Roses Collection: Boxed Set

by Freda, Paula

  Behind the cook’s station, the chef, his cap askew, and the second cook argued heatedly. The most beautiful woman Doreen had ever seen stood in front of the two men. She was almost as tall as Doreen, and clad in a tie-belted gray satin robe that accentuated her voluptuous lines. There was a lilt to the corners of her full mouth and an arch to her dark, finely-tweezed eyebrows. At the moment she appeared to find the two men’s altercation amusing. The coppery skin of her face and throat, and what was visible between the lapels of her robe, was matte-like. The long manicured nails on her slim fingers were painted blood red. Doreen imagined them curling into claws.

  Rafael joined Doreen at the door and she followed him into the kitchen. Eight years of living in Panama had given Doreen a basic understanding of the language. From what she could make out, the second cook had just quit. The unavailability of re-placements without at least a week’s notice and the large clientele expected that evening, promised disaster, not to mention the explosion expected when the proprietor learned of the situation. With all certainty, the chef argued, he would be held accountable to Esteban, since one of his main duties as chef was the smooth operation of the kitchen.

  What was worst, the pantryman had called in sick.

  "Did I hear you say you need a pantryman?" Doreen asked. The small group applied their full attention to the tall young woman who presented herself for their inspection.

  "While I attended college, I filled in for a friend at her job as a pantrygirl, when she was ill. I’m fast, and I’m good at retaining instructions. Perhaps I could help you out tonight." Standing beside her, Rafael paled.

  The chef’s attention centered solely on Doreen. He didn’t see the expression on Rafael’s face, and apparently understood English well enough not to require a translation. "Well — possibly — but," he spoke with an accent.

  "You need not hesitate," the woman in the satin robe advised him. "This is Señora Pereira herself," she flourished a hand. Her black eyes riveted on Doreen. "Yes, I know you," she replied to Doreen’s unspoken question. "I am Elena, part of your husband’s ... clientele’s ... entertainment, here, in the evening." She smiled seductively. "I strip." The pitch of her voice was like the coo of a dove, but her words held jagged edges. "Has Esteban not mentioned me ... my act, that is?"

  Doreen shook her head slowly.

  "I have entertained him ... his customers, for the past ten years, since I was seventeen to be exact. "She spoke English with hardly a trace of accent, as though she might have been raised in an American or English household.

  Two people to dislike intensely in the space of a week. It was a record, Doreen decided. "He’s such a busy man, it must have slipped his mind."

  "Such ingratitude! You must tell Esteban I said so."

  The proprietary tone with which the woman used Esteban’s name made Doreen’s back arch. "What time does your act go on?" she asked, striving for composure.

  "Seven-thirty."

  "Well, then, since there’s plenty of time, perhaps you could help out in the kitchen as well." She pointed to a grimy, greasy pile of pots and pans soaking in a tub in the corner. There was no sign of the dishwasher as yet.

  Elena’s eyes narrowed to slits, but she continued to smile sweetly. "Forgive me, but Esteban would not wish me to spoil my hands." She held them up and caressed each in turn. "He is proud of their velvety smoothness. And after all, it is my profession to entertain him ... his customers ... of course, with my natural attributes. You’re much more suited to kitchen work than I." She glanced askance at the chef and at Rafael. Both men’s eyes were wide with appall. With a disdaining laugh, she flitted out the door.

  "The snippy little—" Again Doreen’s breeding controlled her tongue. "Don’t pay that one any mind," the chef said. "And yes, we would welcome a helping hand."

  "Gladly," Doreen said, before Rafael could interfere. Her expression told him there was nothing he could say to change her mind, nor did he have the authority or the audacity to force her to leave. Shutting from her thoughts Esteban, the stripper and her intimations, Doreen went to work.

  It proved to be the most fulfilling afternoon spent since her marriage became troubled. Wrapped in an enormous white apron, she filled small salad bowls, prepared dressings, and arranged cocktail glasses with shrimps on beds of lettuce. She washed clamshells and refilled them with chopped clams, then coated each with the chef’s special mixture of breadcrumbs and spices, and sprinkled them with oil in readiness for broiling when a customer placed his or her order. She worked with a gusto she hadn’t felt for years. She was single again, to graduate her only worry, a free spirit! The second cook who had resigned left and the dishwasher arrived shortly. Doreen began to sing a snappy tune and the chef with his hearty base and the dishwasher with his airy tenor joined Doreen’s sophisticated alto. They made a formidable trio. As she and the chef chopped, minced and sliced, and sorted, arranged and created, the hours flew. The dinner hour arrived and the kitchen became a beehive of activity, crowded with dupes, and orders quickly filled, and waiters and waitresses. Food sizzled in oiled pans, or sputtered under the broiler, or hissed in the ovens. Doreen helped with the cleaning up. It was while scrubbing a heavy aluminum pan that the door to the kitchen swung open with a violence that made the utensils hanging on the wall, rattle, and the dishes stacked neatly in piles, clatter. It was not necessary to look to know that Esteban was standing a few feet away from her, very angry.

  She finished scrubbing the pan, rinsed it and hung it in its place. Without glancing at her husband, she undid her apron and removed it. "Thank you," she said to the chef and the dishwasher. She smiled gratefully, to dispel the confusion on their faces. "I’ve had a wonderful time. But I really must be going now."

  "I hope the new help we get will be half as friendly and one third as efficient as you, Señora Pereira," the chef complimented, for the benefit of Esteban as well whose gaze was so intently fixed on his wife, it could have bored a hole in the butcher table. Doreen nodded to the chef her appreciation of his kind words. She fetched her purse, and refusing to meet Esteban’s eyes, walked quietly past him into the dining room. The floorshow had begun. The lights were dimmed and a bright spotlight emphasized an empty area on the dance floor. An exotic scent pervaded the room and into the spotlight stepped a figure draped in rhinestones and sea-green veils. The veils were semi-sheer and only shades of curves and lines were visible as the dancer’s shapely limbs moved seductively with the music. Her dark eyes, long-lashed and alluring, sent wordless invitations above the veil covering her nose and mouth. As the music became more and more seductive, Elena stripped the veils from her person, one by one, until only one remained which covered her cape-like from head to thigh. The music paused. The drums rolled. She snuck her hand, butter-smooth, with long nails painted blood red, out from between the opening at the front of the veiled cape. From her fingers she dangled a g-string, tantalizingly loose.

  Elena’s gaze settled upon Esteban who had followed his wife out of the kitchen. With slow, erotic movements she started toward him. The spotlight stayed with her. A yard from where Esteban stood, she stopped. A second spotlight illumined Esteban, tall, lean and incredibly handsome in a black tux with satin lapels. The anger was gone from his face. His mouth, no longer grim, curved upward at the corners. His pitch-black eyes flashed wickedly. His whole expression betrayed amusement. With a dexterity that bespoke practice, Elena flicked her wrist and tossed the g-string to Esteban who deftly caught it.

  The clientele erupted into laughter as Esteban brought the g-string to his lips and pressed a kiss against the infamous garment.

  Elena’s gaze propositioned Esteban outright.

  The second spotlight vanished and a second drum roll drew all attention to Elena alone. Swaying erotically she returned to her original place and faced the clientele. The silence threatened to detonate as her other hand joined the first. Clawlike fingers curled about the two sides of the veil—and jerked them apart to the clash of cymbals and accomp
anying gasps and "aahs." A second — no more — and she rejoined the two sides of the veil and fled, leaving the clientele with a brief, breathless memory. The woman was beautiful. Brazen, and erotically sensual. Every inch of her desirable. Doreen hugged herself in a gesture of self-protection. Esteban turned. He still held the g-string. "Are you ready to go home now." Never in her life had she so despised a fellow human being. "Tell me, Esteban, is she the reason you never wanted me to come here?"

  Unexpectedly an anguished looked scrawled across his face, but Doreen saw only the g-string. No longer expecting a truthful answer, she fled.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Never had Esteban seen Doreen in such a state. He started after her, but Elena, clad in her robe, caught his arm and blocked his way. "Let her go," she said. "It’s better she knows."

  "Knows what!?" Esteban demanded. The interruption was time enough for Doreen to reach her car, climb in, lock her doors and turn on the ignition. With Esteban in pursuit, Doreen raced toward the villa. Nothing and no one would stop her this time from leaving him.

  A thin, shattered voice tumbled from the terrace above, as Doreen exited the car and raced up the front stairs of the villa with Esteban only a few feet behind her. Leaning heavily on her cane, Doña Maria waited for the two to turn toward the terrace, where she stood, old eyes sore and red-rimmed from crying, arthritic hands working nervously.

  "Gracia a Dios! You have returned!" she bleated as she fell into Esteban’s arms. "You must save her, pobre inocente. The devil’s own has stolen her reason, and she has gone away with him."

  "Estimada abuela, qué dice usted? " Esteban asked, his arms enfolding her thin shoulders concealed under the black lace.

  "Rosaria, your little sister, she has run away with him."

  "Jose?" Doreen asked, her heart hammering at her throat.

  "Si, that is what he calls himself in his letter. Jose Delgado. Do you know him?"

  "Not exactly. But this is what comes of raising her in such a tightly-reined atmosphere."

  "What do you know of this?" Esteban demanded.

  "Only that they love each other, and that it may be best to leave them alone to find their own happiness."

  "No! Madre di Dios, no!" Doña Maria begged, freeing herself from Esteban’s embrace and fumbling inside the inseam pocket of her dress. "Here, see, Esteban." She plucked a folded sheet from her pocket and thrust it into Esteban’s hand. As he read the letter the darkness of a storm-tossed night at sea gathered on his gaunt features.

  "Bellaco! Canalla!" Esteban thundered. "I will kill him with my bare hands." He looked at Doreen. "And then I will come back for you," he stormed, flinging the letter at her.

  The note fell at her feet. She bent and with hands that trembled, picked it up. It was written in Spanish, not all of it clear to her, except that it used cruel words meant to pierce the heart with anguish and fear and extract immediate results. Coolly, Jose informed the Pereiras that by the time they read this letter, Rosaria would have lost her most precious asset, and if Esteban wished to keep her dishonor from the public, then he must pay dearly. Unfortunately, Jose regretted he could not marry Rosaria as he already had a wife and three children. He alerted Esteban to wait by the telephone for further instructions. "Naturally," he went on, as soon as the financial arrangements are completed, and I am safely clear of the isthmus, Rosaria will be permitted to return home if she so wishes, slightly used, a bit wiser, but nonetheless in good health." The final part of the letter was written in English, as if addressed to Doreen herself. "You have your wife to thank for enabling me to achieve my goal. Without her able assistance in keeping my comings and goings a secret, and you occupied, I might never have snared Rosaria’s heart."

  He was indeed the devil’s own. "Oh God, Esteban, I had no idea." Doreen pleaded. "I truly believed—" But she had suspected. Why hadn’t she harkened to her intuition?

  Esteban was too enraged and frightened for his sister’s safety to give Doreen’s excuses credence. "I will hear none of your lies. If you detest me so, why did you not plunge a knife into my heart while I slept, instead of wreaking your vengeance on a poor innocent."

  "Esteban, I swear by all that’s sacred, I knew nothing of what he planned. You must believe me!" Tears were spilling down her cheeks. "I would never hurt Rosaria, never...." she pleaded as he turned away from her. She grabbed his arm frantically.

  His other arm rose, the hand open. Doreen’s eyes widened with horror. His arm halted in mid-air. "No," Esteban growled. "No," he said, calmer. "You will not turn me into a savage as well." Where his voice had been gentle and soothing to the old woman, with Doreen it was the bite of a cobra. "Go pack your clothes and get out of my house."

  Doreen’s knees buckled and she shrank against the balustrade encircling the terrace. Esteban despised her, and at this moment, she despised herself more.

  The household servants, sworn to secrecy on the threat of instant dismissal, had gone to bed. Doreen and Doña Maria sat in the vestibule by the telephone, waiting for Jose’s phone call. Esteban and Ramon had been out for hours searching. It was the doorbell that finally rang and sent the two women scurrying to open the front door. A battered Manuel carrying in his arms a disheveled, disoriented Rosaria cocooned in a blanket, entered the vestibule. Doña Maria wailed in misery when Manuel set the young girl down on the sofa in the living room and the blanket slipped from her shoulders. Doreen’s gaze flew to Manuel’s, the question in her eyes needing no verbalization. The young man’s face was bruised and his lips cracked, but he smiled all the same and nodded. Doreen understood he had been in time—in the nick of time, judging from the wild look in the girl’s dark eyes and the blue-black marks on her flesh showing through the torn clothing.

  Manuel tucked the blanket around Rosaria and started to rise, but Rosaria pulled him back and buried herself in his embrace again. She refused to let go. A long time later when she had finally fallen asleep, Manuel carried her upstairs to her bedroom with Doreen and Doña Maria following behind him. When Rosaria was safely tucked in bed, with Doña Maria keeping vigil at her bedside, Manuel said to Doreen, "Señora, you are worn through. Go to bed, I will wait for Señor Pereira and give him the good news."

  "No. I’m all right. Come with me downstairs. I’ll patch you up." In the kitchen, she washed his face with cool water, dabbing gently at the contusions on his chin, and applied a medicated cream to his broken lips. The Pereiras owed this simple young man a debt of gratitude. By a stroke of good fortune, or the help of some higher power, Manuel had spied Rosaria sneaking from the house to meet Jose. She was carrying a valise. In his own words, "I followed them at a distance in my father’s small car so they did not see me. He took her to a motel, Señora, just outside the City. He was in a hurry to commit his crime. He had even brought a camera, so no doubt would be cast on the ghastly deed he intended committing. But he had not counted on the stubbornness of the Pereiras or their code of honor. She fought him, Señora, with every ounce of her strength. She was almost unconscious when I smashed the door in. I left him senseless on the floor. It will be a long time before any woman considers him handsome."

  The front door slamming shut preceded Esteban’s voice calling for Doreen.

  "Señora, let me tell him," Manuel said.

  Doreen nodded, grateful.

  "Let your anger flow from you, Señor Pereira," Manuel greeted Esteban. "Rosaria is found and resting safely in her room."

  A moment to absorb the message and then Esteban’s shoulders slumped and a weary breath rushed from his chest. "Gracias a Dios." The respite was momentary. "Has the canalla harmed her in any way?" he asked. He raised his chin and squared his shoulders, steeling himself to receive Manuel’s answer. "Rest easy, Señor, I was in time."

  "Ah!" Esteban exclaimed, bowing his head and covering his eyes. His voice shook. "Dios has taken pity on us tonight." He was crying quietly. A gush of empathy spouted in Doreen to see Esteban this human. With the empathy also came the knowledge that she love
d him, would always love him, no matter how different their backgrounds or their opinions, or Elena. Looking back over the past few weeks, Doreen realized that the walls of the villa no longer caged her. Esteban had freed her. "Pack your bags and get out," he had said, but she stayed to learn Rosaria’s fate, to be there should the girl need her, should Jose succeed with his ruthless plan. "Where is he?" Esteban asked, "Where is the canalla?"

  Manuel explained.

  Esteban grinned and much of the weariness left him.

  "Tell my wife to stop hiding behind you," he said, startling Doreen.

  Unaware of it, she had been doing just that. She drew her pride about her and stepped around Manuel. Manuel said, "Señor, por favor, if I may be so bold, do not blame the Señora. She meant your family no harm. Her concern was only for Rosaria’s happiness." Doreen read a myriad of emotions in Esteban’s eyes, among them anger. But he was tired and his main concern at the moment was his younger sibling. "I wish only to see my sister," he sighed.

  The sound of Esteban slamming the door upon his return to the villa had woken Rosaria. Doña Maria had comforted the child. Rosaria sat in her bed. When Esteban entered, the old woman tensed, and Rosaria wailed, cringing against the headboard and flinging her hands up defensively as if to ward off blows. Doreen looked at Esteban, for an instant her eyes mirrored the same fear. Esteban halted in his tracks, bewildered, taking in the expressions on the three women’s faces. "Caramba! Why does this family insist on believing I am a savage?" he grumbled, moving toward the bed and perching on its side.

  Lowering his sister’s hands, he held them gently in his. He spoke to her in Spanish, his voice low and soothing. Rosaria, like a frightened fawn who has found its mother, and is no longer afraid, abandoned herself to the consolation in her brother’s arms, while showering him with tears and words of remorse and contrition. Unexpectedly, midst Doreen’s relief, the face of a woman wrapped in rhinestones and sea-green veils, rose once more to torment her. No, Esteban was not a savage, she reasoned. It was highly unlikely that a savage would have the misguided shrewdness or the bankroll to maintain a wife and a mistress this openly. Quietly Doreen withdrew.