Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  “La Vereda,” I murmured, without thinking.

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Her tone shifted from incredulity to concern. “Same time tomorrow, Kewpie. You need to be proficient on that firearm.”

  I had a theory about how this Javier seemed to be in the same places as me and Samuel. Because of all our trouble with paparazzi several years ago, we were extremely careful with social media, cell phone locations, and other tracking devices. But the occasional thorns in our sides were well-meaning fans desiring personal access to their favorite writer and shared his comings-and-goings on Alan Murphy’s NixieNet.net, aka NNN.

  Friday morning, I ducked into Ash’s cubicle: our resident app genius-slash-Nixie fan.

  “Can you try something for me? Just after one p.m., share on NNN’s Cabral Sighting app that Samuel is pushing a grocery cart at The Garden Market in Lyons, Colorado.”

  “Isn’t he doing a comic-con in L.A.? None of the users will buy it.”

  “I don’t need them to buy it. Just a stalker.”

  “This’ll ruin my Nixie cred,” she grumbled, but agreed.

  During lunch at Paddlers, I checked my watch: one o’clock.

  While Hector rang up customers, Tricia and I leaned against the counter and shared a contraband cream cheese and bacon pizza she’d picked up from the Lyons Diner. I’d inhaled a slice in four bites.

  She raised an eyebrow. “You and Samuel still gluten free at home?”

  I groaned as I licked sauce from my fingers. “We’re delicious-free. But he’s in California for the week, so…”

  She shrugged in that awkward, surface-friends manner that defined our relationship.

  “Everything in moderation. It’s a slippery slope, carb addictions and sugar intake.”

  Tricia could never quite turn off the physician switch. To her, my marriage to Samuel was more of a case study and our conversations often evolved into unsolicited medical advice. How she stayed married to an adrenaline junkie with a death wish was beyond me.

  I glanced at my watch again. “I need to pop over to The Garden Market before I head back to work. Thanks for the company, Tricia.”

  “I’ve always wanted to do more of your Friday lunches.”

  Oh honey, these lunches ain’t what they used to be. Molly, Hippie, and Angel were all far away. Dani was feeding el changuito mac ‘n cheese at home. Samuel was traveling. Santiago was usually good company, but he had his eye on a disillusioned musician at the boutique next door who’d recently dropped out of college to ‘find herself,’ moved to Lyons with her North Face gear in tow, and was on the hunt for a kayaking instructor. Santiago could sniff out those types a mile away.

  That left me, Hector and Tricia, and the ice between them could inflict frostbite over a twelve-mile radius. I was glad to scoot out of the Valdez seat of power.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I walked next door to Audrey’s store. I glanced over my shoulder. No one was there. Now wary, I instead crossed the street and passed the diner, the rows of boutiques and law offices. Yes, someone was definitely watching. Had this been a good idea, baiting Sam’s stalker?

  Finally, I doubled back, pushed through the glass door and into The Garden Market, the little bell tinkling my arrival. No one followed.

  Audrey peered out from the bread aisle. Her expression was calm, but her left eye twitched in a dead giveaway.

  I gave a little wave. “Hey lady. Long time no see.”

  Audrey brought me in for a weak hug. “Still kind of uncomfortable, I suppose. Miss ya, though.”

  She was rounder, sadder. Like me, Audrey tended to eat her emotions. I’d always known when Dad had rejected her marriage advances because she’d break open a tin of turtle chocolates.

  She placed a tin on the counter between us. I grabbed three.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “You and Samuel still sugar free?”

  Apparently my eating habits were atrocious today. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” A string of caramel stretched from the turtle to my mouth. I flicked it with my tongue.

  “Not the best philosophy to employ in a marriage. But what do I know about marriage?”

  I placed the turtle down and met her gloomy eyes. “Listen, Audrey. I have to stay out of this because, well, Tom’s my dad. But I’m going to say this: You deserved better. I love you, and no matter how ugly things ended with you and Dad, you will always be my family.”

  She touched my cheek. “Back at you, kiddo. So what brings you by?”

  “Dad asked me to return something to you. This is really bad, since I just told you I prefer to stay out of his mess.”

  She shrugged a pale shoulder and I caught a glimpse of her floral tattoo. “Tom Trilby is persuasive. It’s the dimples…makes him seem sweet and boyish. You have it, too—your dad’s smile.”

  “Unfortunately for me, it just makes me look like a Cabbage Patch doll.”

  “Nonsense. Men always swoon for the girl next door. Or in Tom’s case, the girl on the farm.”

  Yeah, this was going south. I dug through my purse and set a bottle of expensive-looking lotion on the counter. Audrey snapped open the lid and a light fragrance hit my nose. Mint and water lilies? It was Audrey’s ‘signature’ scent, a perfume I’d always associate with her.

  Her eyes welled. “It’s so stupid. I stuck the bottle in the glove compartment of his Prius on purpose. I imagined him smelling it, remembering and regretting all he’d given up. I bet he didn’t even open it.”

  I was ninety-nine percent certain he hadn’t either.

  The bell over the door jingled. Sure enough, it was the man, Javier, who had been ten steps behind Samuel half the summer. Flippin’ NixieNet.net. Tall, skin browned and leathery from years of sun exposure, late-fifties, Aloha shirt draped over a beer gut, sunglasses pushed up in thick gray waves. Now, my mother often hired seasonal laborers and I knew they typically didn’t ditch the fields in the middle of a work day (they also didn’t wear floral shirts to work). But a lack of rain threatened to dry up even heavily-irrigated crops, which dried up jobs. Perhaps employment hadn’t panned out. I flicked my gaze back to Audrey so he wouldn’t catch me staring.

  “He’s watching you,” she said softly. “Not one of those photographers who used to chase Samuel around, is he?” She smoothed a hand over her hair. Audrey had always taken a not-so-secret glee in Samuel’s celebrity-level attention. (Or perhaps she was simply interested in handsome strangers, now that she was free of my father.) “He and Sam had lunch one time. Excuse me, Audrey.”

  “Good to see you, Kaye,” she said, suddenly concerned.

  I grabbed a basket and browsed the shelves, one eye on the man. He also browsed groceries, never more than an aisle away. By the time I checked out, I was positive I was on my way to the inside of somebody’s trunk. This had been a stupid, stupid idea. He stepped around me and headed for the door. Finally, he left.

  Audrey’s wide eyes darted toward the alarm button under the counter. I shook my head.

  “He’s gone now.”

  “That was freaky.”

  “Give me a call if you need me,” I said as she finished my order.

  “You too, kiddo.” She passed me my groceries.

  I exited the store and hustled down the sidewalk, only to find the man followed several paces behind. Now my heart pounded in my ears, my chest, and the familiar gasps for air began.

  My free hand slid into my purse and fisted my pepper spray. I pivoted.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” I fought to keep the tremble from my voice. I said the same thing in Spanish and his eyes lighted.

  “My apologies, Señora. Trust me, I’m harmless.”

  “What can I do for you?” I repeated.

  “I thought I recognized you, but I’m not sure. Are you Samuel Cabral’s wife?”

  I was two steps from bolting. “Señor, why are you following Sam?”

  “I don’t mean to alarm you. I recognized your blue hair.” His smile was gu
arded. “I’m a friend of his sister’s, you see.”

  “Dani?” I tested.

  “Marieta Cabral Sanchez. I apologize for bothering you, but could I have a moment?”

  I took in my whereabouts. The street bustled with shoppers, tourists and townies alike. Surely he wouldn’t be so brazen as to attack me in broad daylight. I glanced at my watch. My meeting with the Front Range Historical Society wasn’t until three. “I can give you twenty minutes, right here.”

  “Gracias, Señora. Please, call me Javier.” He gestured to the very public bench in the greenspace.

  “How do you know Marieta?” I asked as we sat.

  He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a creased Polaroid. Three people stood in front of what looked like a historic fountain. Marieta, Javier, and a second woman. The sun was bright, and their faces were partly shadowed, but the woman on the left...now I could see the resemblance to my husband was uncanny. I traced her sharp cheekbones, soft eyes.

  “A gift for your husband. I know very little about him, but he and Marieta seem very similar.” Javier smiled, a bid to put me at ease. “A while ago, my wife—the woman on the right—broke her foot. Marieta came every day to help with our son and keep house, what little we have. When she was done, she’d sit beside my wife and read to her Samuel Cabral’s books. She’d brag about how the author was her friend and how proud she was of him. She never told us he was her brother, but we weren’t blind.”

  “I hope your son didn’t find the books too scary. Samuel’s always saying he doesn’t approve of children reading them.”

  Something flickered in his black eyes. “My son doesn’t have the understanding for the books. He’s just turned three. I missed his birthday.”

  In spite of my wariness, my heart went out to this father, so far from his family. “If you don’t mind the observation, it seems you waited awhile to have children.”

  He laughed a warm, delightful laugh, and I had to remind myself I knew nothing about him.

  “I waited awhile to settle down. I was much wilder in my youth, and very handsome. Then, one day at the open air market, I saw this colorful woman selling dried toloache and I thought ‘who is this brazen thing peddling devil plants to tourists?’ I had to have her and convinced her to marry an old man.”

  The alarm on my phone buzzed, yanking me out of hazy, far-away places. “Rats, I should have been on the road by now.”

  “Oh! I’ve completely forgotten my original purpose in approaching you.” He took a piece of paper from his wallet and handed it to me. “Please have Mr. Cabral call me when he returns from Los Angeles. I have an idea of where Marieta might be and would like to accompany him when he goes south.”

  My guard snapped up, and I remembered the ‘trap’ I’d set. “And you know he’s in L.A. because…”

  Javier looked embarrassed. “His fan page. They post his upcoming appearances, usual haunts. I thought he’d be at the grocery store….”

  I pocketed the paper and crossed my arms. “You’re really good at this. If you hadn’t stalked my husband all summer, I’d trust you. But the probability of Samuel going with you to Mexico is zero. He’s contacted Mexican law enforcement, Border Patrol, the International Commission on Missing Persons, Grupos Beta, and Uncle Carlos. The fact is, unless there is proof she’s in trouble, we can’t do much. Do you have proof?” Silence. “I didn’t think so.”

  It was eerie how the jovial man grew detached, ice-cold in the beat of a bird’s wing. He looked down his sharp nose. “You’re quite a rude little girl, aren’t you? Nevertheless, my number is there, so do with it what you like. I won’t keep you, Señora.” Javier placed his ball cap over his matted hair, then paused. “A word of warning. The Zacatóns frown upon their drug mules dropping precious cargo into lakes. If I were your husband, I wouldn’t call such great attention to myself by strutting around with Border Patrol. Ya me despido. Cuídese.”

  When I returned to my office after my meeting, the first thing I did was put in a call to Samuel’s lawyer about nixing Alan Murphy’s ‘Cabral Sightings’ feature on NixieNet.net.

  I told Jaime about the odd encounter as, once again, we fired bullets at soda cans.

  “Now we know how he tracked Samuel. It sure isn’t via the Dark Web.”

  My ears perked up like one of her Labs. “What did you find?”

  “Not much of consequence on Marieta Sanchez—I’ll have to dig more.” Pop pop. I jerked in reflex with every loud discharge. “I found absolutely nothing on Samuel Cabral, which is balls. With his level of notoriety, you’d think there’d be info about him all over the place. But he’s squeaky clean, as if someone intentionally wiped his info. A few inquiries about him have popped up since April, but nothing before.”

  “Why would someone do that?” Pop pop.

  “To protect him, or someone close to him.”

  I froze mid-aim. “Marieta…”

  Jaime plucked empty shells from the ground, deep in thought. “I think I know how to find more on Marieta Sanchez. Give me a few weeks.”

  Chapter 15

  Sandbag

  A route is called a sandbag when it’s more difficult to navigate than its designated grade.

  In the early morning hours of the first Wednesday in July (as in, three-twenty-two a.m.), I received a desperate call.

  “Aspen Kaye Cabral, get your gringo lily-ass to the hospital right this instant. And I mean, now. I love my mother, but so help me I’m ready to have the nurses throw her and her helicopter parenting license out the door. You promised Angel you’d be here for me, so you better make good on that promise or I’ll have his squadron break sound barriers ala Maverick and Goose over your home every day for a year!”

  Ah. Dani was in labor.

  Already having leaped out of bed the minute she called me a “gringo lily-ass,” I slipped into an ugly pair of spangled leggings and a thermal. Angel had given me fair warning about what to expect: “She could scare the piss out of a marine, the way she talks. Just remember, talking is all she can do to you, once the epidural kicks in. That, and throw things...”

  Samuel flopped over and squinted at me, his brown hair a bedraggled mess. Lord, he was sexy when cruelly and abruptly yanked out of a good REM sleep. His mouth was all pouty, his skin flushed...Argh! It had been awhile since we’d had sex, and if my dear friend and sister weren’t about to give birth, I might have pounced on him.

  “The baby?” he muttered.

  “Yep. You coming with?” He buried his face in his pillow and, for a moment, I thought he’d actually go back to sleep. But then he kicked the covers away and stretched his long, lanky frame, all glorious six-foot-three-inches of brown skin laid bare for my eyes to roam. He sat up, and I watched his abs contract with starving eyes. The baby, Kaye. I scrubbed my teeth a little too hurriedly, twisted my insane hair into a clip and struggled to get a grip. “Mother-frickin’ chicken peckers.”

  “That’s a new one. I’m not sure, but I think you just insulted me,” he said around a toothbrush. Then he jerked a black tee shirt over his head and I bid farewell to his abs.

  “Not you, my libido. Shall we go?”

  Sam popped a mint into his mouth and offered one to me. “Lead the way, birthing coach.”

  We sprinted down the hallway and into Dani’s hospital room. But the instant Samuel got a peek of his sister up on all fours, huffing and puffing and sweating like she was in (oh, I don’t know) labor, he pivoted faster than a Radio City Rockette and fled the room.

  A flood of Spanglish gushed forth from Dani’s mouth, but that was the only “gushing forth” that had happened since I spoke with her twenty minutes earlier.

  “Ave María Purísima, hermana, what did you do? Swing by Starbucks first?”

  I dropped my purse in the closet and mumbled something about a gripe-fest.

  Dani shot me one of her most contemptuous glares, a special reserve only taken off the shelf when someone did something really, really bad.

 
“It’s Womb Eviction Day. This child has been notified and pink-slipped, and I’ll be damned if he comes into this world disobedient and defiant.”

  “You know what they say about karma.”

  “Damn, Kaye! I didn’t ask you to the hospital for your pithiness. Now get over here so we can talk without staring over my giant birthing hips.”

  I slid a sturdy-looking chair to the head of Dani’s bed. Beside her, a heart monitor beeped. The little one’s beat fast and steady, but every time Dani lowered herself to the bed, its heart rate would slow, a lot. I wasn’t a medical professional, but even I understood this was concerning.

  “How long have you been at this?”

  “A few hours. Seems like days.”

  “What have they told you?”

  “Not much,” she huffed. “The baby’s not dropping. They’re going to give this method a little more time and if there’s no progress, a C-section. Mom’s down the hall trying to get answers from my doctor. He’s delivering another baby, so it might be awhile.” She tried to blow a piece of hair out of her face. I tucked it behind her ear. “I told them to do whatever they had to do to get him out safely.”

  “Him? You’re having another boy?”

  She growled at me. “I have no idea, but he’s not a piglet! It’s just annoying to say ‘it’ all the time!”

  “Okay, okay. Tell me what to do.”

  “Entertain me. I can’t watch TV like this and I need a distraction.”

  I racked my brain for stories that would utterly engross my high maintenance friend. “Got it. I’m going to reveal to you all the dirt I have on Samuel’s Hollywood acquaintances if you promise not to breathe a word.”

  “I’m as high as a kite. The likelihood of my remembering any of this is zilch. But spill away.”

  I assumed the position of a good gossiper and leaned in. “You remember how some tabloids said those two celebrity judges on Cooking with the Stars were having an affair, and the rest of the media, handlers, fans jumped all over the mags for peddling filthy, home-wrecking lies? Turns out, the mags were true.”

  “Whoa, I thought he left for a better show, not because he slept with his co-star.”