Читать книгу One Perfect Man - Lynda Sandoval - Страница 10

There are two lasting bequests we can give our children:

One is roots. The other is wings.

—Hodding Carter, Jr.

Erica Gonçalves clutched her cell phone between ear and shoulder—no small feat considering the contraption was about the size of her palm and flat as a compact. The side of her head felt superglued to her shoulder, and the opposite side of her neck had stretched to the point where she’d likely need alternating heat and ice tomorrow just to function. She paid only scant attention to her mother’s voice on the other end of the line as she moved around the soon-to-be-full hotel meeting room with purposeful strides, assuring every minute detail had been attended to before everyone arrived.

Nothing annoyed her more than a poorly planned meeting, and seeing as how this was her dog-and-pony show, she wouldn’t stand for anything less than efficient structure, smooth flow and a high degree of productivity. Time was money, after all, and she never seemed to have enough of either. If she did, she’d be running her own event-planning company instead of working for someone else. Not that she didn’t love her job. She did. But as far as she was concerned, the more freedom and control she had in all aspects of her life, the better.

“Have you heard a word I’ve said, m’ija?”

Oops. “Yes, Mama,” she fibbed. “I’m sorry. I’m doing a million things at once.”

“You should slow down, honey. Take a breath.”

“No time.” She flicked her wrist over and checked the sleek black face of the Saint Honoré watch she’d splurged on during her last vacation—a solo trip to Paris last summer. Had it really been almost a year since she’d had a break? “My meeting starts in—ugh! Too soon. I need to go over the agenda one more time.” A subtle hint. She waited. Unfortunately Mama didn’t pick up on it. Erica stifled a sigh. “What was it you were saying?”

“Just wondering why that boss of yours always makes you travel alone. A woman alone. It makes no sense to me.”

Erica couldn’t manage to stifle the sigh a second time, not when faced with this dead horse of a topic her mother insisted upon beating. How many times could they go around about this? “He doesn’t make me travel, Mama. I’ve told you before. I enjoy this part of my career. I like the freedom.”

“Freedom.” Erica heard the inelegant snort across the line, a sure sign her mother was going to launch into the familiar refrain. “Don’t get used to that so-called freedom, baby—”

Erica began to mouth the words along with her mother, words to a speech she’d heard hundreds of times. She even pantomimed the finger wag she was sure her mother had going on the other end of the line.

“Once you marry and have children, your place is at home with them, not—”

“—gallivanting around the globe,” Erica finished, her tone droll. The sixty-some-odd-mile drive from Santa Fe to Las Vegas, New Mexico didn’t count as globe-trotting in most people’s books, but Susana Gonçalves’s book told another story altogether. If she could keep her children within the city limits of Santa Fe until she ascended to the pearly gates, her life would be considered a success.

“Exactly,” the older woman said. “A husband and children will nip all this travel in the bud, so no sense getting accustomed to it. That’s all.”

Annoyance pricked at the calm reserve Erica tried so hard to cultivate prior to meeting with colleagues. She took a moment to line up the dry-erase markers in front of the whiteboard and straighten the projector screen. And breathe.

“Did you hear me?”

“Oh yeah, I heard you.” The cell phone slipped from its precarious shoulder clutch, but Erica caught it in midair and held it back to her ear. “Which is exactly why a husband and children aren’t in my future, Mother, a fact you well know.”

“Oh, honey, you talk, but—”

“Are you listening to me?” Erica pronounced each word with crisp, controlled clarity. “Do you ever hear what I’m saying?”

“I just don’t want you to give up hope.”

A fireball of frustration ignited in Erica’s chest. Hot blood pounded in her ears. “Hope! Hope?” She smacked her palm to her forehead, all attempts to stay calm and cool rendered instantly futile. “Listen to yourself, Mama. Why does it always come back to this? What you fail to acknowledge is that some women have no desire to fulfill the roles of wife and mother, and your daughter is one of those women.”

“But, it’s important, honey, and I worry—”

“Why is it so damn important? I take perfectly good care of myself. You always seem to ‘worry’ just when I need to be focused before an important presentation or meeting.” She lowered her voice to a rasp, glancing at the door to make sure no one had showed up early to catch her in mid-rant. She had a business reputation to uphold, after all. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d almost think you were trying to sabotage my career.”

“Don’t be silly. You do know me better.”

True. But, still. Erica closed her eyes and counted to ten in English, then in Spanish. “Mama, listen to me. Six very important words. I don’t want marriage and family. I have no desire to raise human beings, and there’s nothing wrong with admitting that. I can’t even keep plants alive. Not to mention—do you remember what happened to my hamster, Morton?”

“Hamsters don’t live forever. You were only twelve.”

“Old enough to know better.”

“Hmph.”

Erica sighed. “I am simply not suited to your role. You need to accept the facts.”

“You can learn.”

“Sure, if I wanted to. The point is, I don’t want to.” She clenched her fist against her chest with fervor, though her mother couldn’t see her. “I love my career and my independence, and I love to travel. Alone. I want my life exactly the way it is. Why can’t you respect that?”

Susana uttered an unhappy sound. “Was it so bad, Erica? Growing up with a full-time mother in the home? So bad that the very thought of walking in your mother’s footsteps makes you speak to her with such disrespect?”

“I’m—” Erica bit her lip as defeat weighed heavily on her shoulders. She furrowed her fingers slowly through her hair and willed the bite from her tone. “I don’t mean to disrespect you, Mama. You know that. And, of course I don’t regret growing up in a traditional family. I loved having you there.” She struggled for words. How could she explain? “But living that way, putting the family first, was your choice, right?”

“Of course.”

As much as Erica doubted the veracity of her mother’s answer, she nevertheless went with it. “Well, all I’m asking for is my choice, as well. I am walking in your footsteps, Mama,” Erica said, feeling like a liar. In truth, her mother gave up too much of herself for the life she led. Erica was trying to avoid her mother’s footsteps—at least those she took after marriage. “Can’t you see?” She paused, hoping this time it would sink in. “I’m trying to live the life of my choosing. That’s all. Just like you did. My choice is simply different from yours.”

“Don’t you want love, m’ija?”

Erica eased out a breath. Sure, it would be great to have the love of a lifetime yadda, yadda, yadda. Who wouldn’t want that? Unfortunately, that type of love was an empty Hollywood concept. Real love came with strings and ties and required sacrifices she wasn’t willing to make. Real love grabbed you and took up camp in your world, like an occupying force. Real love twisted your life around and left you with the one thing she absolutely refused to have: regrets.

So, she wouldn’t experience marital love in her life, but that didn’t matter to her. She’d find companionship and sex along the way, with men who wouldn’t compromise her goals, men with their own goals, and she’d have her independence. Not a whole lot sounded better than that.

“I love my career,” she said, finally, knowing she could never adequately explain it to her mother. “That’s enough.”

Silence hung between them like a tug-of-war rope. Erica was tired of all the yanking and balancing. “But I really have to go. The artisans will be here soon and I want to be composed.”

“You’re always composed, little one. Too composed for your own good.” Mama laughed, but sounded tired. “You’re a regular Mona Lisa, don’t you know that?”

“Ha.” A grudging smile twitched Erica’s mouth.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, m’ija.”

“You didn’t,” Erica lied, to keep the peace. “Look, I’ll call you tonight. Okay?” She really did love her mother.

“Okay. Is your hotel room safe?”

Erica rolled her eyes. No, she didn’t know any better, so she’d taken a room in the local crack house. “Of course, Mama. It’s a small town, remember? Only sixty miles from home. I’m fine. The hotel is beautiful. Nothing to worry about.”

“So you claim. The optimism of youth.” Another unsettled sigh came through the line. “Well, then, I guess there’s nothing else for me to say.”

“Okay, then.” Erica rolled her hand. Get to the goodbye. C’mon, Mama, please.

“Good luck with your meeting. Be careful, and use the dead bolt and the chain when you’re in the room.”

“Always do,” Erica sang, in an overly patient voice.

“And keep your eyes out for available men,” Susana said in a rush. “Be open-minded. That’s all I’m saying. Life is all about options, baby.”

“Mama!”

“Bueno, bye.”

The abrupt disconnection clicked in Erica’s ear, and she pulled the phone away and stared at it a moment, incredulous, before shaking her head and snapping the flip-front down. Her mother would never stop trying to marry her off, no matter how many times Erica tried to explain her dreams and goals. A pity her mother expended so much energy on a lost cause.

It wasn’t that Erica didn’t like men. She did. She just didn’t want to be subservient to one, as her mother had been to her father. Susana Gonçalves might claim she’d been fulfilled by feeding children, washing clothes and putting everyone else’s needs before her own all these years, but she had been a promising folk guitarist in her youth, on the fast track to giving Joan Baez a little healthy competition.

Then she’d met Erica’s father, and the rest was history. Moises Gonçalves had been raised a kind but strictly traditional man, and into the attic went his wife’s guitar. No time for “frivolity” with babies on the way and a husband to tend, Erica supposed. What a shame.

Call her a skeptic, but Erica refused to believe her mother didn’t have regrets about leaving that musical dream behind. As for herself, she didn’t plan to have a single regret. No way would she give up her identity, her life, her goals and dreams for a band around her finger and the “opportunity” to serve a man all her life. No way in hell. Nothing Mama could say or do would ever change her mind.

“So, what I’m looking for are some really innovative ideas of how you’d like to represent your town in your particular medium,” she told the gathered artisans, her voice composed, her look professional, her manner that of complete control. “The sky’s the limit here, folks. I want to push the envelope and really get New Mexico into the news. This is the first Cultural Arts Festival of this type for our state. Let’s make history.” She smiled with confidence. “Ideas?”

The event planner sent down by some large company in Santa Fe crossed her arms and leaned one toned but still shapely hip against the edge of the front table. Her head tilted slightly forward and to the side, sending the razor-perfect ends of her straight black hair brushing across her shoulder to dance against her cheek like a sheet of satin.

Tomás Garza sat back in his chair and studied her. Erica Gonçalves. He hated to admit it, but she couldn’t be more perfect if he’d conjured her up from his most fervent, most hidden fantasies. Organized, take-charge, encouraging and yet still approachable.

Hope wouldn’t feel threatened—an important consideration.

His jaw tightened, but he pushed aside his inner resistance and refocused on the lady at the front of the room, trying to read her, to soak her in. He needed to get a handle on her before he approached with his proposition. With only five months left, he couldn’t afford any more false starts or setbacks.

He listened while the sculptor representing Albuquerque suggested a Michelangelo-size idea to represent his city—a mixed-media sculpture that would suspend from the rafters of the event hall. A false sky, if you would, filled with faux hot-air balloons to represent the renowned Balloon Fiesta held in Albuquerque each October. An excited murmur rippled through the room as the artist and the planner discussed logistics for a work of this scope. Soon, others began offering their ideas, all praised and efficiently cataloged by Ms. Gonçalves with quick taps of her fingers on the laptop keyboard.

The tone of the meeting was electric, a creative thunderstorm, led by a woman who knew just what to say and do to make things happen. Tomás felt supercharged, both by the atmosphere and the fact that he may have just stumbled on a solution to his dilemma in the form of a petite, fast-track business dynamo named Erica.

The city representatives—specially selected artists, all of them—kept the flow of ideas rushing forth until only a few towns remained—his included. Without warning, the lady he’d been studying turned her dark-eyed gaze on him.

He straightened in his chair—a holdover habit from his less-than-stellar high school days, he supposed, when hearing his name meant he’d been busted for screwing around.

“Mr. Garza? Do you have any ideas for how to incorporate Las Vegas into your piece?” She smiled.

He relaxed his expression, but a flare of inexplicable self-preservation ignited inside him. Lifting one ankle to rest atop the opposite knee and smoothing his palms together, he took his time working his idea into words. Luckily, he had given this some thought, and he considered himself reasonably articulate, even paying only half attention. “Yes. I’d like to craft piñatas to replicate some of our city’s historic buildings, for an interesting twist. An amalgam of Mexican craft work with New Mexican culture. And definitely representative of Vegas.”

Her gaze brightened, and Tomás caught several appreciative nods from the other artists around the room in his peripheral vision. That pleased him. Some artists dismissed piñata making—his family’s artistic heritage—as a child’s craft rather than the endangered art it truly was. He worked hard to overcome the misconception, creating piñatas people wanted to display as well as those for children to break open at birthday parties. The reaction from his peers gathered here today seemed encouraging. He looked to the lady and raised one eyebrow in question.

“Fabulous,” Ms. Gonçalves said. The distant look in her eyes told him that sharp mind of hers was already three steps ahead in the planning. “Really different.”

“Gracias.” He warmed beneath her praise.

“How many houses were you thinking of incorporating?”

“One to represent each of our historic districts. Seven total. They’ll need to be big to capture detail. I don’t want to overdo it.”

“No, that’s perfect. You’re right.”

“Great.”

“Perhaps we can suspend them low over a map or photo of the town,” she said, swirling her hands out in front of her as though she had the full picture in her mind, “approximately near the locations of the districts they represent.”

He shrugged. “Works for me.”

A raised hand caught their attention, and they both turned toward a dazzling, dark-haired muralist from Angel Fire who sat near the far wall.

“I have a cartographer friend who’d jump on this project if the budget allows enough to pay him,” offered Monét Montoya, bangle bracelets tinkling as she gestured. “He’s worth it. His maps aren’t just maps, they’re art.”

Erica nodded. “Great. Get with me after the meeting and I’ll take down his information.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “If that’s all right with you, Mr. Garza? It is your project, after all.”

He appreciated the consideration. “Fine.”

“Good, then.” She typed the idea into her laptop with finality, and moments later it appeared on the projector screen:

Las Vegas: Display of seven piñatas in the form of historic buildings suspended above an art map of the city.

“Thank you, Mr. Garza.” Erica smiled at him, and his stomach tightened with a distant emotion he vaguely recognized as lust. His wariness increased. Granted, she was hot. Any red-blooded man could see that. But he had no intention of bringing a strange woman into his life—or his daughter’s life—lust or no. As Bob Marley so wisely crooned, “no woman, no cry.” He and Hope had learned their lesson on that account long ago.

“My pleasure.” He managed to smile with his mouth, but his eyes failed to cooperate. Not wanting to appear surly, he softened what he was sure had been a cold expression with a wink. To his surprise, her eyes widened slowly before she averted her gaze and cleared her throat. Interesting. When she raised her face to the crowd, Tomás noticed a flush to her chest in the V of her blouse, which belied the calm, cool exterior. He looked away, denying his own awareness. Awareness that had no place in this meeting room, or in his life.

“Okay, let’s move on.”

Please do, he thought, with palpable relief.

He watched Erica toss her hair and focus on another lucky artisan in the room. Grateful that her disconcerting attention had shifted elsewhere, Tomás tuned out a bit while the rest of the towns weighed in. He sat back to ruminate further about the best way to approach Erica Gonçalves with his proposition.

The job probably wasn’t as prestigious as her regular gigs, but he needed her, much as he hated to admit it. She could pull this off without a hitch, and he…well, he wasn’t so sure he could pull it off at all on his own.

The very thought of not being capable, of knowing he needed to seek help, brought self-disgust bubbling up in his throat. He and Hope had never needed help from anyone before. He hated admitting that he didn’t have every aspect of his busy life under control. Lately though, where his little girl was concerned, he didn’t seem to have a damn thing under control, and he’d do just about anything to make it better.

Part of it was her age, he knew. Kids went wacky during the middle-school years. Part of it was hormones, something he didn’t want to think about in relation to his baby girl. He needed to accept the fact that Hope wasn’t a baby anymore, however, and that sometimes young ladies acted…mysterious. Detached. More confusing the closer they came to womanhood—the nature of the beast. He pictured her and smiled with equal parts love, fatherly concern and sympathy, remembering age fourteen only too well. It wasn’t so many years since he’d been there, considering he’d been little more than a child himself when Hope had come along.

But he wasn’t the child anymore, he was the parent, and it was his responsibility to fix things, to make life perfect for his daughter. All that mattered was her happiness, and, much as he hated to admit it, the lady standing at the front of the small conference room could be the answer to his prayers. He wouldn’t allow stubborn pride to keep him from reaching out to her. No. He’d buck up and solicit her help, no matter how galling it was to admit his parental shortcomings. He’d do anything for Hope, even go into debt, even swallow his own foolish pride.

Calmer, more determined, he took in a breath and tracked Ms. Gonçalves’s smooth, efficient movements with his eyes, feeling better by the moment. If anyone could pull this off, she could. Everything would work out, and his daughter would magically revert back into the adoring, open, happy girl she had once been.

Pride swallowed. Help accepted.

Problem solved. Balance restored.

Hope and Daddy against the world once again.