by Lea Santos
Paloma swallowed thickly. “But the boys need you here.”
Pain pulsed like lightning over Deanne’s expression. “The boys.” After a long pause, she blew out a controlled breath. “Fine. I’ll stay for the boys. In the guest room. But things have to change between us if I’m going to stay for the long run. I can’t bear to play the roommate. And I can’t bear to see resignation in your eyes every time I look at you.”
“I know,” Paloma said, softly.
“Which is why I have to go back to work.”
She sagged, accepting it. Deanne was right. “Okay.”
One of Deanne’s eyebrows quirked. “Okay?”
Jesus. One little brow waggle and Paloma wanted to make love to her. Right here, right now. Dust bunnies and dirt be damned. She yearned for Deanne to convince her she really, truly meant what she said. She was warm and lean, feminine and…Deanne. So beautiful. Fearful of her own weakness, Paloma tried for a haughty tone. “What part of ‘okay’ don’t you understand?”
Deanne laughed softly, gazing at her with so much love it stole her breath. Soon Dee’s expression darkened into something earthier, full of promise. Paloma thought Dee might pull her up and kiss her, but the peal of the doorbell tore through the tenuous electricity crackling between them.
Paloma snatched her hand away, anxiety flooding her. “Oh no, that’s your mother.”
Deanne shook her head as if Paloma had gone crazy. “It’s my mom, not the grim reaper. She loves you, remember?”
“Maybe she did, but now?” Ding-dong. Paloma looked at the doorway, sick and terrified. “You did tell her, right?”
“You know I did. Stop worrying.”
“But what exactly did she say when—?”
“Paloma, I already told you. She—”
“Mama!” hollered Teddy, from the living room.
“Shoot. I don’t want Teddy riled up. Just hurry, please?”
“Hey. It’ll be fine. We’re family. We’ve been family for a long time, and that hasn’t changed.”
Paloma didn’t respond. Couldn’t. But, God, how she yearned for those words to be true.
*
Paloma had managed small talk, coffee, and more than her fair share of nervous gestures since greeting Rosario in the foyer. Now, if she could just shake this complete intimidation…
She glared daggers at the ceiling. Where the hell was Deanne?
She’d left Rosario in the living room to baby Teddy like only an abuelita could, grateful for the space and time to catch her breath, but it passed all too quickly. She peered up as Rosario bustled through the archway and smiled across the cut-away kitchen counter. The thermal coffee carafe and thick mugs were on the table, and Paloma was almost done slicing the banana bread Emie’d brought over the day before. She managed an overbright excuse for a smile.
“Have a seat. The coffee’s fresh.” God. She felt so falsely cheery, like some pinafore-wearing super-wife wannabe from a blighted episode of a 1950s sitcom. Her inane words came in a rapid-fire tumble she didn’t seem able to control. “Deanne will be down in a sec. She’s been cleaning, well, everything. The basement, the closets, now the, uh, the attic. I can’t figure it out”—she blurted a dumb little laugh, her movements flighty as a hummingbird. Desperation treated her to a virtual lobotomy—lovely.
Help, I’m talking and I can’t shut up!
“Anyway, Emie brought this bread, which goes really well with the coconut coffee. She makes great banana bread. I need to get the recipe, I keep telling myself. Give me a minute, I’ll—oh, I have butter. Do you care for some jam, too?”
“Ah, m’ija.” Rosario’s lined, bronze face warmed with compassion and…regret? She turned a chair from the table to face the kitchen and sank into it, smoothing the skirt of her plaid cotton shirtwaist. “Don’t be so nervous around me, honey. I’ve known you since you were a girl, and there’s no judgment here. Marriages have problems.” She pursed her lips. “I know Deanne or any of my boys aren’t the easiest people to live with.”
Yikes, straight to the bone. Paloma sighed. What could she say? You’re right? Your daughter’s a pain in my ass, but I love her anyway? “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to…”
“They had a hard time with their father being gone.” Rosario’s attention was focused on some distant memory that faded the normally bright light in her eyes like a day-old corsage. “I tried my best, but—” She shrugged, letting the half-statement stand.
Paloma felt a kick in the chest that nearly knocked her backwards. God, Rosario worked three jobs supporting those kids. She shouldn’t shoulder any blame. “Rosi, you did a wonderful job raising them. None of this is your fault.”
“Nonsense. I’m Deanne’s mother.” One black eyebrow arched. “You’re saying she got all her traits from Victor’s side? You wanna put me in an early grave?”
“Of course not, but Deanne’s a grown woman.” Paloma stacked the banana bread on a plate with shaking hands and pulled two butter knives from the drawer. “She makes her own decisions.”
“That doesn’t keep me from feeling badly that there are problems, or from praying that you and Deannita work through them and stay together, amada. She needs you.”
Ugh. Guilt trip, boarding here. Watch your step and carry your own baggage.
“Well, we need her, too. But—”
“You need all of her, no?”
“Y-yes.” Paloma sighed. “And I haven’t had all of Deanne since—”
“The boys were born,” Rosario finished.
Surprise zinged through Paloma. “How did you—?”
“I understand more than you think.” Rosario shook her tiny, veined fist. “I’m her mother, but I’m also a woman, just like the two of you.”
Paloma’s heart swelled with humble gratitude. She should’ve known Deanne’s mother would be reasonable. Rosario knew Deanne better than anyone, save Paloma herself. “I don’t want to speak badly about your daughter, though. I respect you too much for that.”
“Talking it out isn’t the same as talking badly.” Rosario sighed. “I make no claims that my kids are perfect.”
Paloma chewed her lip. “Well, one problem, the woman’s got a one-track mind: work. It doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for me and my needs.”
The older woman clucked her tongue. “Ay, that girl. She wants to give of herself, Paloma. She just tries too hard sometimes and doesn’t stop to figure out what other people need instead of what she thinks they need. She’s always been that way. Gets it from Victor’s side,” Rosi added with disgust. “And now, with Pep and Teodoro. I’m sure Deanne’s trying to be a better parent than Victor was.”
Paloma frowned. “Of course she’s a better parent than Victor. How could she even think otherwise?”
Rosario gave an enigmatic shrug. “Who knows what goes on in someone’s head, in someone’s heart?”
Paloma carried the bread to Rosario, then sat and plunked her elbows on the table and supported her chin with her palms. “Wives are so annoying. Especially Vargas wives.”
Rosario laughed and stirred some thick, white crema into her coffee. “I know that more than most, hija. Goes for Vargas husbands, too. I married and divorced one and raised four more plus Deanne. But my girl—that one’s got a good heart. She’s terrified to lose you and the boys. That’s why she spins her wheels so much.”
Paloma chewed her bottom lip, fighting not to cave in under the weight of her respect for this wise, wise woman. “Spinning her wheels is what’s pushing me away. I want to work things out. I do. But I can’t just forgive Deanne all her faults, write them off as remnants of her childhood, and endure anymore.”
“Claro. I’m not suggesting you stay if you’re unhappy.” Rosario’s clear, dark eyes danced away. She toyed with her napkin. “I just hoped to help you understand Deanne better, so maybe you could find compassion.”
“We all have issues from childhood, mine being the fact that I was raised to make my bed and lie in it. But I don’t wan
t an old-fashioned marriage, Rosi. No offense to your generation of women.” Paloma sighed with frustration. “We have to choose to change patterns from childhood if they aren’t working anymore.”
“Oy-yoy-yoy…this I know, honey.” Rosi sipped.
“Deanne needs to compromise. That’s all I’m saying.” Paloma twisted her mouth, pleading for understanding. “I need her completely or not at all. Because it hurts too much otherwise.”
“Sí.” Rosario leaned forward and covered Paloma’s hand with her own. “Find a chance for Deannita in your heart, m’ija. It’s not fair of me to ask that, but I love you both, and the boys.” She shrugged an apology. “Frankly, I’m getting to old to care about convention or fairness. I just want my children happy, and Deanne”—she laughed dryly—“that one needs you to be happy, Paloma. Trust me—a mother knows.”
Paloma smiled, realizing finally that she had an ally in Rosario, not a foe. “I’m trying.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, little one. I’m not telling you to compromise your needs. I just pray you and Deanne don’t give up too soon. For the boys as much as for yourselves.”
Paloma’s throat ached, and she glanced away, picking at the crust of the banana bread for which she had no appetite. “I’m…not giving up. I still love her, Rosi—”
“¡Bueno! That’s all I need to know,” Rosario spread her palms out flat to signal the end of the explanations. She wore a smug cat-who-ate-the-canary look. “The rest is God’s will and your business.” She nodded with finality. “Now. How about some of that bread, hmm?”
*
Freaking Jackpot.
Given her limited time, Deanne had launched into the final few minutes of journal hunting with the fervor of a gambling addict on her last roll of quarters. Luckily, it had paid off. Ka-ching! She stared down at the box marked journals with excitement building in her chest. She no longer cared about the cobwebs clinging to her skin, her sore muscles, or the dust coating her lungs. She’d found them, at last.
Naturally, she’d found them in the very last place she looked, because Murphy was a bitch and she had laws. Had she started this hunt in the attic, she wouldn’t have had to suffer through cleaning all those closets. Or the damn garage. Not to mention the basement.
But it didn’t matter, because here they were, and as a bonus, Paloma thought she was some kind of broom-toting knight in shining armor for decluttering the house. Teddy was on the mend, life was calming down, and soon Deanne would have the answers she needed to win Paloma back.
She snapped open the blade of her Spyderco knife, kneeling carefully to slit the sealing tape. Hooking the knife back onto her belt, she lifted the cover, which stirred up another dust devil. Turning her head, she sneezed twice, then her watering eyes sought the prize. The priceless book of answers. The jour—
Oh no. Deanne’s excitement fizzled like a birthday candle dropped in the bathtub. Journal, her ass. There had to be a hundred journals in this box. Why’d Paloma have to be so damned prolific? Blowing out a frustrated sigh, Deanne looked toward the corner of the attic, rubbing her knuckles across the edge of her jawline thoughtfully.
What now, Einstein?
No way could she stay up here long enough to find the one she needed. Hell, she didn’t even know which one she needed. Mom had been here more than half an hour, and Paloma was no doubt fuming because she hadn’t shown her face. The last thing she wanted was to disappoint Paloma again. Pissing her off probably wasn’t the best way to launch the grand plan. Not to mention, Deanne felt certain Paloma’s curiosity—or annoyance—would eventually send her up that drop-ladder into the attic. The thought of getting busted before she even began settled on Deanne’s shoulders.
Replacing the cover, Deanne camouflaged the box and started down the ladder toward the sound of Paloma’s and Mom’s voices in the kitchen. This unexpected obstacle rankled, but she tried to stave off the annoyance. Just a minor setback.
She’d have to resort to plan B…Emie and Iris.
They were Paloma’s best friends. Surely they’d remember which journal Paloma had used that particular year in high school. Granted, Deanne hadn’t wanted to involve anyone else, but she needed a hand. The trick would be convincing Emie and Iris to help…and to keep the secret from Paloma.
*
Deanne arrived at Common Grounds coffee shop early, grateful she’d been able to get away from the house. Relief had flowed through her when she’d entered the kitchen to find Paloma and Mom chatting away like always. She offered to grocery shop while they visited, and—thank God—she’d reached Emie and Iris, who agreed to meet her right away.
Lenny Kravitz crooned in the background of the brick-walled coffee shop, and the smell of freshly ground Jamaican beans and pungent spices hung in the air. Two dapper white-haired gentlemen played checkers by the front window. A woman tapped away on her laptop against the wall. A young couple sat losing themselves in each other’s eyes at the round-top nearest the bookshelves.
Deanne ordered a house coffee—black—and waited by the counter until the barista, a multi-pierced young man wearing a hemp shirt, baggy jeans, and Chakra wristbands, was done serving other customers.
One of his bejeweled eyebrows rose. “Did I forget something?” His hands worked with practiced efficiency over the coffee maker’s many gleaming parts.
“No, just a request.” Deanne held her palm up to indicate “so-high.” “I’m looking for two women. A petite pregnant lady and one who looks like a supermodel.”
The barista smirked, squinting as steam rose in his face. “I can respect your dream, brah, but this is a coffee shop, not Fantasy Island.”
Deanne barked a laugh. “No, these are actual women. I guess I should’ve said, I’m expecting them.” Deanne jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “When they get here, do you mind telling them I’m in the back?”
“Sure thing. A pregnant lady and a supermodel,” he mumbled wryly, finishing off a macchiato with a flourish of cream. “That’ll be hard to miss.”
A few minutes later, Emie and Iris entered the back room, each holding a thick ceramic mug.
“What’s with that guy up front?” Iris asked, mystified. “We walked in and I swear he laughed out loud at us.”
“Probably caffeine overdose.” Deanne stood, taking their cups while they removed jackets and settled in. “Thanks for meeting me. I’m sorry I called at the last minute.”
“No problem.” Emie smiled. “How’s Teddy?”
“Bouncing back like a boomerang.” They’d been lucky on that count.
“Kids are so hardy. Pobrecito.” Iris tossed her hair and then rested her elbows on the table. “So, what’s urgent, Deanne V.?”
Iris, Dee realized, would be the harder sell. She was super-protective of Paloma. “I need information.” Deanne’s heart pounded.
Iris looked skeptical.
“Tell us.” Emie interlaced her fingers over her belly.
Deanne looked from one to the other. “Do you know when Paloma fell in love with me?”
A confusion-thickened pause ensued.
“Um…D? Honey?” Iris said, as though Deanne was several colors short of a full 96-count crayon box. “We all went to school together, if you’ll recall. Dumbass. Of course we know.”
Deanne shook her head. “No, I mean, exactly when did she fall in love with me? The time period. I need to know.”
“Oh. Tenth grade,” Iris told her, just as Emie said, “Definitely junior year.”
Iris peered quizzically at her. “What are you talking about, Em? You think it wasn’t until junior year? They were together most of tenth.”
Emie wagged her index finger. “Yeah, but then Paloma’s dad made them break up for the summer before eleventh because of the ‘getting too serious’ thing, remember?”
Deanne groaned. “I sure as hell remember.”
Emie smiled, then continued her explanation to Iris as though Deanne wasn’t there. “That summer apart was what sealed it for Pea. They
hadn’t reached point of sale until after that, remember? Pea was still unsure. Junior year, Deanne morphed into Ms. Perfect—”
“Yes, then.” Deanne leaned forward, a spark of hope flaring inside her. Two pairs of eyes met hers. “That’s what I want. The year I was…uh—”
“Ms. Perfect? Eleventh grade.” Emie nodded, certain.
“Now that I think about it, Em is right.”
Deanne cleared her throat. “You don’t happen to remember what journal Paloma used then, do you?”
“Ugly neon swirl.” In stereo. The women smiled at each other. “Spiral bound,” Iris added, sipping her coffee.
“It had lyrics to Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ on the cover,” Emie added.
Iris choked her coffee down and laughed through the resulting cough. “Oh my God, I hated that cover. It was so…Tiger Beat.”
All three laughed, but Deanne sobered quickly.
“So, what’s with these cryptic questions?” Emie asked.
This was it. Now or never. “I need to read it.”
Iris balked. “What? You can’t, D. That’s an invasion of privacy. And you’re a cop!”
“Well, in the Colorado statutes—”
“Drop the cop garble.” Iris clicked her tongue. “What would your mother say?”
“She’d say ‘get your wife back. Whatever it takes.’ It’s not illegal.”
Iris sat straighter. “Yeah, but morally—”
“Hang on.” Deanne held up her hands. “Just listen. I don’t make a habit of reading Paloma’s journals”—she felt a small stab of guilt at the just-left-of-true statement—“but I’m fucking desperate. My marriage is in trouble. I won’t sit idly by and watch it end.” She splayed both palms on her chest. “I’ll take full responsibility—”
“Damn right you will,” Iris said.
“What’s the journal’s connection with your relationship problems anyway?” Emie looked intrigued.
Their wary expressions told Deanne she hadn’t fully explained her intent yet. She didn’t even know if she could. She wasn’t as good at this girl stuff as Paloma and her best friends. She covered Emie’s left hand, Iris’s right, with her own. “Look, I wouldn’t even consider reading it if I thought there was any other way.”
