Christina takes a sip from her wine, eyeing me skeptically. "Your Uncle Arturo called me a few days ago."
Why would he do that? Is he using her to convince me to work for him? I set my silverware down and push aside the grilled salmon plate. I have to force myself to unclench my jaw as I wait for her to finish.
She downs the rest of her wine, and then exhales slowly. "He wanted to offer his condolences about the baby and then he started telling me stories about how you used to follow him around in the kitchen. How whenever he would come over, you'd run and get your apron. How you'd rather help him cook than go outside and work on something for Tio."
I force myself to ignore the increasing tempo of my heart and try to keep my expression even. "That was a long time ago."
Biting on her lip, she runs a finger across the rim of her glass. Her expression is erotic, distracting. I realize the stakes must be high if Christina is using her sexual charms this early. "He thinks you've missed your true calling. He said something about his new catering business."
I shake my head. "I can't leave Tio."
She slumps in the booth, sighing. "It's obvious you're unhappy with your job, Andrés. Tio wouldn't want you to be miserable for the rest of your life."
"Catering doesn't pay enough, mija."
"Arturo said he offered you eighty thousand a year."
She says this as if I'm supposed to be impressed. Actually, the bills we have now don't exceed that income. Considering Christina was raised by a rich bitch, she's pretty low maintenance, with the exception of the money she spends on paint. I know we could be comfortable on eighty-thousand plus whatever she makes. But I also can't forget she broke up with a billionaire's son to be with me. Ten years from now, when she doesn't have a luxury car or mansion, I don't want her regretting her decision.
"I've made almost two-hundred thousand this year working for Tio," I say. "I'll make double that next year."
I'm expecting her to be shocked by this news, but she doesn't so much as bat an eyelash. We haven't discussed how much I'll be making, other than it will be a lot. It was only last week, as Tio and I were going over the books with his accountant, that we discussed what I might expect to make in the coming years. They said I could easily pull in half a million a year.
Frowning, her gaze searches mine. I tense up, wondering what she's searching for. Finally, she folds her hands, staring at me with those penetrating eyes, as if she's trying to melt away my layers of resistance.
"But will you be happy?" she asks.
No, I think to myself, but I'm still unwilling to admit it. "We could buy a house. A nice house, maybe even a ranch of our own."
She strokes my hand with her delicate fingers. "How nice will it be if you're never there to share it with me?"
***
Christina
We walk hand-in-hand beneath the colorful, flashing lights on Freemont Street. A video plays on a large canopy screen above us. It's like the whole ceiling is a rock video, and hot music filters in from the loudspeakers surrounding us. The street is teaming with vendors selling all kind of goods, from chocolate to personalized license plates. And the entertainers on the street are hilarious. After growing up in Austin, the weird capital of Texas, I should be used to strange, right? But I don't know how to classify some of the people I meet in downtown Vegas. There's the topless woman who's somehow managed to avoid being labeled a flasher by painting giant strawberries on her Double-D, saggy breasts. Not quite sure who she's pretending to be other than a middle-aged woman with delusional Strawberry Shortcake fantasies. There's the old guy in a diaper, wearing cupid wings and a bow strung across his back. My favorite has to be the bronze cowboy. That's right. He's painted every part of his body, from his boots to his hat, bronze , and he stands as still as a statue while people pose for pictures. Of course, none of them do it for free, so Andrés hands three Elvises some bills and we snap a few pictures with them.
We're strolling arm-in-arm, eating cotton candy and enjoying the odd attractions, when I stop suddenly, as if I've run into a brick wall.
Omigod!
I break into a run until I reach the storefront window. I place my hands on the glass, and I think my jaw hits the concrete as I stare at the shoes the mannequin is wearing. And when I say the shoes, I mean my shoes.
These red, strappy heels with pretty shimmery flower bows match the flowers on my wedding gown perfectly.
"What is it, mija?" Andrés asks as he joins me.
I point at the window and jump up and down. "The shoes!"
He looks at me as if I've gone loco.
"My shoes," I squeal. "The shoes that match my wedding dress. I gave up looking for them and here they are."