny, then he would have to go out with her. But it was already too late.
“Sounds great.” Jenny picked up Carlos’s lead and ran with it. “In fact, you guys should come over as a thank-you for all this. I’ll cook something this time. Carlos, do you have anyone special?”
“Mark.” Carlos went all doe-eyed. “He’s a doctor here. My mother’s very proud.”
“I’ll cook for everyone, then. I’m free next Thursday. That’s your day off, right?”
Marisol nodded, although she was not at all sure how she felt about all of this. Too soon, too fast. Wrapped in her overwhelming self-confidence, Jenny came off like one of those German high-end knives made from one hunk of steel, the kind whose edge is so honed it could hack away anything. She was certainly cutting to the core of something here, but was Jenny trimming off all the cold, hurt, and bruised parts that Marisol still had, or chopping her up into bite-size pieces to devour?
“What’s your info? I’ll text you.” Jenny handed Carlos her phone so he could input his contact information right into it. His fingers flew over the keyboard with a practiced dexterity.
“You’ll come, right?” She looked at Marisol almost hungrily. There was no mistaking it now. This really was a date, and Jenny had just opened up the night to all other date-like activities. The coolness returned.
“Carlos, does Mark have that night off?” Marisol attempted to close the door a bit.
“He’s taking a whole week off,” he said without looking up. “I’m putting your info in too.”
“Yes, I’ll come—if we’re all there.” She nodded twice to make her point clear.
“Gotcha. Table for four.” Sudden beeps came from the runner’s watch on her wrist. “I gotta go. My uncle’s ready. It was delicious, Marisol. I hope my meal turns out half as well.”
Jenny picked up her plate and the others to clear the table and melted into the crowd of the market like the Ghost of Christmas Present. The whole encounter couldn’t have lasted more than twenty minutes.
“That was quick.”
“But fruitful.”
“And embarrassing. Thank you very much.”
“You gotta get over all that. You, honey, have your first date in nine months. Congratulations.”
“It’s not a date. You and Mark will be there. Right?”
“Right.”
* * *
A week later, Marisol found herself holding a very expensive bottle of wine and carefully picking her way up a steep stairway in the Hollywood Hills—alone. The plan had been to meet Carlos and Mark in the Von’s parking lot near where they all lived and make the drive over together, but Mark had wanted to check out a new gym on the Westside first. Carlos texted earlier that day with the simple message “Meet you there.”
Marisol wasn’t born yesterday, and she had certainly watched Carlos manipulate her and Jenny like a medieval matchmaker from practically the first moment in the marketplace. She had texted back “Need proof.” So Carlos had taken pictures out the car window as they drove from the gym to Jenny’s house and sent them to her in ten-minute intervals. Marisol had waited in another Von’s parking lot, this time in Hollywood, until Carlos had texted a picture of Jenny’s house festive with white Christmas icicles with the message “We’re here.” Now that Marisol was climbing the stairs, she noted that the icicles looked better in person.
Knowing that her friends were already inside comforted her. She had showered, dressed for the evening, and even put on makeup as if she were just going through the motions. If this were a date, shouldn’t she be nervous? At one point she even imagined Jenny, long and lean, moving around her kitchen in that efficient way of hers. It was a nice image, and she even started to imagine Jenny doing other things. Wisps of heat began spinning ever so slowly in her chest, but then the cricket noise her cell phone made took her right out of her fantasy. The girls’ happy voices came through loud and clear all the way across the sea.
“Mom, we swam with dolphins!” Their delight doused the heat immediately, since she had not been there to see such a feat. Apparently it wasn’t enough to own a condo on the beach. Mrs. Sluttypants also knew someone at a dolphin preserve.
Marisol stepped onto the front landing and gave the door a quiet knock. It opened immediately. The crisp, piney scent of a fresh Douglas fir greeted her, and then Jenny smiled a warm hello. She stood in the hallway, hand on the door, with the lit and decorated tree right behind her in the living room. The scene could’ve been the model for a Norman Rockwell holiday lithograph, but Jenny’s white blouse painted a different story. Buttoned only three-quarters of the way up her chest, the top barely hid the promise of small, full breasts inside. Marisol took a quick step back; she could practically feel the heat coming off Jenny. She had to admit, Carlos was right. Jenny was hot.
“Hi.” Marisol barely tore her gaze away from the shirt to glance around the house. “Where are the boys?”
“They didn’t text you?”
“No. Why?” The bottom of Marisol’s stomach dropped out.
“Carlos called hours ago. Mark twisted his ankle pretty badly at some fancy new gym this afternoon. Carlos said he was trying to look all studly for the hot young men there. And something else about a doctor being the worst patient imaginable. He took Mark home to get ice on it as soon as possible.”
Marisol wanted to punch something. She could totally hear Carlos telling the story with an earnestness that would have made it seem true over the phone, especially to someone who didn’t know him that well. But she, who did know him, had been royally played. They must have driven over just to take the picture of the house and would be halfway home to the Valley by now. There had never been any gym at all.
“No. They didn’t text me.”
“I hope he’s okay.”
“Oh, he’ll be fine.” Although Marisol had visions of twisting more than their ankles next time she saw them.
“So the night’s ours, I guess.”
Jenny invited her into the kitchen. Marisol expected the set from the cooking show—a pristine chef’s kitchen with sparkling granite counters, matching backsplash, and stainless steel appliances. Something much more homey and grounded greeted her. The kitchen felt lived-in, as if some really good meals and some really bad ones had all found their beginnings here. White walls and cabinets flowed into the butcher-block counters, and pops of vibrant colors in the form of handles, bowls, and containers brightened the look. The warm, rich smell of tomatoes ripe f
rom the vine and fresh herbs like rosemary, thyme, and sage rushed to her as soon as she entered. A recently used pasta maker sat on the counter with a dusting of flour like Christmas snow all around it. This was who Jenny really was. Take away those pretty eyes and the tight body, and at her core Jenny was a warm hearth on a cold night.
Marisol relaxed the second she stepped over the threshold. Her breathing slowed, her shoulders dropped. Her anger at Carlos and her anxiety about what was going on at a beach and bedroom twenty-five hundred miles from there began to melt away—a Christmas miracle or the testimony to the power of really good food?
“Pasta?” she asked.
“Surprising, huh? Most people see me and think all I cook is Asian. And I do. It’s my specialty, after all, but my mother’s mother was Italian. Christmas for me and us has always been about pasta and fish.” She gave the meat sauce on the stove a quick stir with a wooden spoon “We called this the Christmas pasta. I don’t even know its real name.”
“It smells absolutely delicious.” Her stomach leapt up to meet the aromas wafting about the kitchen. Suddenly, she was starving.
“It’s the first thing I learned how to cook. Nonna was the real chef in the family. See, you are not the only one with kitchen secrets.” She scooped up a taste in the wooden spoon and brought it to Marisol. “Taste?”
Marisol nodded and reached for the spoon. But Jenny held it back and said, “Open.”
Marisol did as she was told, and Jenny slid it in, dropping it neatly on her tongue. Sexy as hell. Marisol rolled the taste around in her mouth. She identified short ribs, pancetta, and Italian sausage, both hot and sweet. “Oh my God,” she sighed. “It’s delicious.”
Jenny stepped back and smiled. “Is that for tonight?” She pointed to the forgotten wine bottle in Marisol’s hand.
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