Inner Diva (8 page)

Monica squatted and ruffled his hair with a
grin. “How’s it going, sport?”

A crease formed between Spencer’s eyebrows,
confused at Monica’s favorite greeting for him. “I’m not
baseball.”

Meanwhile, Monica caught a glimpse of her
sister’s back as it disappeared down the hallway and into her
bedroom. She pushed to her feet and followed Barbie. Unfortunately,
by the time she reached her bedroom, a quarter of the contents of
her closet had formed a pile on the carpet.

“Hey! Cut that out.” Monica dashed to the
pile and began retrieving her clothes.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll clean up
when we’re done. I just don’t see how you can get to your party
stuff when all your work stuff is up front.”

“Party stuff?” Monica said blankly.

“Yeah, you know – your New Year’s Eve and
evening wedding stuff.” More black slacks and button-up sweaters
hit the floor. “Where are they?”

Before Monica could muster up a response,
Barbie reached the back of the closet and turned, her hands up in a
confused gesture.

“I – I – don’t have any.” Monica sighed.

“None?” Her sister looked at her like she had
two heads.

Exasperated, Monica said, “Barbie, think
about it. When was the last time I went out for New Year’s Eve? The
last four years I’ve been babysitting.” Your kids. While you and
your husband went out for New Year’s Eve.

A crash came from the direction of her
kitchen. She looked around. “Spencer?”

Barbie shooed her away with one hand. “It’s a
good thing I brought a few key items of my own, then. You go see
what he’s doing, and I’ll work magic in here and put a killer
outfit together. Go on.”

Monica started to argue but another crash
sidetracked her and she ran down the hall without a backward
glance. She didn’t want to wear Barbie’s clothes. Her sister was
shorter and a little slimmer. Although they had shared clothes in
high school, and she could probably do it now, her sister’s style
was much more … flashy than hers.

She reached the kitchen and saw with relief
Spencer had located her Tupperware cabinet and had pulled out
several unbreakable containers. At her approach, he looked up with
a panic. “I’ll clean up!”

“Okay, buddy. Have fun, but stay out of
trouble.”

He nodded and started mumbling an
unrecognizable monologue. Monica took a seat at her kitchen table
and kept an eye on him.

Wasn’t that why she’d invited Barbie over?
Because she wasn’t capable of putting together an outfit that
didn’t look like she was headed into the office? This was Barbie’s
specialty. The least she could do was keep an open mind.

“Spence, I’m going back to my bedroom. Stay
right here, and don’t do anything dangerous, okay?”

The little boy nodded. Heading down the hall,
Mae crawled toward her. “Barbie?”

“Yeah, I’ll be done in a sec.” Monica heard
more fabric swishing sounds; probably Barbie abusing more of her
garments. Baby Mae plopped backward on the hallway floor and
erupted into loud, unhappy tears.

Monica picked her up and patted her back,
shushing and bouncing on her toes.

Barbie’s voice came from down the hall. “She
probably wants a bottle. Check the diaper bag I left near your
front door.”

Sighing, Monica carried the crying child to
the living room and located the bag. She’d watched Mae enough times
to know how she preferred her formula, slightly warmed. She
struggled to remove the lid of the bottle and stuck the tip of one
finger in. Chilled. She kept up her bouncy step and comfort noises
while she carried the baby to the kitchen.

Careful to step over the growing collection
of plastic ware on the floor without dropping her niece, she put
the bottle in the microwave and set the timer. Mae increased her
wailing.

When done, Monica replaced the lid, shook the
bottle and stuck the nipple in the baby’s mouth. Beautiful silence
at last, interrupted only with occasional sucking sounds.

Barbie appeared in the kitchen. “Okay! I’m
ready to unveil the perfect outfit for your date with … what’s his
name again?”

“Carlos,” Monica murmured, but her sister was
racing down the hall again. Monica followed her slowly, balancing
the baby and the bottle.

“Ta da!” Barbie sang, and gestured with
Vanna-arms to a combination of clothes on her bed. Monica stood in
the doorway and stared, wide-eyed. Barbie was right – it was the
perfect outfit for a first date. It had stepped right off the pages
of
Mademoiselle
, and had probably been photographed, worn by
scores of Hollywood It-Girls.

It was a sleek silver knee-length dress –
form-fitting in all the right places, low-cut to reveal a daring
swash of cleavage. Monica was sure it was designer, although labels
had never been on her priority list, so she had no idea who had
made the breathtaking garment. The thin straps would reveal plenty
of skin, and Monica knew she’d be hoisting them self-consciously
all night. Silver strappy shoes with high heels lay on the bed,
along with shimmery silver hosiery, and a silver pillbox purse. A
stunning ensemble, one Barbie had probably worn to a political gala
and looked fabulous.

Monica sighed. Staring at the gorgeous
outfit, she knew it had been an ill-fated decision asking Barbie
for help. The gorgeous outfit was all wrong. It wasn’t her, not by
a long shot. She decided then and there that she would not wear
that dress on her date with Carlos.

Years of practice dealing with her sister
trained her to keep her decision to herself. Now she’d just have to
convince Barbie to leave as quickly as possible so she could get on
with picking something out that was comfortable and
respectable.

“Yes.”

Barbie beamed. “You think?”

“Absolutely.” Monica nodded.

“You’ll look great in it! It’ll really
accentuate your breasts and your legs. You don’t do that enough,
you know. They’re your best features, but no one would ever know it
because you don’t flaunt them.”

“Well,” Monica moved to Barbie and pushed
Baby Mae into her arms, “I knew I could count on you. Now, not to
be rude, but I need to get busy putting this stuff on before Carlos
comes.”

Barbie received her daughter while Mae stared
up at her with adoring eyes. “Oh, I’ll help you. And what about
your makeup? I brought …”

“No, no, I’ll be fine. Really. I have loads
of makeup, and the clock is ticking.” Monica started toward the
door, coercing her sister down the hall.

“But can’t I meet … what’s his name
again?”

“Not this time, Barb.”

“Okay, well, if you’re sure.” They had almost
made it to the front door before Barbie remembered her son.
“Spencer! Come on, honey, we’re going now.”

Spencer ran from the kitchen and jumped up
and down, trying to land a kiss on his favorite aunt’s face. Monica
put her hands on his shoulders and bent down to him, determined to
avert a bloody nose or other disaster.

Barbie and her crew were halfway to her car
when she yelled, “Have fun! I want to hear all about it
tomorrow.”

Monica waved, nodded, closed the door and
heaved against it, breathing deeply. Hurricane Barbie, always
exhausting. She checked her watch. She now had less than an hour
before Carlos picked her up and she still had no idea what to wear.
On her way to her room, she glanced in the kitchen, and of course,
of course
, the bowls were not only still out, they were
strewn across the entire kitchen. She detoured and spent a few
minutes organizing and tidying up.

She arrived in her bedroom and it looked like
a bomb had gone off, clothes everywhere – on her bed, on her floor,
draped over her desk chair.

“Thanks for the help, sis,” she muttered and
got to work.

The first sound she heard that was out of the
ordinary was the growl of a high-performance engine on the street
outside her house. Moments later, the doorbell rang, and despite
the fact that she was expecting it, Monica jumped in her seat.

She sprang to her feet and ran to the door.
Counting a slow one, two, three, she swung the door open. And got
lost in the oddity of seeing Carlos on her own doorstep.

“Hi.” He looked absolutely gorgeous – even
better than she’d seen him before – hair still moist from a shower,
a thin dark sweater stretched tightly across a very fit and buff
chest, covered with a worn leather jacket. He looked like he
could’ve walked off the cover of a magazine. And the fact he had
come there for her – it was breathtaking, at the very least.

“Hi.” She grinned at him. “Would you like to
come in?”

He smiled and walked past her into her tidy
living room. She couldn’t help admire the spectacular view of his
rear end in the snug jeans he wore.

Oh boy, she was in trouble tonight. The sight
of him sent her hormones into overdrive, and if she didn’t watch
out, she could easily fall in love with this handsome, dark
lothario. Which would be the absolute worst thing to allow. He was
Luisa’s brother; Senora Garcia’s son. Never a good idea to mix
business with pleasure.

Plus, he wasn’t her type. She’d have no idea
what to do with a man like Carlos. He’d launch her completely out
of her comfort zone. Although staring at him now, she suspected she
would enjoy the trip.

“You look very nice,” he said politely. She
looked down at her wardrobe choice – khaki slacks and a bright red
sweater. In an attempt to differentiate the outfit from the many
occasions she’d worn it to work, she’d added a pair of dressy high
heels.

“Thank you. And you look very nice, too.” She
squeezed her eyes shut at her understatement of the year. “Nice”
wasn’t exactly the adjective she’d use to describe the way he
looked, but she didn’t want him to know that.

“Do you like Mexican food?”

“I sure do.” What better tour guide through
Mexican food delicacies?

“Then, let’s go.”

When they reached his car, she gave a low
whistle. This was a real man’s man’s car. Although she wasn’t a
sports car aficionado, she recognized a collector’s model when she
saw it. “Nice car.”

He looked at her with appreciation in his
eyes. “Thanks. 1972 Gran Torino. I got a hold of it when it had
been in a crash and I slowly brought it back to life. Started with
the engine, rehauled the entire thing. Then I did the body work.
Pounded out dents, smoothed everything down. Finished up with a
paint job.”

Monica ran her fingers over the shiny black
finish. “You’re great with cars.”

Carlos chuckled. “Yeah, my one talent in
life.”

Monica pulled her hand back abruptly. From
the looks of him, there was at least one other talent she could
think of him possessing.

“So, is that what you do for a living? Work
with cars?”

He nodded. “I work at a garage all day, doing
mechanics, engine work. Then I take jobs on at night, mostly like
this. Body work and recovery.”

“Great skills to have.”

He shrugged. “There’s plenty of work.”

So, he and his mother worked two jobs apiece
to make ends meet and provide the best they could for Luisa. She
wondered if she would’ve shown the same admirable work ethic if her
family situation had required it.

Fifteen minutes later, she glanced out the
window. They were driving through a section of St. Louis she was
unfamiliar with. A fast food wrapper skittered down the sidewalk
and a big, scruffy cat jumped down from an open steel garbage can.
Convenience stores occupied every corner, broken up mid-block by an
occasional ethnic grocery or restaurant. Spray painted murals
covered the cement walls that separated a bus stop from the next
storefront, and occasional pedestrians ventured out into the early
evening in small packs, gripping the hand of a child, hurrying him
along, intent on their destination.

“I’ve never been in this part of town.”

He looked over at her. “It’s a little bit of
a drive, but well worth it, I assure you.”

“Isn’t this …?”

He looked at her curiously.

She couldn’t help asking. “Dangerous?”

He blinked, shook his head. “You’ll be safe
with me,
carina
.” Carlos pulled the car to the curb, shifted
it to Park and leaned toward her, his arm resting on the headrest
behind her. “Relax. I’m not going to let anything hurt you. You’re
as tense as a guitar string. What’s wrong?”

She looked at him and realized she felt safe
with this dark, rough man who put her on edge with his good looks.
He wouldn’t let anything hurt her. She smiled. “Nothing’s wrong,
Carlos. Not a thing. I’m in good hands, and we’re going to have a
great time tonight.”

He returned a grin and gave a quick nod. “I
certainly hope so.”

With Carlos’ guidance, she tried just about
every Mexican food she ever heard of and lots she hadn’t – all
washed down with a flow of the sweet margaritas. And not the
frou-frou frozen kind they served at imitation Mexican restaurants.
Here at El Diablo’s, they served authentic Mexican food and drink.
The margaritas at El Diablo’s were served straight up on the
rocks.

At Carlos’ request, their waitress delivered
a parade of Mexican delicacies to their table. Monica decided on
her favorites: tacos and tamales, of course, but also chile
renellos, ceviche and huachinango.

“Mmm,” she moaned at her latest culinary
discovery. “It’s all so good. I had no idea Mexican food could
taste like this.”

“Is that because your idea of Mexican food is
what you find at Taco Bell?”

She gave him a guilty look. “I suppose it is.
Not exactly authentic, huh?”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing better
than real Mexican cuisine.”

She took one last bite from her platter and
pushed it away. “Does your mom cook like this?”