by Lea Santos
Not to mention sexy, in a sweet sort of way.
God, Maddee was so…different than she’d assumed at the beginning.
If only Grace had realized…
She tried to hold out for a commercial, but Betty was in rare form and the exhaustion of a long work week along with tension from her bad date perched like an overweight vulture on her shoulders. She decided she could talk to Madeira another time. It would probably be better that way, considering how needy she felt. Grace had to remember she didn’t have any kind of monopoly on Maddee’s time.
*
Madeira had visited the bedrooms of many women in her day, but she’d never felt as anxious as she did right then, standing outside Gracie’s. She’d glanced over when Betty ended, surprised to realize that Gracie had already gone up to bed. Madeira hadn’t even noticed. Guilt twinged inside her. The whole reason she’d stayed late tonight was to speak with her after her date, but that darn Betty La Fea was a captivating show, something she could never admit in the presence of Torien. Madeira would never hear the end of it.
Outside Grace’s door, Madeira paused, hoping Grace wasn’t already asleep. They usually chatted after her dates, which kept Madeira sane, and she had no desire to abandon the ritual now. A small sliver of light showed beneath her door, so Madeira lifted her fist and knocked softly.
“What?” she barked.
Madeira smiled. Her Gracie, always the consummate lady. She cracked the door slightly, without looking in. “Forgive me, I speak Spanish and English, but I don’t speak rude,” Madeira teased. “Does that translate to ‘come in’?”
She heard what sounded like a head hitting a headboard, a muffled swear word, and some rustling. “I’m sorry, come in.”
“You decent?” She pushed the door open farther and made eye contact with her across the lamplit room.
Grace smiled, looking beautiful and nervous in one delectably feminine package. “Some would argue…never.”
Madeira slipped into the room, closing the door behind her, then stood awkwardly on the opposite side, hands in her pockets. Now that she was here, she didn’t know quite what to do. Imagine that, la ladróna de corazones not knowing what to do in a beautiful woman’s bedroom. A groan escaped before she could squelch it. Torien could be right. Maybe Madeira was whipped. Maybe she wanted to be whipped. At least, by Gracie.
Madeira gulped. Maybe she’d lost it completely.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Madeira’s gaze bounced around the dusky purple walls of the room, taking in the soothing, simple decor softened by the light from a bedside single lamp. “DoDo’s not going to call the cops if she finds me in here, is she?”
“Are you nuts?” Grace beckoned her over, leaning forward to pat the edge of the bed. The motion pulled the threadbare Denver Broncos T-shirt she wore more tightly over her breasts, and Madeira’s mouth went dry. “You know DoDo and Lola have their own agendas when it comes to us. You’re lucky she doesn’t lock you in here with me.”
Oh, Madeira should be so lucky.
“Would you come over here, for Christ’s sake? You’re making me nervous.”
Far be it from Madeira to ignore a direct order to approach a woman’s bed—especially the woman she loved. She closed the distance between them, and every step that brought her closer to Grace made her body throb. Not that anything would ever happen here, with DoDo and Lola just down the hall, but try telling that to her addled brain.
Madeira perched on the end of her bed, careful to keep her movements tentative and respectful. “How was the date? Who was it this time?”
“Kinko’s copy girl. It sucked. I took a cab home.”
Alarm surged in Madeira’s throat. “What happened?” She searched Gracie’s face for clues. “She didn’t…try anything, did she?” Madeira’s words sounded hoarse and dangerous, even to her own ears.
Grace’s gaze dropped to the bright bed quilt almost in shame, and it made Madeira want to hunt this copy shop woman down and kick her ass.
“Gracie?”
Grace crinkled her nose. “Well, she was sort of…handsy. Nothing I couldn’t handle, though.”
Anger wavered through Madeira like heat off hot blacktop. Why would Gracie subject herself to these losers when Madeira sat right in front of her face, adoring her? She’d treat her like a queen, she’d protect her, she’d support every dream Gracie had. Hell, she’d—
Stick to the plan.
Madeira brushed adrenaline-shot fingers through her hair slowly, willing away the tension. “You shouldn’t have to handle anything, Gracie. That’s the whole point.” Madeira paused to strip the growl out of her tone. “I’ll go have a talk with her tomorrow.”
“No, please.” She sat forward and reached out to touch one of her clenched fists. “It’s okay. She let me leave and I never have to see her again.”
Madeira’s ears exploded with heat. “She let—” She pressed her lips into a thin line. No. She hadn’t come in here to nag Gracie. In a lightning swift movement, Madeira flipped her fist and captured Gracie’s hand in between her own, caressing the smooth skin. It was hard enough to handle when Gracie went out with nice women. This was too much. “Why are you doing this? Why are you dating these creeps?”
“They’re not all creeps.” Her lashes brushed her cheeks as she absentmindedly traced one of the block patterns in the quilt that covered her. “Layton is really nice.”
She’s no good for you, Madeira yearned to say. She didn’t. Because the truth was, Layton was a nice woman. Decent. And if that’s what Gracie wanted, Madeira loved her enough to grit her teeth and support the stupid decision. “Sí, but you won’t go out with her again.”
Gracie bit her bottom lip, a motion Madeira had come to realize meant Gracie was holding something in. “Someday I might.”
Madeira caressed her hand, absently staring at the framed art posters from the last three Cinco de Mayo festivals in Denver. This was insane. She’d never get anywhere with Gracie if she didn’t start taking small risks. After a moment spent shoring up her courage, Madeira pinned Gracie with a gaze. “The Singles Auction is the weekend after next.”
“I know. I remember.”
“Still up for it?”
A small line bisected her brow line, and she blinked several times as though trying to catch up with her convoluted train of thought. “Of course. I wouldn’t back out on you guys now.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that.” Madeira was bungling this. Her fists clenched.
“Oh.”
Now or never. “Gracie? Remember when we talked about you meeting my sister and her partner one of these days?”
“Yes.”
“Come to a barbecue at their house next Saturday.”
“Excuse me?”
Okay, so it hadn’t been the best of segues. She frowned. “I didn’t mean that to sound like an order. Let me try again. Would you like to come to a barbecue with me next Saturday afternoon?” She hiked one shoulder. “Toro and Iris always try to host one final outdoor party on the last gorgeous summer weekend of the year. Looks like next weekend, and I’d…like you to come. With me.”
Gracie tucked her hair behind her ears with slow deliberate motions. “Oh. Well, I’d—”
“Come on, Gracie.” Madeira couldn’t bear to hear an automatic rejection, not after Grace had given every woman with a pulse in Denver other than her a chance. “I’ve met your family. Everyone wants to meet you, and things will be too hectic at the auction. Plus, Simon will be at the barbecue, so you’ll know someone.”
“I know you,” Gracie reminded, a soft smile turning up the corners of her intensely kissable mouth.
“I meant besides me.” Madeira flushed. “I was, you know, calling in reinforcements to try and convince you—”
“Maddee.”
Her mouth closed, and she studied Grace for a moment, feeling as if she’d reached some sort of tipping point. “What?”
“I would love to come and meet y
our family.”
A huge weight of dread tumbled off Madeira’s shoulders, and she sat straighter. “Really?”
“Really.”
“I should warn you, the whole gang’s going to be there. My mother and sisters will be visiting from home.”
Grace pulled a frightened face. “Uh-oh, I might embarrass you if that’s the case. My spoken Spanish is awful.”
Madeira grinned. “They all speak pretty good English.”
“Still.” She sat cross-legged beneath the quilt, pensive and intent. “I’d like to speak Spanish with your mother just out of respect.”
“Then I’ll help you.” Madeira leaned closer, close enough that she could smell Gracie’s skin, could see the pulse in her neck. She smoothed the backs of her fingers down Gracie’s unbearably soft cheek, then stood and backed away before she crossed boundaries she shouldn’t, broke agreements they’d made. At the doorway, she paused, schooled her tone. “And just so you know,” she said gently, “your desire to speak my mother’s language is one of many reasons why you could never, ever embarrass me.”
*
The next day, Madeira felt better than she had in months. Iris’s plan seemed to be working. She could feel Gracie warming up to her more each day. She would admit that her initial offer to play Ms. Fix-It in DoDo’s house had been laced with prurient intent. She’d wanted to be near Gracie without the pressure, and fixing creaky steps seemed as good a tactic as any. But over the weeks, things had changed in subtle ways.
She found she enjoyed working on the old brick home just for the sake of accomplishment and for the happiness it brought to the three Obregon women. Pleasing DoDo, the sweet but tough matriarch, had become paramount, and she’d also come to love listening to Grace and Lola banter so much that it ranked as her favorite new hobby. She thought she and Toro were bad—hijole. The Pacias sisters were rank amateurs when compared to Lola and Gracie. So far DoDo had ordered them to apologize for their “unladylike behavior” on twelve different occasions, which amused Madeira no end.
Madeira had grown so accustomed to the house and the unique people who made it a home, it had begun to feel a lot more like home than her own empty, lifeless apartment. The Obregon women, she’d concluded, brought something special, almost mystical, into a space. She couldn’t put her finger on it. All she knew was she actually enjoyed “living with” them. Who would’ve known?
Madeira had left their family home with Toro at nineteen, too young to have enjoyed the company of her little sisters and too ready for adventure to realize how her mother’s presence had always transformed their house into a true haven. But in the past few weeks, she’d come to appreciate all she’d taken for granted growing up with her mother and sisters. She’d gotten a taste of comfort and acceptance that would be hard to relinquish when the time came—if it came. She hoped not.
Madeira’s biggest remodeling goal was to chip away at the wall Gracie had built around her heart, but that would take time, patience, and caution. Possibly even a permit.
Lucky for Madeira, the old house needed lots of work and she’d managed to make herself useful in other areas as well. She’d built a free-standing quilting frame for DoDo’s quilting bee and had begun to sit in with the ladies as they sewed, threading their needles and listening with a sort of horrified awe to their colorful gossip.
They accepted her—that was the best part. Those old women made Madeira feel like a keeper for the first time in her life. Gracie had ensnared her almost from the moment they met, but in her wildest dreams, Madeira hadn’t imagined that the whole family—and their friends—would sneak into her heart and take up camp the way they had. It had gotten to the point where she couldn’t bear the thought of losing them all if Gracie, God forbid, didn’t come around.
Thankfully, Gracie’s acceptance of the barbecue invitation renewed Madeira’s hope. For all intents and purposes, it was a date.
Eager to share the news with her new favorite group of women, Madeira took the steps two at a time and pushed open the front door. “DoDo?”
“In here, m’ija,” she called from the dining room.
Madeira found the quilting bee settled around the frame she’d built, plying their needles on a snowy white quilt covered in bright, multicolored, interlocking rings. The Bees, as they called themselves, might appear to be harmless little old ladies, but these afternoons were a hotbed of scandalous neighborhood gossip and racy innuendo Madeira hated to miss.
“We’re so glad you could come by, Madeira. We were just talking about you.” Murmurs rose up from the others.
Madeira grimaced. “No wonder my ears were ringing.”
“How’s work?” DoDo asked, beaming across the quilt. “Anyone we know kick the bucket recently? I’m behind on my obituary reading.”
Madeira grinned. “No one you know. But work is good, gracias. I love it.” Just as she loved DoDo’s often frustrating granddaughter. “Don’t let me interrupt you. I’ll just sit quietly and thread some needles.” She took a seat, earning appreciative smiles over several different pairs of powerful reading glasses.
The women resumed their conversation, speculating brashly on the torrid affair between a seventy-five-year-old gentleman neighbor of DoDo’s and his fifty-year-old girlfriend. The way they spoke of the affair, the man might as well have robbed a cradle, layette and all.
Madeira settled in silently, enjoying the cadences of the women’s warbled voices and the passion with which they exchanged gossip. She’d just finished threading the last of the idle needles when Marilyn Esquivel, an eightysomething grandmother of thirty, regarded her over purple half-glasses. “Enough about that tired-ass, Viagra-sucking viejo. What is Graciela up to these days, m’ijita?”
Madeira managed to remain nonchalant, wanting to dole out her news in tiny, delectable bits and pieces, the way the Bees tended to do with their scandalous dishes. “This and that. She’s very busy with school. But—”
“Ach. Don’t listen to Ms. Politically Correct over there. My granddaughter,” DoDo informed them, “has been dating.” She’d uttered the D-word with the same intonation she might use to announce that Gracie had become a mercenary killer.
“What?” Marilyn asked, the shock blatant in her tone.
DoDo nodded, disgust pinching her features. “You heard me right. It seems she’s intent on finding the perfect woman.”
All seven women shook their heads and laughed in that all-knowing way that made Madeira believe they were the wisest women in the world, the key holders to the mysterious workings of the female brain in a way she, unfortunately, hadn’t absorbed as a young girl.
Ruby Carvajal, the baby of the group at a spritely seventy-three, rolled her eyes at Madeira over the quilt top. “Silly girl, no, our Grace? Él que se fue a Sevilla, perdío su silla. You leave your place, you lose it.” She shrugged. “She’ll learn.”
“I hope.” Madeira wasn’t quite sure what Ruby had meant, but she always had the sense these women were on her side, and that was enough.
DoDo released a long sigh. “I don’t know. Our Graciela is a stubborn one, isn’t she, Madeira?”
“That’s for sure,” Madeira said, running the tails of thread through beeswax before handing the fresh needles to Mary Joachim and Isabel Fuentes, the two most experienced and hence the fastest quilters in the bunch, she’d quickly learned. “But—”
“Takes after her mamá that way, God rest her soul.” DoDo looked sharply at Madeira. “You don’t repeat that now. I love my daughter, but she wasn’t so savvy when it came to matters of love, de verdad. Graciela’s her mother’s daughter.”
“My lips are sealed.” She made a zipping motion with her fingers. “However—”
“So, she’s dating. What are you gonna do about it?” asked Magdalena-Garcia-Romero-Martensen-O’Doul-Montoya, current record holder for collecting the most husbands. She was also an unrepentant whiskey nipper and the bluntest of the Bees by far.
Madeira shrugged. “Try to be that so-c
alled perfect woman, I guess. Which is why—”
“HA!” Magdalena belted loudly, exposing her entire upper plate. Every white, blue, gray, auburn, and ash blond head lifted at once. Magdalena lifted her chin toward DoDo. “Someone needs to tell that Grace there is no such thing as a perfect woman. Or man. The quicker that absurd bubble bursts, the happier she’ll be.”
“Amen,” chimed the women together.
“Maybe a gingerbread man could be perfect,” Mary murmured, mostly to herself, it seemed. “If he was frosted.”
“You tell Graciela, Maggie,” Isabel said, a sly gleam in her eyes. “You’ve done more experimenting than the rest of us combined.”
Madeira stifled a smirk, not wanting to appear impertinent. Not that Magdalena felt one iota of shame for her husband collecting.
“Maggie’s right. The words ‘perfect’ and ‘woman’—or ‘man,’ for that matter—don’t belong in the same sentence. But as actual women go”—Mary waved her thimbled finger toward Madeira—“this one here is about as close as they come.” She tsk-tsked. “Why do we have to grow too old to catch them before we can start recognizing the good ones? Not that I ever dabbled in women, mind you. But if I were your age, little one…” Mary waggled her eyebrows suggestively.
“Why, Mary? Because life isn’t fair, or God would’ve made women look more distinguished with age instead of men,” Isabel said, nodding firmly.
“He would have given them the thighs, too, eh?” DoDo said, smacking a palm against her own.
“And the morning sickness.”
“Cramps.”
“He should’ve made them live with spouses more like themselves, too,” Magdalena suggested. “That would’ve snapped a few knots in their stubborn asses. We women never get any breaks.”
