Izzy As Is

by Tracie Banister

  The three of us continue noshing and sipping our Merlot as we migrate over to the first display area on the left, which boasts several sculptures made from painted bits of metal (I couldn’t tell you what a single one of them is supposed to be). Next, there’s a collection of nice, but not particularly memorable, watercolors. Those are followed by a trio of naked women covered in paint who appear to be contortionists because their bodies are bent and twisted into pretzel-like positions. I guess this is supposed to be performance art, but I don’t get it. So, I move along to a room full of mosaics, which are kind of interesting. I can’t imagine how much time it takes to put all those tiny pieces of colored stone together to form an image.

  I know we’ve finally reached Zane’s space when I see a stunning photo of a flamingo (one of Z’s favorite subjects), standing in a lagoon, staring down at its own reflection in the water. (Nacho and this bird would get along great!) The colors in the picture are so striking and vibrant, and the textured details of the bird’s feathers are so vivid that I feel as though I’m looking at a live image rather than a photograph. I enter the room, which is more populated than almost all the others we’ve visited, and catch sight of Z in the corner talking to an older couple. He acknowledges me with a nod and a little upturn of his lips, but keeps his attention focused on the woman who’s blathering on about who-knows-what.

  As it’s rare to see Z in anything other than slouchy casual wear, I take a second to appreciate that he dressed up for this event in some black pants, a light gray vest in a herringbone tweed, and a white Oxford shirt that’s got the sleeves rolled up and several buttons undone so that his black leather necklace with the silver pendant (the one he bought at Chrome Hearts the last time I went shopping with him in the Design District) is visible. All in all, he looks effortlessly hip, reasonably stylish, and pretty darn handsome.

  “Well, well, well, would you look at that?” I hear Nacho behind me.

  Not sure if he’s referring to Zane, one of the photos, or the snapper crudo that’s within reach on a nearby server’s tray, I take a stab in the dark and say, “It’s a very pretty flamingo.”

  “That’s not the exotic bird I was talking about, chica.” Putting his hands on my shoulders, he spins me around so that I’m facing the opposite wall and that’s when I see a big, black-and-white picture of a woman in profile, with her head thrown back, laughing.

  I move forward to get a better look at the photo. “I didn’t even realize he took that,” I murmur.

  “That’s why they’re called candids,” Nacho quips.

  I’m wearing one of Lola’s outfits in the pic, so it was clearly shot while we were working on her lookbook. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, though, as I remember laughing a lot that day. Zane always cracks jokes and says silly things to get me into a relaxed, happy frame of mind before he starts snapping shots.

  “He included you in an exhibit about beauty,” Topaz notes.

  “He also included a picture of my aunt kneading bread.” I point to the photo right next to mine. Although her face isn’t shown in the picture, I recognize Aunt Solana’s hands. She has a serrated scar from an accident with a sharp bread knife on her left hand, and a couple of old burn marks on her right one.

  “That’s because I think what Solana does with her hands is beautiful—” I glance back over my shoulder to see Z approaching. “She creates art with her bread. And I decided to show this picture of you, Izzy, because I think you’re most beautiful when you’re laughing, which is true for the majority of women.”

  It’s a lovely sentiment, but . . .

  “You couldn’t have retouched those crinkles around my eyes?”

  “Those crinkles aren’t a flaw,” Zane assures me. “They show not only that you’ve lived, but that you’ve thoroughly enjoyed all of your experiences.”

  “I’ll take laugh crinkles over frown lines any day.” Topaz salutes the photo by raising her glass, then she downs the rest of her wine in one swallow.

  “Your picture was the first of mine to sell, by the way,” Z imparts the info to me with a smile.

  I perk up. “Really? How much did I cost?”

  “More than any sane man could afford,” Nacho snarks, and I whack him with my chainmail clutch.

  “Ow!” He rubs the spot on his chest where I hit him.

  “Zane, darling . . .” A fortysomething blonde in a short, tight, trying-way-too-hard sequined sheath shimmies up to us and attaches herself to Z’s arm. An alarm in my head immediately goes off, and it blares: ‘Cougar Alert! Cougar Alert!’

  “The Glazers are here,” she informs Z in a throaty voice, “and I really want you to meet them.”

  “That’d be great, but let me introduce you to my friends first. Izzy, Nacho, Topaz, this is Sybil Lyndon, the owner of this gallery.”

  “This is a wonderful event. Thanks for including us,” Topaz says politely.

  “Yes, well, anything to make my favorite shutterbug happy.” She reaches up to stroke Zane’s jaw in a way that’s much too familiar for my liking, and I’m momentarily blinded by the pavé diamond wedding band/emerald cut engagement ring set she’s sporting. Aha! The truth is revealed! This lady doesn’t own squat. She’s married to some rich dude who probably bought this gallery so that the little wifey-poo would have a hobby and stay out of his hair. That’s assuming he has hair; chances are good that he’s balding and fat, which is why Zane, with his youthful vitality, thick hair, and lean bod, is so appealing to her. Oh, shoot, I wonder if the reason she selected Z’s work for this exhibit is because she has designs on him. Not that his talent wasn’t enough to earn him this opportunity—I just don’t trust this wench’s motives.

  Completely unaware of all the negative thoughts I’m having about his handsy patroness, Z tells Sybil, “Izzy is the laughing girl in my photo.”

  She squints at me, which is a risky move seeing as how she’s got on so many sets of false eyelashes there’s a good chance they might get tangled together and fuse her eyes shut permanently if they touch, then glances up at the photo on the wall. “Huh, I didn’t recognize you in person. I guess Zane got your good side in the picture.”

  Oh, it’s on, bitch! I’m debating whether I should make a crack about her dress looking like the carcass of an endangered snow leopard, or go the less subtle route and just toss my wine in her face when my phone dings with an incoming text.

  “That’s probably my boyfriend, Eduardo Sandoval,” I place extra emphasis on his last name so that she’ll know I travel in circles far more prestigious than her own. “He’s going to be joining me here later.” I pull my phone out of my purse and step away from the group so that I can review the message in private.

  ¡Hijo de puta! Eduardo isn’t coming!

  As per usual, he has some business-related excuse, but I’ve just about reached my limit of patience with those. I know he’s got a big, important job and he’s trying to do everything he can to prove himself to his father and impress their clients, employees, et al, but it hasn’t escaped my notice that he always seems to find time to do the things he wants (dinner at his parents’ place several times a week, playing racquetball with his buddies, getting hot stone massages, having sex with me—he says he sleeps better after we do it, so I’ve become part of his nightly routine—shower, brush/floss teeth, check texts and e-mails, stuff the taco with Izzy, pass out), yet he’s too “busy” to get together with my friends.

  We’ve been dating over two months now, and he’s only met Topaz once (when we had drinks with her before having to rush off to some charity gala) and he’s never laid eyes on Nacho or Zane. I thought he might enjoy this exhibit since it’s more of a highbrow affair and he wouldn’t feel out of place with other wealthy people in attendance. Plus, he has a whole house that needs to be filled with art! (He just closed on a gorgeous, waterfront home on South Bayshore Lane that has five bedrooms, a wine cellar, an eight-seat home theater, and a stunning outdoor living area with an infinity-edge pool. I’m already en
visioning one of the master bedroom’s cavernous walk-in closets as the perfect place for my shoes, which will all be designer once I’m Mrs. Sandoval.)

  I decide not to respond to Eduardo’s text because I don’t trust myself not to say something I’ll later regret. Besides, he needs to know that breaking a promise to me is not okay, and I think the silent treatment will be an effective way of conveying that.

  “Uh oh. You look pissed. What’s wrong?” Topaz drapes an arm across my bare shoulders.

  I exhale an irritated puff of breath. “Eduardo won’t be coming. He got caught up with something at work. Surprise, surprise.”

  Topaz gives me a sympathetic squeeze. “The downside of dating a successful man. He has a lot of demands on his time and attention.”

  “Would be nice if he made me a priority once in a while,” I grouse. “It’s not like I ask him for much.” I lift my wine glass to take a slug and realize it’s empty. “I need more of this.” I twist my head around, looking for a server with a drinks tray. “Where did Zane and Mrs. Robinson go?” I ask Topaz when I don’t see them.

  She looks befuddled. “Mrs. Robinson? I thought her last name was Lyndon.”

  “It is. Mrs. Robinson is a derogatory term for an older woman who likes to seduce men young enough to be her son.”

  “I don’t think Sybil’s that old. Early forties maybe, so she’s only got a little over a decade on Zane.”

  “Which doesn’t make it totally gross that she’s got hot pants for him?”

  “Ewwwww,” Topaz’s face contorts with disgust, “you think Sybil wants to do the dirty with Zane?”

  “Duh! You saw the way she was hanging on him, touching him, acting all possessive. She’s probably planning to make him her boy toy—help him with his career in exchange for sexual favors.”

  “Zane would never go for that, not in a million years. First of all, she’s married.”

  I purse my lips in a simpering pout and say in a breathy voice, “But my husband ignores me, and I’m so lonely and starved for affection. What I wouldn’t give to feel a man’s arms around me again.”

  “Oh, geez, Zane might actually fall for a line like that. He is a soft touch when it comes to women.”

  “That’s why we need to keep a close eye on the situation. Make sure he’s not getting in over his head.” My phone starts playing “Cake by the Ocean,” and I glance down at its display screen. “Eduardo,” I read the caller ID aloud for Topaz’s benefit. “I should take this. Hunt down Zane and stick to him like glue so that the cougar can’t drag him off to some dark corner and make a meal of him. I’ll catch up with you guys when I’m done.” I shoo her away with one hand while answering my call with the other.

  “Hello.” My tone is flat and disinterested.

  “Lo siento, querida. I swear to you, I had every intention of joining you at the art gallery tonight, but everything’s falling apart in the Santo Domingo office and it’s my responsibility because—”

  “It’s fine.” I don’t need a long, boring, business-y explanation. He sounds really stressed, so I believe that this was a legit emergency and it would be cruel of me to pile on at this point. Ooooo, look at me being mature and putting someone else’s feelings ahead of my own!

  “Let me make it up to you. How would you like to spend a week at a luxury resort in the Dominican Republic?”

  “Keep talking.”

  “I have to go down there to straighten out this mess and I want you to come with me. It could be a really nice vacation for you. You can relax, lay out by the pool, go shopping, get spa treatments, whatever makes you happy.”

  “That does sound nice.” Seriously. An all-expenses paid trip down to the Caribbean? What woman in her right mind would say “no” to that?

  “I’ll send a car to the gallery for you. It’ll bring you to the airport where the Sandoval Spirits jet is on standby.”

  “Wait—what? You want to leave tonight? I’ll have to go home to pack and change clothes.” I look down at the slinky royal blue cocktail dress and five-inch sparkly silver stilettos I’m wearing. This is not exactly a traveling ensemble. “And I’ll need my passport.”

  “Right. Your passport. You can’t get into the Dominican Republic without that. I’ll tell the driver to run you by your place on the way to the airport, but time is of the essence, Isidora. So, I need you to be quick about it. Don’t worry about grabbing clothes or toiletries. I can buy whatever you need when we get there.”

  A vacay in a tropical paradise, plus a new wardrobe? Fantasy just became a reality!

  “I’ll see you on the plane!”

  CHAPTER 19

  Checking the time on my phone, I see that I’ve been soaking up the hot Caribbean sun while reading People en Español for over an hour, which means it’s time for a flip over and possibly a nap because there’s not much else to do when you’re lying on your stomach. I set down my phone and pick up the hollowed out coconut that’s holding my coco loco, which is a very popular drink here in the Dominican Republic. It’s pretty darn tasty, too, as it includes several types of alcohol along with lime juice and coconut milk. I take a sip of the icy cold beverage through a straw, then bite off a chunk of the pineapple wedge perched on the edge of the coconut. Yum!

  After putting my drink down, I grab my Hawaiian Tropic dark tanning oil (I’ve used two bottles of the stuff since I got here!) and squirt some into my palm. I rub the oil into the skin being exposed by my barely there bikini on my front side, then do the same (as best I can) to my back.

  “You missed a spot.”

  Glancing up, I see a Latin Adonis in a pair of red swim briefs that leave very little to the imagination standing at the foot of my lounge chair. I slide my oversized Gucci sunglasses down my nose and let my eyes sweep up from his impressive bulge to his ripped torso and broad shoulders, one of which is covered in some sort of tribal tattoo (Rowr!). Oh, and his face isn’t bad either, although it doesn’t really matter. When a guy has a body this bangin’, an uggo face isn’t a deal-breaker. You can just close your eyes and picture Channing Tatum when he’s doing you.

  “Did I?” I twist around to look at my back.

  “Sí, between your shoulder blades.” He points to that area, and I notice he has very large, very capable-looking hands. “It’s a hard-to-reach spot. I could take care of that for you if you like.”

  Oh, I’m sure I’d like it very much and for a second, I indulge myself in the fantasy of this hunk oiling up my naked flesh with firm, massaging strokes. If only . . . sigh.

  “Thanks, but my boyfriend will be down in a sec. So, I’ll have him do it.”

  I thought I was letting him down easy (I smiled and everything!), but Señor Paquete Grande (Mr. Big Package)’s face falls and I can empathize. You’re not the only one who’s disappointed, fella!

  For real. This whole monogamy thing sucks. And my faithfulness has been continuously tested since Eduardo and I got here. It seems like everywhere I go I’m being hit on by some swarthy stud who looks like he could medal in the Mattress Mambo Olympics. And rejecting these guys is becoming increasingly difficult when my man hasn’t been giving mi chocha the attention it deserves.

  “Okay, well, nice meeting you,” the beefcake says dejectedly, then walks over to the edge of the pool and dives in, which I guess is the next best thing to a cold shower.

  Poor guy. I can’t blame him for getting his hopes (as well as a certain part of his anatomy) up by the sight of me in this bikini. In my not so humble opinion, I’ve never looked hotter. The bright yellow color of the bikini is the perfect complement to my dark hair and sun-bronzed skin, and the design of the suit, with its teeny tiny bottom and halter-style top that has a large cutout right in the center where my ample cleavage is displayed in a most provocative and enticing way (the girls are practically begging to be motorboated!), is so flattering that anyone would think it was custom-made for me.

  Adjusting my lounge chair so that the top of it is lying flat, I roll over onto my sto
mach, then fold my hands beneath my head so that I can rest my cheek on them. I shut my eyes and will myself to doze off, but it’s no good. All I’ve done for the last eight days is rest and relax, so I’m not tired. What I am is bored. I’ve bought thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes, gotten just about every spa treatment the resort has to offer, and spent hours on end by this pool, but it’s not much fun when you’re doing all those things by yourself. I knew going in that this was a business trip for Eduardo, but I didn’t realize he was going to leave me on my own eighteen hours a day.

  It’s not like we have any quality time when he comes back to our suite either. He’s always on the phone, talking or texting with Gillian because of all the legalities involved in what’s going on at work, and he’s so exhausted he can barely keep his eyes open. We’re staying at this gorgeous beachfront resort in Boca Chica, but we’re not getting to enjoy any of its amenities together—no intimate dinners, no couple’s massages, no moonlit walks on the beach, and we’re certainly not making any use of the plush king-size bed with its 1000-thread count sheets or even the private hot tub. We have not had sex once since we left Miami over a week ago! I tried on the plane ride down, suggesting saucily that we join the mile-high club (I’ve been a member for over a decade, but Eduardo didn’t need to know that!) and he just gave me a disapproving look and said we were on the company plane so that wouldn’t be appropriate (as if none of the other Sandoval execs have ever gotten their freak on while in the air), then went back to reading some report.

  He’s stressed and he’s busy. I get it, but I still can’t help but feel neglected and also kind of pissed. Why did he invite me to come down here with him if he was just going to ignore me? Did he really expect me to entertain myself twenty-four/seven? And why did his previously healthy sex drive cease to exist when we left the States? Wait, did we fly over the Bermuda Triangle? Maybe that causes weird sexual side effects, like the triangle’s magnetic field saps a man’s desire or something.

  I lift myself up onto my elbows and reach for my phone, then do a Google search for the flight path from Miami to Santo Domingo. Damn! It doesn’t intersect with the Bermuda Triangle, so there goes that theory.