He removed fragrant hot buns from the oven, and I think my mouth thanked me over and over again as I built myself a couple of burgers and ate to my heart’s content.
Later that evening, we played some crazy Mexican card game that involved tequila shots from a bottle containing a large, fat worm.
I declined more than one shot. My head was still spinning from the alcoholic cider at the soccer game.
“The worm is the best part,” Isidoro said.
“If you say so.”
We laughed and laughed over everything. I adored that it was just the four of us. It was lovely and intimate. We talked of so many things and I felt a warm flash of gratitude to my friends for tugging me out of my self-imposed rut.
Isidoro stayed the night. We rushed to bed to begin exploring each other all over again, with anxious hands and mouths. We didn’t fuck, although we talked about it and had a wonderful moment where we came together, our cocks rubbing against one another in our joined hands. I hadn’t had so much fun with a guy in ages.
“When was your last time?” he asked me, as we lay in bed, facing one another, our cocks still in our united grip.
“It’s been months,” I said. “What about you?”
He grinned. “About the same. I like you, Mr. PR Man.”
“I like you, too, Mr. Weed Whacker.”
That made him laugh. I think we all fell asleep with smiles on our faces.
* * * *
First thing in the morning, he woke me with kisses.
“We have to go to church,” he said.
“Another wedding or baptism?”
“No, because it’s Sunday. Come on. I love church on Sunday.”
I wasn’t much of a churchgoer, but was surprised when, after our joint shower, we got dressed and found Angus and Santos all ready for church, as well.
“My team won,” Santos reminded me. “Thanks to me and God.”
I laughed. “So the players had nothing to do with it?”
“Only a little.” He winked at me. What a character.
The Divina Providencia—Divine Providence—Church was quite amazing, really. Unassuming from the front with its white-washed walls, inside it was a green sanctuary. The pews were a dark shade of green, the walls pale. A large stained-glass window depicting a dove threw images of the bird in flight on the altar and also different areas of the wall. I felt as though we’d entered a secret, indoor garden. I got a kick out of watching Isidoro and Santos line up for communion with all the toddlers and mamas wearing veils. Mariachi music and a little boy singer with an astonishing voice gave extra flavor to the proceedings. I enjoyed the service, mesmerized by the spectacular flowers dotting the aisles and the sanctuary. I loved the proliferation of green and vibrant colors. There was a homey, yet elegant, feel to each bundle wrapped in green twine at the edge of each pew. I was not too surprised when Angus, sitting beside me, told me that Santos had financed the restoration of the formerly crumbling church with his earnings and that Isidoro provided all the flower arrangements each week.
I nodded, liking both men just a little bit more.
After the service, Santos and Angus spent time hanging out with families in front of the church and Isidoro stood as close to me as possible without touching me.
“When do you leave?” he asked me.
“Tonight, I think. We’re all driving back. Santos and Angus have business meetings in Los Angeles tomorrow.”
He nodded. “Can I see you again?”
“Yes.” My heart stammered in my chest. “I would like that, very much.”
“Good. I would, too.”
We exchanged phone numbers, email addresses and even street addresses—on the spot.
“If you like, we can Skype,” he said.
I wanted to do that, very much. I hated the idea of not seeing him again. I had no idea when we would manage it, but reminded myself it was only a few hours from LA to Tijuana by car. It was also a forty-five minute plane ride.
“Want to see the wax museum?” he asked me, his face lighting up like a little kid’s.
I laughed. “Sure. I’ll see your waxworks.”
He grinned. “I’m serious. It’s a museum. I’m not talking about sex.”
What a disappointment.
The four of us went off to the building right near the church. It wasn’t a very good museum, but for a single US dollar, it was a reasonable diversion. Frankenstein and Mahatma Gandhi were convincing, but poor Marilyn Monroe came off like a man in drag. A frizzy brunette turned out to be Julia Roberts, but looked nothing like her, especially with an unusual, bulbous nose and weird, claw-like fingers.
“Is that a Mexican dictator?” I asked Isidoro about a swarthy man in a suit.
He gave me a sidelong glance. “No. That’s Mel Gibson.” He pointed to a crazed-eyed figure in a Hawaiian shirt and dirty jacket. “He was a dictator a couple of centuries ago.”
There were rooms full of apparent dignitaries, past and present, all presenting a strange stiffness, as though bracing themselves for execution…or finding themselves immortalized in wax.
The chamber of horrors was the best thing about the exhibit and all too chillingly real. An Aztec human sacrifice was so realistic, I almost threw up.
For a moment, I remembered that Tijuana had a violent reputation. If this was the closest I got to some actual mayhem on my visit, then I was grateful.
Isidoro suddenly pushed me into a dark corner and kissed me. “This was my plan all along,” he said. “To get you into a tight spot.”
“Mine, too,” I said.
We found lots of dark places, in between him pointing out various Mexican heroes and outlaws. Pancho Villa and Don Quixote were my favorites.
After our time in the museum, we stopped for lunch at Angus and Santos’ favorite lunch place, Tacos El Chiapas, where for twenty Mexican pesos, we ate the most delicious tacos. That worked out to just under two US dollars and the food came with all the fixins, as Santos put it. This included rice, homemade green salsa, guacamole and fried green onions, and it was superb. It was an interesting place I would never have entered on my own. I hate to admit it, but I would never have dreamed of ordering a meal there. It was basically a taco stand on the street with part of it inside a white building. Plastic chairs and tables out front added to the unusual ambience.
Run by three men who entertained their patrons with jokes and funny songs, the place was packed. I could see why. The food was delicious.
I wouldn’t have minded a little…siesta with Isidoro, but he said he had family commitments and that he would come and say goodbye to me before we left.
It felt strange being there without him, but Santos and Angus showed me the local art markets and I was stunned by the quality of the work we saw.
“We need to get ready,” Angus said, as I studied an intricate stone pot.
We went home and packed up to drive in Santos’ car back across the border. I sensed tension between my two best friends and wondered why.
Isidoro came over, freshly showered and changed. He hugged me. He handed me a card.
“Don’t read this until you get home,” he said. He took my face in his hands. “I know you don’t come here often, but I hope that will change. And listen, whatever happens at the border, stay cool. Santos and Angus… Well, you just follow their lead, okay?”
“Okay.” I had no idea what he was talking about but enjoyed his concern and his sweet, wonderful kisses. He hugged Santos and Angus, then we were on our way.
As we approached the border a few minutes later, Santos, who was driving, reached across the seat and took Angus’ hand.
“It will be okay.”
“I hate this part.” Angus sounded miserable.
“I know, querido. It will soon be over.” He relinquished Angus’ hold as we joined the parade of cars crossing back into the US. We sat for half an hour as other cars in front of us went through rigorous searches. It took me a few minutes to realize that they mainly
targeted Mexican drivers.
“They have signs they’re looking for,” Angus said, glancing over his shoulder at me. “I’ll explain more later.”
I was stunned as we approached the security checkpoint and the guards dragged Santos out of the vehicle. We all stepped out, the car was searched, the trunk examined, our passports scrutinized, and recognition blew up in the guards’ faces. After manhandling Santos, they suddenly wanted their photos taken with him. I took photos with their cell phone cameras, feeling a horrible sense of injustice for him—for all Mexicans who endured this procedure every day.
Santos, however, grinned happily with the guards. He was a better actor than I’d realized.
We were the lucky ones, I soon discovered. A car beside us was being taken apart, a family standing next to it, the sad-faced woman holding a squalling baby.
On the other side of the border, Angus said, “I need a drink.”
We stopped in San Diego at a Greek tavern they obviously knew well, and we ordered a platter of mezethes, tons of little appetizers. Angus and I split a beer. Santos drank mineral water since he was driving.
“That was rough,” I said, as I dipped a piece of pita bread into some taramasalata dip.
“It’s been worse, but this wasn’t so bad. I just always worry they’re going to hurt him.” Angus peered down at his plate. “We’ve gotten used to it. There was one time a guard got really nasty and shoved him against the car and the top of the door hit Santos in the eye and he got a big bruise. He had to shoot scenes the next day.”
I shook my head. “Do they find a lot of contraband?” I asked. I wasn’t completely unaware of the illegal immigration issues or drug smuggling, but then I had learned the hard way not to believe eighty percent of what you read in the papers or hear on the news. They all had secret agendas.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” Angus said. “I’ve been thinking of putting some of it in my movie, but Santos says we shouldn’t.”
“Like what?”
“The things the border patrol are after. For example, if they get a guy driving a car that is a domestically-owned vehicle and not a rental, and yet the driver has a single key in the ignition, chances are it’s a vehicle packed with drugs and he’s the…mule.”
“Really?” This astonished me. “And the drivers don’t know about this being a red flag?”
“Sometimes they still get through.” Santos shrugged. “It’s a gamble, but that’s part of the…game, I guess.” He glanced at me as he squeezed more lemon into his water. “What did Isidoro tell you about his life?”
“That he is a gardener.”
“And that’s all?”
I nodded. “Yes, why?”
“You’d be interested in seeing him again?”
“Of course. I really like him.” I remembered the card in my back pocket and couldn’t wait to read it.
Santos visibly relaxed. “He’s a good man. He was in love, but since the man left him, he’s been so…sad. I never saw him laugh as much as he has this weekend.”
I smiled. “I don’t think I’ve laughed so much, either.”
“You’ll have to come back with us next weekend,” he said.
“I can’t wait.” I snatched the check for our meal before the others could.
Chapter Four
Back home, Phantom sulked when I picked him up.
“You have to come back in the morning when Querida’s real owner shows up,” Angus said. “Spencer says Phantom and Querida are in love.”
I agreed to come by nice and early, then wrestled with my dog to get him in the car. Being away from home, even for a couple of days, felt weird when I returned, I always found. I felt a little disconnected with my personal reality.
So did my dog. Back home, Phantom seemed to be depressed about being away from his pals. He kept his head on his paws, glancing at me as if it was all my fault. I could practically read his thoughts—Querida, Querida, Querida. It was obvious he mourned their separation. As I opened the card Isidoro had given me, I could smell his scent and I started to mourn, too. Especially when I read his words.
A single rose can be my garden…a single friend, my world. Thank you for letting the sunshine back into my life… Isidoro.
I held the card in my hands. I loved the photo of a green garden with a single red rose. Is that why I detected the scent of rose on his skin? I smiled. Phantom climbed onto the bed beside me. His eyes conveyed the feeling that sleeping with me was better than nothing. As usual, he slept with his head on the pillow beside mine, one paw on my arm. I stroked his sweet head, wishing the weekend was already here.
* * * *
The real owner of Querida was astonished to see Phantom and his dog, real name Felicity, so cozy. They curled up in one basket together on the floor of Angus’ living room, Phantom giving me a death-ray stare when we tried to coax him away from her.
“I could take both of them,” the guy offered.
“Hell, no,” Santos said.
Indignation had sputtered in my chest, rendering me speechless.
“I can’t believe Lisa did this to me. She dumped my dog?” The guy seemed woebegone. “And now Felicity doesn’t love me anymore.”
It was hard to argue with that. “I feel so used,” he said, a grin quirking half his lip. “To be honest, I really never had time for her. Maybe it’s for the best.”
Phantom certainly thought so. He followed the guy to the door, watched him leave, then trotted back to his beloved. Now I had a problem.
“He’s my dog,” I said. “And he doesn’t love me anymore.”
“Take both of them. We get visiting rights,” Santos said. “Right, baby?” He hugged Angus, pulling him into his arms.
I hadn’t thought of that before, but it made sense to me. Phantom and Querida came home with me, but as she walked around my tiny patch of yard, Phantom closely supervising her movements, I might as well have not existed. Phantom was in love. And I was chopped liver.
As the dogs came in and out of the bungalow, they chased balls together and I chased up emails I’d neglected all weekend. I nabbed a couple of freelance PR assignments and was surprised when my old boss called to tell me she had a unit publicity job for me. I’d be working for four weeks on a new rom-com shooting at Paramount.
I closed the dogs in the house after shooting a quick email to Isidoro, thanking him for the weekend and for his beautiful card then raced to the studio.
It felt so good to be back on board, even if it was only a month’s worth of business. The security guard at the gate gazed at me in a suspicious way that made me nervous. Did he know Joe from Universal? Did he have a Taser on him?
He let me through and I parked, then walked extra fast over to Catalina’s office. We sipped coffee and she filled me in on the production schedule. As the unit publicist, my job would be to organize the official word of mouth on the movie, as it was being shot. I would do interviews with the actors, the director and producers, and provide enough quotes for a studio publicist to transfer into a promotional packet.
My interviews with the leads would need to produce enough material that could be farmed out to the most important media outlets in bits and pieces, long after the movie had wrapped. I would also need to work with a set photographer for official photos, to be included in all future promotional materials. Once actors wrapped a shoot, it was difficult to pin them down for photos, so this work was important, especially getting them in their costumes and makeup on the set.
I checked the cast list as she handed me a copy of the screenplay, which I would have to read that day. We had two big stars in the leads, for what seemed like a standard romantic comedy, at least according to her.
“Any problems with the shoot?” I asked.
“Mike Silver, our lead actor, is married and he’s fooling around with half the female crew members.”
That sounded like standard operating procedure on a movie set. At least he wasn’t banging his co-star. Sophia James was a hot, young
ingénue and it would be inconvenient to have an on-set affair when she was married to the movie’s director.
“Mike’s British, as you probably know, and his family’s back home in Devon—or someplace associated with scones and cream.”
I laughed as Cat ticked off potential issues. “His family’s not around, which is a good thing, but Sophia has a slight problem with ganja. Her drug dealer showed up on the set a few days ago and she’s apparently useless after lunch, so they’ve tightened up security a bit, but she’s actually a real sweetie.”
None of this surprised me, but the third lead actor was a former major movie star who was on the wrong side of fifty. He had the most unusual contract clauses I’d ever heard of, but at least he’d been up front with his problems, and Catalina assured me he was a thorough professional, in spite of his availability restrictions.
According to his contract, Ron Random was such a bad drunk he stopped working at two o’clock every afternoon so he could drink. He spent every weekend drinking, so he officially took Mondays off to recuperate.
“He is wonderful to deal with, but he looks fucking horrible,” Cat told me. “He needs a lot of makeup and his DTs are terrible. We can’t shoot his hands, because they shake uncontrollably.”
I made lots of notes. Part of my job would be to keep all of this out of the press. Damn. He was a big draw for the media, but I’d make it work. We’d just smack his hands out of the way.
Catalina gave me the set call sheet that had everybody’s phone numbers and start times for the following week. She would email me updates every Sunday night. For now, at least, I knew who would be around for the next week and I sauntered over to sound stage twenty-seven to introduce myself.
* * * *
The cast and crew could not have been nicer. I already had ideas of which photographer I wanted to work with, but checked with the director, Mitch Summers, and our stars, who were keen to let me have my way.
About You Page 5
