Apples & Oranges (The This & That Series) Page 4

  Chapter Four

  Sure enough, my cat was itching for some serious food when I got home. Sadly, when I’d gotten him as a kitten ten months earlier, I’d started the habit of holding Cocinero on my lap while he ate. Now it was almost a year later, and he refused to consume a morsel of food without my cuddling and adoring him as he chewed.

  Nobody knew how spoiled Cocinero really was. Nobody. I would’ve died had Lexie or Candace found out that I catered to my pet this way. They already made fun of me for buying the damn thing after Fletcher and I broke up. (I’d spent much of my time with Fletcher complaining about how annoying his giant moose-dog-hybrid was.) I could practically hear them explaining that Cocinero was an amalgam of all the babies I wanted.

  Screw Candace and the one psychology class she’d taken—she was always making assumptions like that. When I bought Eats & Treats with Lexie, Candace said I was trying to put down roots because I’d never had roots with my parents. When I started spending Christmas mornings with she and Brian and the kids, she’d decided that I was doing it to make up for the lack of holiday memories from my childhood.

  Well… maybe she had a point. A little one.

  “Slow down,” I said to the white puffball in my lap, my voice high and squeaky. “You’ll get the hiccups.”

  Cocinero looked up at me with his shiny black eyes and blinked.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I replied. “I love you, too.”

  There was a time, way before I moved to the inland northwest to escape the madness that was living in the same city as Annalise, when I’d owned a cat name Freedom. She’d been my treasured pet until I went to college, which is when my mother’s pool boy accidentally knocked her into the pool, where she drowned. But that was beside the point.

  Freedom was a gift from my father, given to me on the day he left us. I was seven years old, and I still remembered every detail of the experience. My therapist once told me that I remembered everything about that day because it was a traumatic experience, but I like to say it was because I was gifted with a photographic memory. Frankly, it’s the therapist who’s right, though I’ve never admitted that to anyone.

  “Marisol, come inside. Now,” my nanny, Hanna, scolded me from the front porch. She, too, was mad at my dad. Not just because he’d loaded up his Jaguar convertible with suitcases without offering me so much as an explanation, but because in leaving my mother, he was also leaving her, and she’d had big plans on being the new Mrs. Vargas.

  Too bad for Hanna. My father had bigger plans. And those plans didn’t include his self-obsessed wife, the nanny he’d been boinking for a year, or his daughter.

  “No!” I bellowed—I was a screamer, a trait nobody who knew me enjoyed—running down the stairs to the circle drive in front of our palatial house. My father was just starting the engine on his dark green car. “Daddy, wait!”

  He either didn’t hear over the sound of purring motor, or he was ignoring me He slid his aviator sunglasses onto his tanned face with the casual ease of a man leaving to play golf with his buddies. Except that he was abandoning his family for a life of less responsibility and more excitement in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

  The car started to roll forward, and I pawed at the shiny green metal with my hands. “No! Daddy, no!” I cried, stumbling in my bare feet. The cement was hot in the southern California sun, and it burned my soles. “Wait!”

  He hit the brakes, and the jaguar screeched to a halt. “Marisol? What the hell are you doing?”

  “We haven’t played with the kitty yet.” I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, and limped to the driver’s side. “You said we’d play with her. You promised.”

  My father took his sunglasses off and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “No. I said you could play with her. You, Marisol. I’ve got to go”

  He’d not yet said so, but I knew he was leaving for good. “Take me with you,” I begged. “I’ll bring the kitty, and we can all go on vacation.”

  “I’m not going on vacation.” His mouth pulled into a line. “And you’re not coming with me.”

  Tears rolled down my face, and my nose was running. But I didn’t care. “Why not?”

  “Because your place is here with your mother.” He glanced in the rear view mirror. “She needs you. She’s sad.”

  My mother wasn’t home. She’d gone to a spa for the weekend with her friend, and I’d heard her telling Hanna she’d never been happier. “She’s not sad, Daddy. But she’ll be mad when she comes home and finds out you left.”

  Even at seven years old, I’d been acutely aware that my mother had better things to do than raise a child. Especially one who’d given her stretch marks that had to be surgically corrected. That’s why Hanna was there to take care of me.

  “Come back inside,” I pleaded, tugging on the door handle. It was locked. “We can play with the kitty, and then you and Hanna can go swimming in the hot tub again. I’ll be a good girl, and go watch TV.”

  My dad winced. “I don’t want to swim with Hanna anymore.”

  I looked over my shoulder at my nanny, who was glowering at him with her arms folded across her chest. “Then you can give her the day off, Daddy. Come back inside. We still need to name the kitty. I vote Puffy. Or Sparkles. What do you want to call her?”

  He laughed, and for a millisecond, I thought things were looking up.

  “Freedom.” He slid the glasses back onto his face. “I want to call her Freedom.”

  “That’s a silly name, Daddy.” I smiled, even though I could feel something bad looming. “Can you come inside now? P-please?”

  He shook his head. “No, baby. Not this time.”

  “Can I go with you?” My voice got higher. “I can pack super fast.”

  “They don’t let kids come to Fort Lauderdale, Marisol.” His voice was low, resigned. And I knew his mind was made up. “It’s a grown up city.”

  I thought about what it would be like when Mom got home, and it was just her and me in the giant house. She was going to be annoyed with me, so much more so than she already was. The only time we were ever together was when we had company over and I needed to come down in a pretty dress for everyone to see. At least when my dad was around, he noticed me. Sure, most of the time, it was to tell me not to leave my toys around, or that I needed to be quiet because I was giving him a splitting headache. But being noticed and getting hollered at was way better than being ignored all the time.

  “I don’t want to be alone.” It was all I could think of to say. “If you leave, nobody will talk to me.”

  “Go let Hanna take care of you. She’ll make you some chocolate milk.” Dad threw a glance in his rearview mirror. “I gave her a big, fat bonus check, so she’s not going anywhere.”

  “Daddy, I—”

  “I gotta go, Marisol.” He put the jaguar in gear. “Back away from the car.”

  “Please don’t go.” I wept, snot creeping out of my nose. “Please don’t leave me.”

  He grimaced at me. “Pull yourself together. You’re face is a mess.”

  “I love you, Daddy.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt embarrassed. We didn’t talk like that in our family. Mushiness like that only existed on television shows like the one mom used to be on. Squaring my shoulders, I said it again. “I said, I love you, Daddy.”

  He sighed. It was a long, drawn-out, irritated sigh that was almost drowned out by the purring car engine. I waited for him to say it back. For my dad to tell me that he loved me too, and that he would send for me as soon as he got settled in Florida. Maybe even a kiss or a hug, to top things off.

  But alas…Carlos Vargas didn’t do emotion.

  “Go tell Hanna to wipe your face, Marisol. Nobody wants to look at an ugly little girl with snot on her face.”

  And with that, he peeled away from me, spitting a hot burst of exhaust out of the tailpipe, and leaving me standing in the sun alone.

  I stood there crying for what felt like forever. Hanna didn’t come to get me, or to wipe my face
or make me chocolate milk like my dad had promised. I stood there until my mother’s car rolled into the driveway, and she emerged looking refreshed and shiny from her time at the spa. She’d taken me by the hand and walked me into the house, through the living room, and into the oversized kitchen, where I’d promptly been passed off on Imogene, the cook. Hanna gave her notice later that night, and I’d gotten a new nanny, Sara, the next day.

  Freedom and I spent all of our time together after that, clear until I ran off to college in Washington state, where I’d not been allowed pets in University housing. By that time, Freedom was arthritic and barely mobile, which is why she’d drowned when she’d been pushed into the pool water with the end of a ladder.

  I’d cried for days.

  It was only the second time since my dad left.

  Cocinero took his last bite of food, then wriggled out of my arms, jerking me out of my thoughts. My eyes were blurry as I followed him to the French doors that led out into the backyard. I hated thinking about my dad. Every time I did, I wound up like this. Weepy, morose, and utterly pathetic.

  “Let’s go potty,” I told the cat as he sat, bored, next to the glass paned door.

  As soon as the door was cracked, Cocinero squeezed through and sauntered off into the darkness. My backyard, like the rest of my house, had been decorated to perfection. The patio furniture was covered in a black and white damask print that coordinated perfectly with the white rocks in the fire pit. The pergola above my head was painted a crisp white, then threaded with gauzy black fabric that swayed perfectly in the wind. I’d paid over fifty dollars a yard for the stuff, which was kind of stupid considering the window of warm-weather opportunities to utilize this outdoor oasis was especially small in this part of Washington. But I’d had to have the best.

  If I’d learned nothing else from my mother over the years, I’d manage to cling to that little nugget. Which was why my house was adorned with white leather couches, Waterford crystal sculptures, silk wallpaper, and shaggy cashmere rugs that were so un-kid-friendly, Candace had to make her three kids wait in the car when she came over.

  Sure, I lived alone. And sure, sometimes being alone with my thoughts made me feel so isolated, I could climb the walls. But doggone it… my house looked like a picture out of Interior Decorators Monthly. And that there was a fact.

  Cocinero bounced around the river rocks that bordered my lawn, undoubtedly taking his time to find the proper place for taking a crap, when my home phone rang inside the house.

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten o’clock. Nobody called me this late, except for the occasional booty call. But I wasn’t currently involved with anyone, a fact that irritated me almost as much as the fact that my cat insisted on taking a hour to take a dump every night. A booty call sounded nice right about now.

  “Probably Lexie,” I murmured to myself, slapping across the hardwood floors with my bare feet—which were still repulsive on the bottom from my little adventure earlier. She was probably up feeding the baby, and fretting about the quiches. She was infamous for adding an ingredient at the last minute that transformed dishes from good to great, and unfortunately that inspiration only seemed to happen long after we’d stopped cooking for the night.

  I plucked up receiver, and answered without looking at the number. “Lexie, this is the worst booty call I’ve ever gotten. You know I haven’t swung that way since that one kegger in college.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Lex?” Pulling the phone away from my ear, I looked at the tiny screen. “Oh, um. Sorry. Who is this?”

  “Is this Marisol Vargas?” The deep, gravelly voice on the other end sent a whirl of excitement shooting up my spine.

  Demo-the-mechanic. I’d left him my home number back at the shop, since my iPhone was still missing. Note to self: replace cell tomorrow. Well, well. Maybe it was a booty call after all.

  Not interested, my ass, I snickered to myself. “This is she,” I purred. “And let me guess. This is Demo… Demo… uh…”

  Dang that crazy last name of his. It was blowing my sexy cover all to pieces.

  “Antonopolous,” he replied.

  “Right.” I pressed my lips together and reminded myself to keep my temper in check. “So why are you calling me so late? A little lonely in the garage at night?”

  “I towed your car after we closed,” Demo said simply.

  My eyebrows rose high on my forehead. He’d done something nice for me. Maybe there was hope after all. “Oh. Well, thank you.”

  “Since it was after hours, I’ll have to charge time and a half.”

  My eyebrows dropped back to their normal spot. “Of course.”

  “You made it sound like money wasn’t your primary concern,” Demo explained in a flat voice.

  “It’s not,” I hissed. “Do you always work this late at night?”

  “I knew you wanted it back quickly,” he answered simply. “So I brought it back and took a look.”

  I leaned against my kitchen countertop and waited for the bad news. The booty call scenario fizzled right before my eyes. “So what’s the verdict?”

  I heard him shifting some papers, and then the clang of something landing on the metal desk. “You’ve got a bad alternator.”

  “The car’s only a year old!” I blurted.

  “It happens. Got a buddy across town who works with BMWs all the time. He says your make and model are infamous for alternator problems.”

  “Can I get his number?” Grabbing a pen and paper out of my nearby mail stack, I readied myself to write. “Maybe he’ll be able to fix it.”

  “Oh, I can fix your car.” Demo’s voice took on a defensive edge. “I’ll have it ready by ten tomorrow morning.”

  “You can?”

  “I can.”

  “You’ve got the right parts, and everything?” I didn’t know much, but I knew enough to know that BMW parts weren’t usually sitting on the shelves in most Spokane mom and pop auto shops. That was the reason why I usually took it to the specialty shop at the dealership for maintenance.

  “Got a buddy who owns a parts store.”

  “My, you certainly have a lot of buddies. He let you into his shop to get the part this late at night?”

  “She opens at six am. It’s in stock.”

  A random spark of jealousy blinked inside my chest. I really needed to get a grip on myself. “Well, I underestimated you, Mr. Antonopolous.”

  Yes! I got his last name right. Score one for me.

  “Seems to be a habit,” he grunted.

  I grit my teeth together. “And you’re telling me that you’re going to fix my Beemer first thing in the morning?”

  “Yup.”

  “For time and a half, right?”

  “The tow was more,” Demo growled. “The labor will be standard cost. Unless you’d like to pay more, Princess.”

  Seeing red, I pushed myself away from the counter. “Hey, who do you think—”

  “Sorry. Listen. You want me to work on your car?” he interrupted. “I’ve got a client who needs new sparkplugs in his delivery van real bad. I can do that first, if you like.”

  “Just one moment.” I put the phone down on the countertop and kicked the back of my couch a few times, leaving black footprints. “Estúpido, grosero culo limpie!”

  I thought I heard a chuckle when I picked the receiver back up and said, “I would love it if you fixed my car first thing tomorrow.”

  When Demo spoke again, there was a smile in his voice. “You know I speak Spanish, right?”

  I scrunched my face up and slapped a palm to my forehead. Whoops. I’d focused so much on his bulging biceps and surly attitude, that I’d forgotten that detail. “Yes,” I lied. “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, it’s settled then. See you at ten.”

  “Right.” I felt like punching a hole in something. Anything.

  He hung up before I could say another word.

  Chapter Five

  When I
went to Triple D’s the next morning, I was dressed for success.

  Not catering success, per say, but man-eating success. Form fitting pencil pants; a red, sleeveless Elie Tahari blouse; and five-inch, red platform pumps topped off my look. As soon as Demo saw me emerge from the cab, he’d stood up and watched me with pointed interest as I click-click-clicked into the garage. Sure, I was going to have to don a smock when I got to work, but all that mattered was that I’d marched up to Demo with legs—and confidence—for miles.

  That is, until he opened his mouth.

  “Good morning, Demo,” I’d said, putting a hand on my hip and smiling. I’d worn lipstick in the exact same shade of deep red as my blouse and shoes, and every time I wore it I got compliments. I waited for him to respond, positive that Operation Seduce Demo-the-mechanic was in full swing.

  He drew a long breath, then took his time to release it while he held my gaze, steady and strong. “I wondered when you’d show up.”

  “I—” My hand dropped from my hip. “What?”

  Demo jerked his head to the right. “Car’s ready.”

  “Good.” I swallowed a snotty retort and hiked my purse further up on my arm. Why in the world was I trying so hard to make this guy want me when he was so clearly disinterested? “What do I owe you?”

  Demo ambled over to the metal desk, and tugged a grease-stained sheet of printer paper out from under a disassembled auto part. “The tow, plus parts and labor came to four hundred sixty three and seventy two cents.”

  I walked around the circumference of my car, stopping to wipe at a piece of dust that disguised itself as a scratch. I could feel his eyes watching me, but I didn’t hurry. Once I’d circled the whole car, I opened the driver’s side door and looked at the mileage.

  “Looks like you drove it for a while. What gives?” I asked nonchalantly.

  Demo faced me. “I drove it out a few miles down highway twenty seven and back once the new alternator was in to make sure it was running right.”