Читать книгу A Pinch of Cool - Mary Leo - Страница 10

MYA MUST HAVE JUMPED three feet off the bed when she heard that bark. At first she thought she’d dreamed it, but when she heard it again, she knew the animal was close by. Which meant, of course, that Eric was somewhere close by. Was there no rest for the weary? No port in the storm? No time to recover? She rolled over and pulled the blankets up over her head.

“Honey, I thought you’d never wake up,” Rita Strano announced. She sat on the bed next to Mya and put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. Mya rolled over and stared up at her mother’s always beautiful face.

Her mother’s eyes widened and an eyebrow shot up. “What the heck happened? Are you all right?”

A shot of adrenaline raced through Mya’s veins. “What do you mean?”

“Do you feel okay? You look rather…awful.” Her mother took in a sharp breath. “Were you in an accident?”

Mya yawned and stretched. Her jaw ached and her right hip hurt. How odd, she thought. “Define accident.”

“Don’t kid. Do you hurt anywhere? You look like something the dog dragged in.”

Mya smiled. Her bottom lip stung. “He did.” She was beginning to get somewhat worried over all the aches and pains.

“I don’t understand,” Rita grumbled, shaking her head.

Mya scooted out of bed thinking she needed to get a good look at herself in her bathroom mirror. She didn’t remember being in an actual accident, but then she’d read that if the accident’s really bad, a person can’t remember it. Like your brain saves you from the trauma or something. Okay, but she didn’t have any deep pain anywhere. Not really. Her lip hurt, and her hip was sore, and her ankle was a little stiff, and maybe her jaw felt a little weird, but nothing major. No headache. No nausea. No acid indigestion…no wait, she never got that. What was her mother talking about?

When Mya glanced in the mirror, she had no choice but to let out a short burst of a scream at the woman staring back at her.

Her mother came running in. “What’s the matter?”

Not only was Mya’s hair full of dried dog saliva and some kind of unrecognizable yellow substance, but her right cheek was slightly bruised, her bottom lip was swollen and her pretty floral dress was torn and just plain filthy.

“This is all your fault, Mom. You sent that…that disaster-on-wheels to pick me up from the airport. Are you trying to punish me for something?” Mya examined her bruised cheek and swollen lip in the mirror. She couldn’t believe there could be so much damage from one little fall. All right, maybe two falls. Then she remembered jumping into the back of the van, and the creepy yellow stuff, and how she had hit her face on the camera case.

“Of course not. I sent a comfy black limo to fetch you.” She hesitated for a moment. “Or did I tell Franko to order the limo?” She paused and thought for a second. “Yes. That was it. I got really busy with a Spanish blackberry torte and asked Franko to send over the limo. Oh, my! Did something go wrong with the limo driver? Did he attack you? You can’t trust anybody these days.”

“I wish the limo driver had attacked me. At least I would’ve been inside a clean car rather than a vile, stinking hell-on-wheels. It was Eric.”

“Eric attacked you?” She sat down on the closed toilet seat. “Who knew? And he was such a nice little boy. It’s that devil mother of his. I always knew she was a bad influence on that boy. We’ll send him to jail for the rest of his miserable life.”

Her mother was spinning out of control. Mya had to put a stop to it, or the police would be raiding Eric’s van at any moment…which, considering all he had put her through, might not be a bad idea. “Mom. Everything’s fine. Relax. It was nothing like that. Eric never touched me, well, except for a hug, which was way too long, by the way.”

She abruptly stopped staring at herself in the mirror. The yellow stuff was like glue in her hair and she had to get it out of there. “I have to take a shower this instant or I’ll explode.”

“That’s my girl. You need a good outlook on all of this. We’ll work it out, later, at dinner. I’m sure whatever happened between you two can be resolved.”

“Does this mean he’s coming to dinner?”

“Of course he is. He’s like a son to me.”

“A minute ago you were ready to put him in jail.”

“But now I’m not. See, it’s already working out.”

Mya pulled her dress up over her head and threw it on the white tile floor. Her mother picked it up. “Should I keep this as evidence, or should I burn it?”

Thoughts of a trial with Eric and her stained dress swirled around in Mya’s head. A long trial, with Calista Flockhart as her lawyer, and Lucy Liu as the judge. They’d fine him for a million dollars for causing Mya so much stress, but Eric wouldn’t be able to pay. She’d end up with his van. And Voodoo!

“Burn it!” she ordered. “Leave no thread uncharred.”

“I’ll get right to it. Enjoy your shower, sweetheart.”

Her mom left while holding the dress out in front of her with one hand. Mya closed the bathroom door, opened the glass door on the shower, turned on the water so it was nice and hot, stripped off her underwear and stepped under the gentle spray.

She wanted to stand there for the next hundred years and let the warm water run over her aching body. She had little aches and pains everywhere. She wondered how a simple ride from the airport could have caused all of this. She even had a bruise on her left shin.

Next time she’d take a cab or rent a car or steal a skateboard. She figured her lack of transportation judgment must have something to do with the coming-home thing. That unconscious need to be taken care of. The desire to return to the child stage, or some such madness. Why else would she have agreed to hitch a ride from Eric Baldini? The Tormentor.

Then she thought of how incredibly sexy she had felt when Eric had stared at her legs. She hadn’t been that turned on over something that simple in, well, forever. He had the best eyes, an olive-green color, and could probably be astonishingly attractive if he just dressed the part. Maybe a little product in his hair to make it stand up a little, a classic Calvin Klein shirt, and some H&M slacks. And where did he get those absolutely horrid blue shoes?

But why was she even thinking about Eric? He and his monster dog lived in Georgia for heaven’s sake. It was like swooning over somebody who lived in Brooklyn.

He may as well live on another planet!

She told herself to stop daydreaming and to think about her purpose for coming to L.A. in the first place. To save La Dolce Rita.

She needed to focus.

Now that she was safely home, she would go over her notes and present them at dinner. Turning, she let the water run down her face and belly while she lathered her hair, carefully. She turned again, rinsed and lathered it three more times, just to make extra sure the yellow goo was completely gone, along with any Eric Baldini residue.

Okay, she was back on track. Back in control.

Mya finished washing, dried off, dressed in a white Hugo Boss shirt and Ralph Lauren pink capris while she mentally prepared her speech on rules for cool. She wanted to wow Franko and her mom with her plan, and by tomorrow when the actual meeting rolled around, everyone would be prepared for the perfect pitch, Mya-style.

ERIC HAD WAITED PATIENTLY for someone to come home to let him in after Mya had locked him out. It wasn’t a long wait, maybe an hour or so. Obviously, no one had told Mya that he was her mother’s house guest for the next two weeks while his dad’s house was being renovated. He wondered how Mya would react to his constant presence after their afternoon together. Not that it was a necessarily bad afternoon. It was more in the somewhat strained category of afternoons.

At one point, he actually toyed with the idea of getting a room somewhere, but then decided against it because of his dog. Voodoo was a point of contention to most hotel and motel owners. It was just easier to sleep on a mat in the van while he traveled. However, sometimes getting a shower was something of a problem, but he hadn’t expected to have to pick up Mya at the airport the very day he arrived in L.A. That was his father’s idea, and not a very bright one. He never should have agreed to it, but his dad always could get him to do things he didn’t want to do.

Now, as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror off the guest room, shaving off his three-day-old beard, he wondered if giving her a ride home had been a smart move. The look on her face when he hugged her said it all. The woman wanted to run, not hug. He could see it in her eyes, those fantastic smoky eyes. And that body.

He put on his only clean T-shirt, black, and a pair of shiny blue knee-length shorts. Admittedly, he didn’t look quite up to her funky standards, but at least he didn’t smell anymore. He blamed the obnoxious odor on those bottles of spicy Cajun mustard his father had forced him to lug back from New Orleans. Voodoo couldn’t leave anything alone once it was inside the van.

Of course, Eric should have cleaned it up before he picked up Mya, but Voodoo had just ripped open the plastic bottles on the way and there hadn’t been any time.

This whole thing had been his father’s idea. Eric was happily filming his saloons when his dad had called him, begging for some help with La Dolce Rita. Not that Eric had a single idea of what to do to help, but his dad insisted that he come out anyway. He never could say no to his dad. The man had a way of making everything sound exciting. Like it was Eric’s idea. And this was no exception. By the time he drove into L.A. he was feeling euphoric about the possibilities, even though he still hadn’t one single clue of what to do to help. When he had heard that Mya was on her way out as well, he’d hoped they could work together on the show, but after everything that had happened that afternoon, he was sure the show was categorically doomed.

“AH, THAT’S MY BEAUTIFUL MYA,” Rita said crisply as Mya walked into the kitchen. Rita held out her arms and Mya embraced her mother. “Do you feel better, sweetheart?”

“Much,” Mya answered while they hugged even tighter.

Rita was the kind of mom every girl dreamed of, loving, beautiful and totally her own woman. It had always been just Mya and her mom. Her dad had died soon after she was born, so Mya hadn’t ever known her real father, just Franko. Rita owned several small businesses and some prime real estate, ran their house and looked amazingly young for her fifty-three years. She just needed a little boost to that incredible look of hers.

Franko had his back to her, stirring something in the corner of the kitchen. He wore a large white apron over his casual clothes, just like Emeril. Actually, Franko looked a little like Emeril, with his stocky build and black, perfectly combed hair. But Franko had a gorgeous smile, no doubt where Eric got his smile from, that he was quick to share for almost any reason. Franko was one of those content, happy men who never seemed to worry about anything.

“Ciao, bella,” he said as he turned to face Mya, his hands in the air, beaming as if he were truly surprised to see her. Franko had come over from Italy when he was just nineteen and never really lost his fabulous accent. Thus the reason he and Rita had been so successful. She was his American voice.

Mya was surprised at her reaction to seeing him. A thrill raced over her. Franko had virtually raised her as his own daughter, and Mya loved him for it. The only thing that kept her from calling him Dad was a lack of a marriage certificate between him and her mom.

“Ciao, bello,” Mya echoed and held out her arms as well. She loved to be hugged by Franko. He made her feel safe and warm and he smelled of anisette, one of her favorite liqueurs.

“You look’a like the queen,” he announced while they embraced.

“The queen of what?” Mya asked as she pulled away from him and gazed into his smiling face. She loved his rugged Italian face, full of love and compassion, and excitement. He had a dimple in each cheek, and a broad forehead and sparkling almond eyes.

“The queen of’a my heart.”

She melted back into his embrace for a few seconds longer. “What more could a girl want?”

“A FANCY DINNER DRESS,” Grammy Strano repeated as she scooped a few more clams into her dish. The two families had gathered around Rita’s long dinner table, and Grammy was busy giving a lecture on dinner etiquette. She still wore her golden hair in a stylish page-boy, and wore pink cat-eye glasses with rhinestones embedded in the corners. She kept her weight just under slim, had silky, olive-colored skin and a smile that was contagious. “In my day, the women came to the dinner table dressed in gowns and the men wore suits. None of this shorts business.”

She sat next to Eric and gazed down at his legs, scolding him with her eyes. Then she addressed the rest of the group around the table. Grammy liked being the center of attention, and always spoke her mind. “Dinner was an event. Then after dinner somebody would sing or play an instrument.”

“I can play chopsticks on the piano,” Eric announced.

“Great! Why don’t you play it for us after dinner,” Grammy urged, as she tucked a lace hankie down the front of her silver gown. She wore one of the many dresses she had designed for various movie stars during the forties and fifties. Lucille Marie Nudi had been one of the top fashion designers in Hollywood. She still clung to the notion that a woman needed to wear a hat and gloves every time she left the house and, apparently, a ball gown at dinner.

“Ma, we don’t have a piano,” Rita offered.

“Why not? With all your money, you’d think you could buy this boy a stinking piano so we could have some entertainment once in awhile.”

Mya tried to make Grammy understand the situation. The poor woman was obviously losing her memory. “Eric lives in Georgia, Gram.”

“I know that,” she said curtly, then turned to Eric and asked, “Did you bring your piano?”

“No, but I brought my dog.”

The dog from hell.

“Does he do any tricks?”

Let me tell you about the little trick he did in front of a truck today.

“He can twirl a basketball on his nose.”

Mya sat back to listen. This was getting good.

“That’ll do. Now I can eat knowing that after dinner we have entertainment. I’ve got a nice suit upstairs in my office that I designed for Clark Gable. You can wear that.”

“It would be my honor,” Eric said, giving a little bow. If you wanted to win Grammy’s approval, all anybody had to do was agree with her outrageous ideas. Eric seemed to know just what it took, because Grammy beamed from ear to ear.

All of this sucking up was temporary and he would be leaving right after the dog show.

The dinner table was covered from one side to the other with plates of enticing food. Both Rita and Franko had outdone themselves with culinary treats: pasta with clams, cockles and mussels in a wine, garlic and butter sauce; a sweet-pepper and leek tart; penne with broccoli, anchovies and raisins; homemade focaccia with tomatoes and fresh basil; roasted leg of lamb stuffed with artichokes; a zucchini flan and several bottles of Italian red and white wines.

“I’ve got some fantastic ideas of how to recreate the show,” Mya announced during a break in the conversation. “I was thinking of a more colorful set. Something along the lines of what’s happening in modern Italy. You need to appeal to a younger audience. The nineteen to thirty-five group. We might even do some shows to target teens. We need to sparkle to appeal to the ‘now generation.’ Maybe add some reds and oranges to the set to go with the kinds of food that are easy, healthy and visually exciting. I think you need to cook some exciting entrées with more panache, more flair for the daring.

“And, Mom, I’ve planned a makeover for you. Nothing drastic, just a little younger look. You too, Franko. It’s time to get rid of your white apron for simple slacks and a printed shirt. Maybe some sideburns and product in your hair to give it that edge everyone seems to be after.”

Everyone fell silent at the table.

Probably too excited to speak.

She knew she had totally captivated them with her incredibly savvy ideas. That it wouldn’t take long for them to actually stand up and applaud or throw flowers…or maybe not.

“Maybe this is good. I don’t know, but we should hear what my Eric, he has to say,” Franko added.

“Eric?” Mya said, completely thrown off course.

“Yes, dear,” Rita said. “Eric is going to help you. Won’t it be nice with you two working together again? Just like when you were kids. I think it’s a heavenly idea. Don’t you, dear?” Rita waited for Mya to answer. Franko waited for Mya to answer. Grammy waited. Even Eric waited for an answer.

And during that moment of anticipation, Voodoo barked and something crashed in the kitchen.

At least that dog was good for something.