Heavy Love(16)

I toss back the drink, tasting chunks of garlic in the minty concoction.  The flower petals need an extra bit to wash down, so I refill the glass  with water, and slam it back like a triple shot. The sad thing is, a  triple shot won't even get this funk out of my mouth.

"All right, I'll teach the class on  …  Tapas!" Damn that surprises even  me. Yeah, I can put together a few things without the people knowing how  my heart isn't into the meals. "Patatas bravas, Malorcan tumbet – the  fishermen catch any beautiful – "

"No, Franco. No, tapas," Aunt Célia says.

Juan takes a deep breath and starts out of the kitchen. She makes a face  at his back. Then the sincerity has returned to her face. That wise,  honey gaze of hers returns to me.         

     



 

"Mi amor, listen to me," Célia begins.

I nod my head.

"This place hasn't been doing as well as it once did," she says while  wringing her fingers together. "The new resort a little way down the  road has brought in more tourism. Petra has taken a few weeks off to  interview for a new position in Greece. All I can do is be happy for  Petra, she's the best executive chef anyone could ever ask for. How will  we replace her? We're fucked. The resort's prices rival that of  Southern Spain." She spits the words as if even uttering about the south  is distasteful. "Everybody wants to mix, to mingle! Always some sort of  sale, coupons for this or that," she purses her lips in disgust. "How  do we compete?"

"Let me  … " I stop myself, how to word offering money. Should I call it a  loan? That sounds awful, but they won't take the money. Sure families  help each other monetarily, no problem, but I'm like a son to my aunt.  She never bore children, and it was hard as hell trying to get some tail  in Cabo de Blanco while going through puberty with Célia around. There  was only one girl my aunt thought was good enough to be in my presence.

Almost a foot and a half shorter, Célia steps to me. Her hands reach to  my cheeks, my stubble, bristling palms, dig into her wrinkled flesh. She  says, "We are having a romantic event."

On cue enters my uncle with an ancient, heavy laptop in his hands. "This is all your aunt's doing."

I glance at the fuzzy computer screen, they've advertised Chef de León's  arrival and how I'll be completing a series of romantic eats. My jaw  clenches.

I scan the items that I'll be cooking or baking. And I'm supposed to do this crap with a dose of love. How motherfucking ironic.

~~~

The most upgraded area of the resort is above the cliffs where there was  a brick oven placed. This was my first – and only – financial tidbit in my  family's business. I forced it upon them or rather, persuaded my uncle  to spoon feed the idea to Célia. She in return received Carmen's  blessing, since my mother can't help run the Inn. They hired a chef in  the area to begin cooking classes. Some for romance, some for friends on  vacation together. I should've known that my agreeing to do this wasn't  for any promotion of the Inn.

Dressed in jeans and a v neck, I start up the lush slope toward the  outside cooking area that overlooks the sea. White folding chairs, with  guests, their back to me, are already sitting. Newlyweds, couples,  young, and old are canoodling. A man brushes the hair behind his  girlfriend's ear. A lurch in my chest cavity makes me think of people  who lose body parts and have those phantom senses of feeling. Yeah, has  to be that, because Lido ate my heart. So it must be a phantom sense as  his lips caress her ear with a stolen token of love.

Then my gaze sweeps over them and the rest of the canoodlers on top of  the bluff, to a few chicks, some blatantly lovers, others friends. And  then... I stop dead in my tracks. My pupils damn near pop as I glance at  her.

Five eleven, slender frame encased in jeans and a blouse slinking over  one olive shoulder. Brown hair with natural golden highlights is tied in  the same fish ponytail that was the usual when I came each summer.

The only girl my aunt liked for me. And whatever is approved by mi tia Célia is automatically cosigned by my mother.

Selena.

This has Célia's name written all over it. Sure this place can use  upgrades, to a visitor who is devoid of emotion. You can't walk through  the halls of the main inn without your senses being teased, by Célia's  cooking. Furthermore, each stitch, each ruffle in the furniture adds  more character. There are enough loyal customers who come to this resort  each season in order for it to stay afloat forever. Selena Rayes's  family included.

There can be no turning back. They all arise, eyes bright, seeing a star.

"Chef de León!" some gasp with shock, others brightly exclaim.  Swaggering over, I make introductions with each group, shaking hands,  hugging ladies while bestowing kisses on their cheeks, some are American  others from England, two sets are from Australia.

Selena's seated toward the opposite end of the bluff. It takes a few  rounds of laughter, and jokes for me to reach her. And then I'm there,  stopping in front of the one who got away years ago …

With a coy smile of pearly white teeth, Selena sticks out her hand. I do  just more than offer a shake, my gaze scours her luscious frame,  targets those mounds with blossoming peaks, no bra on under that blouse.  My other hand glides across the small of her back. A breath hitches  just past those pale pink lips; the hesitance doesn't stop me from  kissing the satin of her cheeks as I do with every other female I know.         

     



 

"Franco, it's been so long..."

Our eyes lock onto each other's. The dark marbles of her gaze twinkles  with a smile; Selena is an old friend, so I mirror her smile. "Long time  no see." Then I continue along the line.

After I finish giving the rundown of what food we are to prepare, I  whisper to my sous chef, a long time friend, Beatriz, "My Aunt Célia,  with her exaggerated stories. I had a feeling our good friend Petra  wasn't jumping ship."

Beatriz grins in response.

"Oh, so this – whatever this shit is – this is funny?"

"Don Franco, how do I look ratting out the head honcho? Let's just say I tried to speak up for you."

"All right, let's say you did. Nine times outta ten, you didn't. But  you're my amigo, so, let's just say my tia wasn't having it. She  probably got the idea from Carmen, eh?"

"Yeah, let's just stick with that." Beatriz nods while grinning. "Blame it on the dynamic duo."

We part ways with a rundown of the entrée and dessert item we are  making. Once that is set, I say, "Everyone get your partner in crime.  Your cook buddy, or the one who will laugh and snitch when you don't  make it just right."

They laugh. For a few minutes its rowdy as people joke about snitching on their significant other or friend.

"But I don't have a partner..." Selena speaks up.

"Beatriz," I gesture toward Selena since she and Petra usually walk around overseeing.

Beatriz jogs to her side, patting Selena's back. "I promise not to laugh. Snitching, also, isn't my cup of tea."

After gathering everyone's attention, I speak up. "All right, ladies and  gentlemen! This is an intermediate course, but as I look at all of you  fine people, I realized I'm in the company of creative artist, so we're  gonna step our game up today. Are we all good with that?"

There are nods. A few hard yes's and a few fist pumps from the energetic  crowd. Though my aunt and mother have ulterior motives, this puts me  into the routine that I came to America with. Being flashy. Being overly  confident, because I knew how fucking good I was in the kitchen. Then I  allowed the passion to return to my persona, and excelled …

But there will be no passion today. Just primitive survival. There's a  complementary glass of wine on each station. The right ingredients for  beef and potato empanadas are at the ready. We're just about to get  started when long brown tresses float up from the climbing passageway. I  stop mid-joke and have to redirect the dialogue to Beatriz, since a  gorgeous, angelic vision now comes into view.

Angelique...





CHAPTER 13


Angelique





IT'S AN HOUR and a half after Melody told me to arrive at the darn  romantic cooking courses. But I just bite the friggen bullet. Forty-five  minutes ago, I'd donned khaki capris, and a simple red shirt. With only  one apple-red canvass wedge on, I began to search the bungalow high and  low for any trace of Eduardo. Not that a big, strong man like that can  hide under the rug, and yes I did look under the rug, but for evidence. A  stack of matches from the hotel he's staying or, no wait, I'd already  pegged him as a local. Shamefully, I searched high and low, then finally  snatched up the other heel before stepping outside.

I take a deep breath of failure while walking up to the bluff where the  cooking class has begun. Inwardly hating on myself for searching for any  bit of proof that I hadn't lost my damn mind.