They drove out of the gate, past the factory, past Cesar’s and deeper into the neighborhood. Tenements glided by, bungalows, bodegas, bars. Every few blocks they would pass a cluster of young men or teenagers clad in their colors, their ears pierced, their arms tattooed. Some of them would shout comments about his car. One made an obscene gesture for no apparent reason.
Rafael didn’t spare them a look, but Sandra searched their faces, seeking a young Rafael among them, looking in vain for the promise of escape and redemption in their angry eyes. Rafael had left the dismal life of the ghetto behind. Why couldn’t they?
Because he had been lucky, she contemplated, then changed her mind. Ricardo might have used luck to explain why he had failed where his brother had succeeded. But what had brought Rafael to his place in life wasn’t luck. It was strength, doggedness, confidence. It was the faith Father Andreas had described—not religion, but Rafael’s faith in himself, his future, his ability to surmount any obstacle and deny the possibility of defeat.
He had reached the freeway. Sandra wondered where Rafael was taking her, and she soon had her answer when he exited in Pico Rivera. He drove to a working-class residential area and cruised along narrow residential streets until he came to a modest neighborhood church built of adobe and red tile. One of the fifteen he kept afloat, perhaps.
He steered past the church and around the corner, then parked. Climbing out of the car, Sandra filled her lungs with the clean, tart scent of the citrus and almond trees that grew in the park-like expanse of greenery that separated the church from its affiliated parochial school, a two-story building of matching adobe and red tile, with “Sacred Heart Academy” inscribed above the main door. At the far end of the grassy yard, set way back from the street, was a small residence, also constructed of adobe, with a heavy oak door.
Rafael led her across the lawn to the residence. He knocked on the door, then turned to her. “You are not to write about this,” he whispered.
She was about to protest that she’d already promised him as much. But before she could demand that he trust her, the door swung open. On the other side of the threshold stood a beautiful young woman. She was petite but vibrant, her hair falling in a thick black braid down her back, her skin a smooth, unblemished amber and her eyes black edged in gold, like Rafael’s.
“Raf!” she yelled, then flung her arms around him.
Sandra fell back a step, assessing the woman, her simple blue denim jumper and leather sneakers, her plain hoop earrings, her ebullient hug, the large silver crucifix she wore on a chain around her neck. Either she was Rafael’s girlfriend or she was—
“Rosa.” He clung to his sister for a minute, then extricated himself from her embrace.
She held him at arm’s length, scrutinizing him. With a laugh, she shook her head. “You’re not eating enough, bro. Look at you! Skin and bones.”
“You sound like Mama.”
Rosa laughed again, a laugh that sounded to Sandra like the song of a flute. She could see how Diego could have fallen in love with this woman.
She turned to Sandra with an expectant smile. “I’m Rosa. And you’re—?”
“Sandra Garcia.”
“A friend,” Rafael said quickly. Sandra exchanged a quiet look with him. Of course she was a friend. Nothing more, nothing less.
Rosa evidently believed Sandra was something more. Her astute gaze shuttled back and forth between Sandra and her brother, and her smile grew sly as she reached her own conclusions. “Well, Raf, come in. We’re just getting things together for supper; you’re both welcome to stay. You know how the sisters love to spoil you.” To Sandra she confided, “They always fuss over him. He pretends to hate it, but I think deep down—”
“I didn’t come to eat,” Rafael cut her off. Sandra realized he had yet to smile. “I didn’t come to be fussed over. Rosa…” He drew in a long breath and let it out. “Melanie Greer is dead.”
Rosa’s smile faded. Her eyes grew wide, first with alarm and then with sadness. “Melanie Greer? Your movie star? Ay! How did she die?”
“Drugs.”
“Dios mio.” She crossed herself, then took her brother’s hands in her own and pressed them to her cheeks. “Come. Come with me.” She left the house, drawing the door shut behind her, and hurried across the lawn. Sandra and Rafael followed her to a rear door of the church and inside. They walked down a quiet hall, past closed doors, past an empty room with altar-boy robes hanging on a row of hooks along the wall, and entered the chapel.
The church was as appealingly modest inside as out. Bare oak beams scored the ceiling, and the simple pews lining the center aisle were hewn of matching oak. Rosa ushered Rafael and Sandra down a side aisle to a carved wooden statue of the Madonna set into a niche in the wall. On Mary’s sculpted face Sandra could see sympathy and serenity.
Rosa and Rafael knelt down on the prie-dieu before the Madonna. Rafael lit a candle. Then he and his sister bowed their heads and prayed.
Sandra took a seat on a nearby pew. Closing her eyes, she visualized the far more elaborate church her family belonged to in Berkeley, a well-endowed church that took pride in its mixed ethnic congregation. Yet in this simple, whitewashed chapel Sandra felt just as close to God.
She prayed for Melanie’s soul. She prayed for everyone who had known and loved Melanie: her family back in Kansas, her colleagues on her television show, her agent and all the people at Aztec Sun who had been smitten with her, who had adored her sunny disposition and unpretentious ways. Sandra prayed for Rafael’s brother Ricardo, his life damaged by the evil substance that had killed Melanie. Sandra prayed for Rafael himself, a man strong enough to know when he needed to turn to God.
He and Rosa knelt for a long time before the Madonna. At last he turned to his sister and nodded. They stood and moved to the pew where Sandra sat. Rafael extended his hand to help her to her feet, but when she stood he didn’t let go of her. His fingers felt powerful as he laced them through hers, his skin warm and dry. The thick fragrance of melting wax and incense blended with his clean male scent.
When they left the church the sun was riding low on the horizon. In the grassy expanse beside the chapel, Rosa rose on tiptoe to kiss Rafael’s cheek. “It’s a sad day,” she murmured. “It may get worse.”
“I know.”
“You can handle it.”
He smiled grimly. “I’m glad you think so.”
“You can handle anything.” Her gaze followed a path from his face to his shoulder, down his arm to where his hand held Sandra’s and then up Sandra’s arm to her face. “You’ll take care of him,” Rosa told her. Her delicate features radiated certainty and love.
“I’ll take care of him,” Sandra promised.
Rosa smiled desolately, then covered their clasped hands with her own, as if blessing them. Then she turned and walked across the lawn to the convent house and inside.
Rafael watched as the door closed behind his sister. Sandra watched him. Her hand memorized the feel of his. Her ears filled with the evening serenade of crickets, the faint whisper of the breeze. Her heart resonated with the vow she had just made.
She would take care of Rafael.
Chapter Ten
*
“YOU MUST BE HUNGRY,” he said.
The wind blew in through the open windows, blasting across her face and whipping her hair wild. They had been driving west for a while, heading into the sunset that spread before them like a canvas of mauve and lavender and salmon-pink.
Sandra contemplated his statement. She must indeed be hungry; she hadn’t eaten anything since an extremely early breakfast. She was running on little food and even less sleep. She was too keyed up to be tired, though, and her stomach had made no demands throughout the long, overloaded day.
“We could stop for a bite somewhere,” he suggested.
She turned to him. His profile was sharp in the waning light, a striking arrangement of lines and angles. She had promised to take care of him, yet he was wor
rying about feeding her. Probably he’d mentioned her hunger because he was hungry himself.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s stop. Any place is fine.”
He continued down the freeway, passing the East L.A. exit. She didn’t know where he was taking her, and she didn’t care. Somehow, over the course of the last couple of hours, whatever distrust had existed between them was gone. Her career, his brother, his lies and her dreams of a banner headline had faded into oblivion. She and Rafael had moved on to something else.
It wasn’t friendship, not quite. It wasn’t mere sexual attraction, although her visceral awareness of him remained as constant as the rotation of the earth and the beat of her heart.
It was more than attraction, more than Rafael’s ability to electrify his surroundings and trip switches along her nerve endings simply by being himself. It was caring. And it freed Sandra from all the obligations of her job, all the single-minded ambition, everything except the human desire to merge her sadness with Rafael’s, to share the burden with him.
He continued westward. When the freeway reached the ocean, he steered a course north along Route One as it paralleled the shoreline into Santa Monica.
He parked in a lot near a broad wharf that extended a good hundred feet into the water, with a restaurant perched on top of it. In a bow to celebrity cliché, Rafael donned a pair of sunglasses before climbing out of the car.
She didn’t blame him. The last thing he needed was to be recognized. If someone spotted him and realized who he was, he would be swarmed by busybodies. News of Melanie Greer’s death would no doubt be the top story on the six o’clock news tonight, and everyone would want to talk to the producer of the movie she’d been making when she died.
Looking fashionably aloof in the dark-lensed glasses, Rafael sauntered around the car to help her out. They crossed the lot and entered the crowded eatery. A hostess approached and, to Sandra’s dismay, greeted Rafael by name. “Hi, Rafael,” she said softly. “I bet you’d like a private table.”
“Please.”
Evidently the hostess had heard about Melanie’s death, and she was sensitive enough to find him a place far from the limelight. Sandra’s anxiety waned as the hostess led the way to a staircase and started up.
Rafael touched his hand to the small of Sandra’s back as they followed the hostess. The shape of his hand imprinted itself on her back, sending a thick river of heat coursing up her spine to her brain and down to her hips. After everything that had happened today, everything she and Rafael had endured, she still couldn’t help but respond to his innocent, chivalrous touch in a dangerous way.
When they reached the top of the stairs, the hostess escorted them down a hall to a small room cornered in glass, overlooking the wharf and the ocean beyond. The vista spread calm and soothing below them, the water’s gray surface riven by a slash of orange as the setting sun’s reflection rode the tide. The room held only a single round table set for two with linen and crystal.
The hostess lit the white taper at the center of the table, put down two menus, pulled out Sandra’s chair for her, smiled sympathetically at Rafael and departed. Sandra lowered herself into her seat, not bothering to conceal her astonishment at the quiet elegance of the room.
“You’re a regular here?” she asked as Rafael sat and pocketed his sunglasses.
He shrugged. “There are a few nice restaurants I feel comfortable in. Not show-biz hang-outs, not places where people will badger me.” Noticing Sandra’s puzzlement, he chuckled. “You think I’m a beaner, too. You think I eat only at cantinas in the barrio.”
“No.” But maybe she had thought that, a little.
He handed her one of the menus. Sandra studied the listings. Every dish looked mouth-watering, and reading them almost prompted a pang of hunger. Someday, she thought, when all this was behind them, she would really enjoying dining out in style with Rafael, getting herself dolled up, having him call for her with a bouquet of flowers…
What was she thinking? That day would never come. Today was unique, a hiatus from reality. Today she and Rafael had transcended who they were so they could be together, comforting each other. When all this was behind them, Sandra acknowledged, Rafael would have nothing more to do with her.
The thought shouldn’t have upset her as much as it did.
A waiter tapped gently on the door before entering their private sanctuary. He carried a basket of fresh, hot rolls, a chilled dish of molded butter and a bottle of wine. “It’s an ’85 Cabernet Sauvignon,” he said, showing Rafael the bottle. “I think you’ll like it.”
Far from objecting to the waiter’s presumptuousness, Rafael examined the bottle intently, then turned to Sandra. Too stunned to object, she nodded. The waiter uncorked the bottle and poured a taste for Rafael’s approval before filling the two crystal goblets. “Are you ready to order?” he asked.
Rafael turned to Sandra again. Despite the lack of food in her body, her emotions were knotted up enough to convince her she wasn’t in any shape to consume a full meal. “I’ll have a spinach salad,” she requested, folding her menu shut.
Rafael frowned slightly, then turned to the waiter. “A spinach salad and the stuffed shrimp,” he murmured. “I’ll have the grilled salmon and mixed vegetables.” He handed over the menus and eyed Sandra expectantly.
She considered chiding him for having ordered an entree for her. But then she felt a genuine stab of hunger and realized that a shrimp dinner might be just what she wanted.
“I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” she said with a smile. “Why are you taking care of me?”
He returned her smile. “You look like you could use some food right now. And some wine.” He lifted his glass, studied the ruby wine in the muted dusk light, then tapped his glass against hers. “To Melanie.”
“To Melanie,” Sandra said, feeling her eyes sting with tears. Mostly they were for Melanie, but she also felt like crying because Rafael was taking care of her. His tenderness moved her.
They sipped their wine and lowered their glasses. Rafael gazed pensively out at the sunset, and Sandra took advantage of the opportunity to scrutinize him. What she saw was not just an independent producer, not just the Chicano role model she was supposed to profile for the Post, but a bereaved friend. A brother. A believer who turned to his church for solace. A man who seemed as much at home in this elegant Santa Monica restaurant as he did in the working-class grunge of Cesar’s, a man who could easily afford the astronomical prices on this restaurant’s menu, who wasn’t fazed by the spectacular view or the exquisite silver and china place settings—but also a man who might have an Aztec sun tattooed on his arm, who might have committed acts not unlike those that had landed his brother in jail.
He didn’t stop staring at the sunset until the waiter returned with their salads. The arrival of food broke whatever dismal spell he’d been under, and he studied Sandra with the same intensity as he had the sunset. “Is this like your parents’ restaurant?” he asked.
He had to know it wasn’t. No Mexican restaurant, no matter where it was located, would bother with crystal wine glasses and porcelain dishes. He had asked only to get a conversation going. This, too, was a side of Rafael Sandra had never seen before. Usually she was the one posing the questions while he remained taciturn and evasive.
She appreciated his effort more than she would ever let on. “It’s nothing at all like this. Alessandra’s is very down-to-earth. Terra-cotta tile on the floor, bright wall paintings, potted cacti and shellacked gourds hanging from the ceiling. It’s a folksy type of place.”
“How did your parents feel when you told them you were going to be a reporter?”
She realized the risk he was taking by raising the subject of her work, and she was careful to keep the discussion on safe ground. “My father was bummed out, I think,” she said. “He wanted me to be a lawyer. My mother didn’t care. She still gets excited whenever she sees my name in print. As for my grandmother…” Sandra shook her head and
laughed. “She just wishes I’d get married. ‘Be a reporter if you must,’ she says, ‘but don’t scare any nice men away.’”
Rafael grinned, although his eyes remained dark and enigmatic. “Have you scared many men away?”
“A couple,” she confessed, surprised that she felt comfortable discussing this with Rafael. “One of them wanted me to leave California and move to Boston with him when he started law school. But this is my home, where my family is.”
“And the others?”
“One other,” she told him. “He didn’t like my ambition. I think he would have preferred if I’d quit my job and devoted myself fully to him. He was always talking about how he earned plenty enough and if we got married we wouldn’t need my income—as if income was the only reason I was a reporter.”
“He sounds unworthy of you,” Rafael remarked before digging into his salad.
Sandra had wanted to believe that herself. But when she’d passed her thirtieth birthday and found herself single and unattached, she’d entertained doubts. She’d smothered them and kept on, indulging her ambition because it had always been a part of her, and because nothing—not even a man with whom she’d had a several-year love affair—satisfied her in quite the same way. “I didn’t exactly set out to become a reporter. But at the Berkeley Girls School… The boarding students had a lot more flexibility in what extracurricular activities they could participate in. I was a day student and I had to be home by a certain time, to help out at the restaurant and do my homework and all that. The school newspaper fit into my schedule, so I started writing for it.”
“And you loved it?”
She smiled sheepishly. “Yes.”
Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set Page 51
