Summer Dreams

by Hebby Roman

  Esteban shifted in the swing, leaning forward. He opened his mouth but before he could speak, a loud pop and then a terrifying crack split the air. The swing cavorted crazily, bucking like a wild mustang, before it crashed to the porch.

  Tumbled together in a heap of arms and legs, they stared at each other in a dazed kind of wonder. It was Natalia who found her voice first. "I told you the chains were---"

  But her words were drowned by his laughter, great, guffawing whoops of it. Feeling self-righteous, she maintained her composure for a split second before she joined him, laughing until her sides ached.

  When their laughter was spent, he pointed at the porch roof. "I hate to disagree with you, but it wasn't the chains. This was rotten boards again. More rotten boards. I remember Pura once had a worm farm. She doesn't keep pet termites, does she?"

  ***

  Natalia counted out the necessary change from the strongbox, and the booth operator signed a receipt for it. Pura had enlisted her to oversee the cash proceeds for the church bazaar. Not that she was any financial wizard, but no one else wanted the job. And as chairman of the bazaar, her grandmother couldn't be everywhere at once.

  Natalia couldn't blame the other volunteers for preferring to man the booths. Housed under bright red-and-white awnings, which had been loaned to them by a local catering firm, the bazaar was a vibrant feast for the eye---a veritable cornucopia of treasure.

  There were the inevitable white elephant items for sale, but along with this standard fare were the unique handicrafts indigenous to northern New Mexico. Woven rugs in rainbow hues served as dramatic backdrops for finely-crafted silver and turquoise jewelry. Vivid desert paintings intermingled with Navajo pottery. Hand-tooled leather belts nestled beside geometrically-decorated Hopi baskets.

  But the booth that fascinated her most held the donations of Tomás Fuentes, a self-styled mountain hermit, who made his living by crafting sculptures from dead wood found in the mountains. Taking cedar wood, bleached silver by time, Fuentes cunningly fashioned them into religious pieces by utilizing the natural shape of the wood. The uniqueness and genius of his sculptures had gained him some notoriety. And the proceeds from eager tourists more than supplied his Spartan needs.

  She had her eye on one particular piece, a Madonna cradling the newly-born Christ child. If no one else purchased the sculpture, she'd decided to splurge and buy it at the end of the evening. Glancing toward the booth, she rose on tiptoe, trying to peer above the crowd to see if the Madonna was still there.

  Natalia froze.

  Standing beside the booth was a familiar jean-clad figure ... Esteban.

  And he wasn't alone.

  With his arm draped around the shoulders of a russet-haired beauty, he'd stopped to admire the sculptures.

  She went cold and then hot. Blazing heat singed her, and she knew her face must look like one of the desert sunset paintings. She dropped down and half-crouched behind her table, hoping to hide.

  Now she knew why Esteban hadn't asked her to the bazaar after Pura had talked about it so much. Natalia had thought maybe he was honoring her request not to ask her on a date again. But then she'd wondered why he didn't invite himself to go along with them, kind of as a family outing. She'd waited and waited for him to say something and then disappointment set in, and she'd thought a church bazaar was too tame for him.

  But how wrong she'd been. The bazaar wasn't too tame---he already had a date.

  She stared at the saw-dust strewn pavement beneath her feet and studied each piece of shaved wood as if it carried a secret message. She noted the curl of the wood, its peculiar grain and color. Staring at the sawdust bought her some time. Time to calm herself, to breathe normally again, to lessen the painful hammering of her heart.

  She'd been right not to date Esteban, she silently congratulated herself. Her level-headedness, no matter how dreary it might be, had paid off.

  Besides, he already had enough women, no need to become a part of his trophy collection. The realization he was dating other people was like taking medicine, bitter on her tongue but healthy in the long run.

  She shook herself. Why was she feeling betrayed? She had no hold on him. She'd made it clear she didn't want that kind of relationship. And he'd obliged, even when it would have been natural to kiss her. Maybe Esteban didn't like his women to play too hard to get. Too bad. He had enough women throwing themselves at him, but she refused to be one of them.

  She lifted her head and squared her shoulders. She grabbed the strongbox and stepped from behind the table and ran straight into Esteban's broad chest.

  "Natalia, I've been looking all over for you," he said. "I didn't know the bazaar would be so crowded." He stood with his hips cocked forward and a broad grin on his face. She glanced up and saw that he was alone. At least he'd had the decency to ditch his date before he came over.

  But alone or with his date, she didn't want to face him. She managed a strangled, "Hi," and pushed past him, heading for the enclosed tent area that served as an office for the bazaar.

  She pulled back the canvas and stepped inside, putting the strongbox on the desk. Wanting to occupy her cartwheeling thoughts, she began counting the proceeds, tallying it against the receipts. Before she'd gotten half-way through, the hair on the back of her neck stood at attention, and though she hadn't heard Esteban enter the tent, she knew he was there.

  She turned around and said, "You can't come in here, Esteban. This office is for volunteers only."

  He looked around the space, filled with a rickety desk, a sofa spilling its stuffing, and several ancient chairs and smiled. "Why not? This hardly looks like Fort Knox. I won't steal the proceeds." He edged closer. "I went straight years ago, remember?"

  She folded her arms over her chest. "I think you should go back to your date, Esteban. She doesn't look like the kind of girl who wants to be kept waiting."

  "What date?" His brows drew together.

  "Oh, please, Esteban, let's not---"

  "Let's not what?" He frowned and then his features smoothed. He pointed one finger behind him. "You mean Linda? She's the sister of an old friend and I haven't---"

  "You don't need to tell me this."

  "But I want to explain, Natalia." He moved closer and touched her shoulder. "You're all tense. What's wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong," she said. "Now if you'll excuse me I have work to do." She turned back to the desk. "I hope you and Linda enjoy the bazaar."

  "Screw the bazaar, Natalia! And don't turn away from me again." He placed his hand on her shoulder and pulled her back around. "I came here to see you. And Linda's not my date. I haven't seen her in years."

  "Then why didn't you ask me to come with you?" She shot back, hating herself the minute the words left her mouth. How could she be so stupid as to reveal the depth of her need, the depth of her attachment?

  He released her shoulder and rocked back on his heels. His features were a mixture of confusion and stunned disbelief. His gray eyes searched her face.

  Finally, he shook his head. "I didn't ask because I thought you didn't want us to date. But that's why I'm here because I knew you'd be here. I wanted to see you and see how Pura's bazaar turned out." He scratched at the stubble covering his chin. "She talked about it enough."

  Natalia didn't know what to say. He'd honored her request but had still sought her out. Did his actions mean what she thought they did? And was she ready to test the water again after getting thoroughly scalded? Or was any possible relationship with Esteban doomed from the start, overshadowed by a lifetime of friendship and tainted by her fear of a rebound romance?

  "Coming to the bazaar together wouldn't have been exactly a date," Natalia said.

  "Okay, then what would you call it?"

  She shrugged. "I thought it would be nice if all of us, Pura and you and I, came together. The bazaar was all Pura talked about last night at supper." To drive home her argument, she added, "And we could have used help setting up. There are never enough voluntee
rs for these things."

  He narrowed his eyes and said, "So you needed an extra hand, that's why you wanted me to come."

  Detecting the hurt in his voice, she felt a spurt of shame. Was that how it seemed to him? By not admitting the real reason she wanted him to come, she'd relegated him to just another pair of strong arms and broad shoulders. But that wasn't the whole truth. No, she'd wanted Esteban to ask her to the bazaar. And because Pura would be going with them, it had seemed an innocent way to go out---like a date but not quite. But she hadn't thought about how Esteban would feel, all she'd considered were her own insecurities.

  She took a deep breath and tried to smile to lessen the tension. "I'm sorry, Esteban. I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I wanted you to ask me out to the bazaar."

  "For a play date, Natalia, with your chaperone along"

  "Sí." She dropped her gaze and wished she could burrow into her collar. She knew her neck was turning red, and she prayed she wouldn't blush.

  "What about a real date, Natalia? How about just you and me?"

  Sucking in her breath, she considered. Was she ready to start dating again? And in particular, would she ever be ready for ... Esteban?

  "That's why I came looking for you," he said. "I have some good news, and I wanted to share it with you. Last night, I didn't offer to bring you and Pura because I didn't know if I would be back from Albuquerque in time."

  "You went to Albuquerque today?"

  "Sí, I have a baseball agent there. I needed to talk with him in person."

  A thrill of excitement sent tingly sensations down her spine, banishing her embarrassment. "Does your agent have anything to do with your good news?" She knew how much baseball meant to him, and how long and hard he'd worked toward the goal of going pro.

  A wide smile split his face, his white teeth brilliant against the coppery tones of his skin. Nodding, he said, "The Kansas City Royals are interested. They're going to send a scout out this month."

  She jumped up and down and clapped her hands. "That's wonderful news, Esteban!" She took a step forward, thought better of it and stopped.

  As if he'd read her awkward movements, he said softly, "I don't think a celebratory hug is out of the question, do you?"

  She stepped into his open arms. "Claro qué, no," She settled into his familiar embrace with a sigh. Being held by Esteban felt so right, as if she belonged with him. With his strong arms around her and her nose pressed against his muscular chest, she inhaled that special male-scent that was all his own---a heady mixture of spicy cologne and sun-kissed flesh.

  Their embrace spun out longer than the requisite split-second, but neither of them seemed to mind. Folded in his arms, she dreamed about how it would feel to nestle in his arms all night, savoring his tender embrace for as long as she wanted.

  Esteban was the one who finally broke the contact.

  But he caught her hands and gazed at her. "I want you to celebrate with me, Natalia. Even though, I know how unsure you are about us dating." He dropped his gaze and started at his cowboy boots as if an inspiration might be written on their pointed-toes. "Or I thought I knew how unsure you were before today?"

  She wanted to ask him what kind of celebratory date he had in mind. But that didn't seem right if her enthusiasm was genuine. She shouldn't build in safeguards to be with him.

  He raised his head. "I don't want to celebrate with anyone but you. You've been there since I started playing ball. Only you know how much this means to me."

  Touched by his sentiment, she knew it was now or never. Should she ignore her head and go with the stirrings of her heart? She had wanted him to ask her out tonight, hadn't she? And as hard as she'd tried to convince herself that an invitation to the bazaar was somehow different than a real date, she knew she was fooling herself. How could she turn down such an invitation? It didn't mean they'd have to start dating. It only meant she would share his happiness over this very special event in his life.

  "I'd love to celebrate with you, Esteban," she said.

  Chapter Six

  Hector glanced over his shoulder before entering the bar. His Jaguar stuck out like a sore thumb on the garbage-strewn street. It was a good thing it was equipped with the latest in car alarms, otherwise, it would be gone in under twenty minutes. And even with an alarm, he wasn't sure the Jag would be there when he got back.

  Cursing softly under his breath, he couldn't understand why Paulo Pérez had chosen a run-down bar in Oak Cliff. As areas in Dallas went, some parts of Oak Cliff were places he tried to avoid. Drug deals and drive-by shootings were as common here as block parties in the 'burbs.

  When he entered the bar, it took his eyes several minutes to adjust. Under a low-lying cloud of cigarette smoke, a sagging, grime-stained bar lined the right-hand wall. Rust-scarred aluminum tables and chairs huddled in the middle. The back wall boasted a huge cherry-red jukebox, cranking out hip-hop music. Two half-busted doors flanked either side of the juke, leading to the bathrooms.

  A handful of customers clustered at the far end of the bar, their attention riveted on the big screen TV. One table held a man and a woman, their heads so close together Hector wasn't sure if they were talking or making out.

  Pérez was nowhere in sight.

  Hector wiped the palms of his perspiring hands on his faded jeans. He could cheerfully throttle Pérez for being late. He gulped back his rising anxiety and walked to the center of the bar, keeping his distance from the crowd at the end. He straddled a bar stool and motioned to the bartender.

  The man looked him over, shifted a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and asked, "What'll it be, mister?"

  "A beer, please."

  "Draft or bottle, light or regular? Any particular brand, mister?"

  Accustomed to ordering locally-brewed designer ales at Dallas' finest watering holes, Hector wasn't sure what to order and the last thing he wanted to do was appear conspicuous. He looked around to see what other people were drinking.

  "How about a Bud Light."

  Turning, the bartender fished a can from the cooler behind him. "Want a glass?"

  "No, that's fine, just the can." No one else was drinking from a glass.

  "Here, mister." The bartender plunked a sweaty can in front of him. "That'll be two

  fifty."

  Hector fumbled for his money clip and withdrew three ones. "Keep the change."

  The bartender scowled but he grabbed the bills and stuck them in his apron. From his reaction, he acted as if Hector had insulted him rather than tipped him.

  Hector lifted the can of beer and took a swig, grimacing at the stale, bitter taste. With nothing better to do, he directed his gaze at the huge flat screen hanging over the bar. A major league ballgame was in progress, the local Texas Rangers versus the Kansas City Royals. As if the game absorbed his total attention, he kept his eyes trained on the game while taking token sips of beer.

  Behind him, the front door opened with a thud. He gripped the bar so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He wanted to turn around and stare, hoping it would be Pérez. But he forced himself to keep his gaze on the ballgame.

  "Hey, Leonard," a voice shouted over the hip-hop lyrics, "who's Jag is that?"

  Hector cringed inwardly, and he wished he could sink into the greasy tiles underfoot. Maybe a trip to the men's room was in order.

  The bartender, who must be Leonard, glanced up and shrugged. The man who had asked about the Jag approached the crowd at the bar and whispered something. As if Hector was wearing a sign proclaiming him as the car's owner, all heads turned toward him.

  Time to go. He didn't want to wear out his welcome. And Pérez could go to---.

  The front door swung open again. He froze, praying it would be Paulo at last. The crowd noted the newcomer and returned their gaze to the ballgame. Hector relaxed a fraction. But when a hand clapped him on the back, he jumped.

  "¿Cómo esta, mi amigo?" The gravel-toned voice of Paulo Pérez asked.

  "Not s
o damned good," Hector replied. "Why this place, Paulo? Is my Jaguar still out there?"

  Paulo chuckled, a sound closely akin to concrete being mixed. "You watch too much television news, Hector. That stuff makes a person edgy." He raised his raspy voice a notch or two. "This is a fine bar with interesting patrons. Is it not so, Leonard?"

  "Yes, sir, Mister Pérez. A fine bar," Leonard agreed readily, setting a glass of Dewar's on the rocks in front of Paulo without being asked.

  Hector stared at Leonard. The bartender had just undergone an amazing metamorphosis from surly waiter to impeccable attendant.

  "Please get my friend one too, Leonard," Paulo directed.

  The Bud can disappeared to be replaced by another Dewar's. Hector fingered the smudged glass and took a sip. His gaze met Paulo's over the rim.

  And then he understood.

  Paulo had used this place as a subtle form of intimidation. And that didn't bode well for the outcome of their meeting. Hector was pretty sure he knew what was coming.

  Clinking glasses and slapping him on the back, Paulo drove straight to the point, "You owe us a great deal of money, mi amigo. And I'm tired of playing phone tag with you."

  "I know, Paulo, but if you could just extend---"

  "You already had one extension, mi amigo, and what do I have to show for it? Not even a gift for the wife. Not even an invitation to one of your society parties. Mi esposa loves parties. Ones where she can dress like a movie star and get her name in the society columns."

  Hector stared at him, but he knew when to roll over. "I apologize for not thinking of it before, Paulo. My family would be honored to sponsor you and your wife. The Crystal Charity Ball is coming up and---"

  "We'll expect an invitation, amigo mío," he cut him off. "But that's just between friends, you understand." He paused. "I have partners, though, and their wives aren't so easily diverted. Hard cash is what interests them. ¿Tu entiendes?"

  Hector nodded. "Of course, of course." He hoped his out of control perspiration hadn't stained his Armani sports jacket.