From Barcelona, with Love (17 page)

“Mac Reilly, you have not changed,” she murmured. “Even the black eye is the same. You were always in trouble, even before I met you.”

“And for the same reason,” he said. “A guy in a bar I picked a fight with.”

“For a
good
reason, I'll bet.”

“For Bibi,” he said. “It was her husband.”

In an instant the past was left behind. Lorenza disengaged herself, took a step back, folded her arms over her chest again.

“Ah, Bibi,” she said. “Odd, isn't it, that my husband's famous daughter should bring us back together?” But what Lorenza was thinking was how strange fate was. Fate, Lorenza believed, never left anything to chance. Fate was preordained. And Mac had not changed … he was the same, oh, he was the same …

She shook her head, cleared her thoughts, pulled herself together.

“I'm forgetting my manners,” she said lightly. “I've not even offered you a drink. Come with me.”

She led the way across the hall into the big kitchen whose square-sash windows overlooked a neglected side garden. Weeds and tall grasses had overtaken the roses and she lifted open the windows letting in the scent of jasmine and the sound of birds singing their evening song. The sky had darkened, rain suddenly spattered.

Mac leaned against the counter, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, watching her. She was the same. Oh, yes, she was the same.

“Rain is such a wonderful sound in hot summer.” She removed a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator that kept it at exactly the correct temperature for serving. Mac took it from her, stripped off the wire cage, and slid the cork smoothly out without even a pop, merely a wisp of smoke.

“Remember, we used to drink rum and Coke.” He poured the crisp elegant Krug into crystal flutes. “It was all we could afford, and barely even that.”

“Young and poor.” Lorenza lifted her glass to his in a salute. “Sometimes I think those were the best times of our lives. Remember, Mac?”

Oh, he remembered it well. Somehow youth and love and sex had overcome their perpetual state of poverty, surviving as they did on take-out rice and beans from the nearby Cuban café, splurging on proper dinner at a bistro or an evening at a club when he got paid, or when she got her allowance from her parents, which stopped when they realized she was no longer attending college and summoned her back home.

There was something magical in the optimism of young love that could never be repeated. Then life moved on. The years added up. More than twenty now.

“Did I tell you, you look wonderful,” he said, leaning back against the counter again, keeping his distance.

She laughed and pointed to her face. “Look closer, Mac, and you'll see
I'm
no longer the girl you knew. And you are not the young man
I
knew.” She studied him for a minute, then took a taste of her champagne. “I must say, though, like a good wine, you've aged well. In fact I think you look better than ever, with all that success and experience on your face, in your eyes.”

Dangerous ground lurked between them. Mac thought of Sunny, of Malibu, of Pirate and his TV show. His real life. It was time to move back to reality.

He strolled round the large kitchen, glass in hand, inspecting shelves stacked with heavy pottery dishes in vibrant reds and blues and yellows. He looked at the large landscape painting of an English garden on the wall opposite the window, took in the copper-colored walls, the yellow window shades, the deep blue of the big Dacor stove. Lorenza had always loved color.

“You know I don't live here anymore,” Lorenza said. She took the bottle of champagne from the cooler and refilled their glasses. “I haven't offered you anything to eat,” she added, “because after our business discussion I want to take you to my stepdaughter's restaurant.” She threw him a challenging glance from the corner of her eye. She knew Mac was a hamburger-and-ribs kind of guy. “Floradelisa's is one of Barcelona's most daring restaurants, known for its…” She hesitated, looking for the right word. “Shall we say
adventurous
food.”

“Then I'll look forward to the adventure,” Mac said. “And tell me, why don't you live here anymore?”

“This was our home, Juan Pedro's and mine. I was lost without him.”

“I understand.”

“I live at the vineyard, south of the city. I love it there.” She laughed. “I'm the boss. I can keep an eye on everything, and everyone. Nothing gets past me. I'm a tyrant.”

“But you get the results you want.”

“You know about my winery?”

“Now I do.”

“I never remember you drinking wine.”

“I couldn't afford it,” he said. “Or at least not the kind I might have wanted to drink.”

“Well, now you
can
. My wines are aimed at exactly that market, at people who want a decent wine at an affordable price.”

Mac listened as Lorenza told him how she had learned her trade, traveling through Spain's Rioja country, through France's Loire and Burgundy, Saint-Émilion and Bordeaux.

“It took me four years of nonstop learning,” she said. “And it took my mind off my loss. I was too busy for grief.”

Mac thought that was a pity. Grief was necessary; without it life went on unfinished.

She poured a glass of her red and held it out. “Taste,” she said, looking at him. He knew she wanted his approval.

He tasted, thought about it. Tasted again. Considered.

“I'm a man who knows wine now,” he said. “I have my favorites, I know what I like and a lot of it is too expensive. So when I tell you this is good, Lorenza, you know I'm not simply flattering you. This is a good, decent, homely red with a flowery aftertaste that somehow reminds me of you.”

She threw back her head in a delighted laugh. “Coming from you, that's indeed praise.”

He put down the glass, slid onto a bar stool at the counter, and for the moment put the past where it belonged.

He said, “Okay, Lorenza, you got me here. Now, let's get down to business. I want to hear the whole story and the real reason you want me to find your long-lost, and possibly murderous, stepdaughter.”

 

Chapter 25

Malibu

Sunny was on her
way to Mac's place. The Napa trip had been stunningly successful; not only had she gotten her client a lot of publicity, she'd also been approached by two other wineries. Business was looking up. She might even need a third assistant, someone like Mac's Roddy, who was babysitting the dogs and the house while they were away.

California was undergoing one of its periodic heat waves. Even Malibu seemed to be melting under the sun. The ocean glimmered smooth and gray-green and the air pressed heavily on her shoulders as she turned her convertible into the Colony, waving hi to the gatekeeper, who knew her well. She made a right at the T-junction and drove along the only street. The large houses to her left were on the beach; the ones to her right had shady gardens, and all were expensive. Except Mac's, of course, though Sunny guessed he'd probably get a good price for it now as a teardown. The drive from the airport had been one long traffic hell and now here she was, parking outside Mac's place, and he wasn't even here to greet her.

Barcelona!
she thought, frowning.

She slammed the car door shut, calling hello to a neighbor and waving to the guy who detailed the neighborhood's cars, pointing a finger at her own and mouthing
Tomorrow?
He waved a chammy cloth back and mouthed
Okay.
A few days of parking at LAX had left a film of grit over Sunny's brand-new white four-door Porsche Panamera. Everybody else in L.A. seemed to drive black cars, despite the heat. She didn't get it. It was just one of those L.A. things, like Botox, or pumped-up lips, or boob implants. Sunny thanked God she had no need to follow those fashions; nature had given her very satisfactory breasts, a good body, full enough lips, and a so-far unraveled brow. And a white car. Long may it reign.

She leaned against the car, taking in Mac's little house, the scene of their love affair, with its pale sea-greenish paint job, its fretwork trim, its white door that led directly into the living room. The ficus tree in the small side yard was getting too big for its boots, and its branches were spreading onto the tiled roof. She'd remember to tell Mac to do something about that.

It was so comfortingly familiar; the house where she and Mac lived together. Well, most of the time they did. Her own home was out at Marina del Rey, a modern condo with floor-to-ceiling expanse of windows, pale walls, white sofas, and a perfect—albeit small—stainless-steel kitchen where, as chef-in-residence, she cooked for the two of them, and sometimes their guests. Her bedroom was usually a chaos of half-unpacked suitcases and strewn clothing, since she was always somehow halfway between there and Malibu. Her untidiness drove Mac crazy but she bargained her way out of it by cooking him great food and she always said proudly he could eat off the floor of her kitchen. If Tesoro would allow him, that is.

She opened the gate to the narrow sandy path leading to the beach.

Mac was in Barcelona. Without her. Damn it, why couldn't he have waited? They could have gone together, made it into a holiday. She would have given up Mauritius if he would have given up the fishing trip. They had never been to Spain and she would have loved to see the city where Picasso was born, explore Gaudi's fabulous church and the Güell Park and the museums, maybe visit the coastal village of Cadaqués where Dali had lived and worked with his scary wife, Gala. And then there was Seville and Granada, the beauty of the Alhambra with its famous gardens and courtyards … damn it, why hadn't Mac waited for her!

She had no idea what was happening with Bibi and Paloma. There had been only one message from Mac.
You're not missing anything but traffic and me,
he'd said, or something like that. Well, she was also missing seeing Barcelona.

Tesoro heard her footsteps and came flying toward her followed by an irate Roddy, golden blond, spray tanned, blue eyed, and gorgeous.

“Goddammit, dog,” he was yelling as he rounded the corner, almost colliding with Sunny. He put out his arms to stop himself and she fell into them, laughing.

“I might have known it was you,” he said, hugging her. “That bloody dog never moves so much as a whisker unless it's to attack Mac or try to kill Pirate, or else run to her mama.”

“Don't you call my baby a bloody dog,” Sunny said, bending to scoop up Tesoro, who whined pathetically. Ears flattened, she licked Sunny's face, letting her know how terrible she was to have abandoned her.

“Don't you worry, my precious,” Sunny murmured, kissing the dog's glossy little nose. Tesoro weighed in at just about three pounds and “Could,” as Roddy said now, “easily be squashed flat under a careless footstep.
Like maybe mine,
” he added grimly. The dog had driven him to distraction, yapping and whining, and biting at Pirate.

“Nobody's that careless,” Sunny said, taking Roddy's hand as they walked together onto the deck overlooking the beach.

“Overlooking” was not quite the right word; Mac's house was actually
on
the beach, built on old wooden pilings driven into the sand. The deck stretched the width of the house—small but fairly deep so there was room for a couple of chaises and a covered garden swing, a table, four chairs, and a couple of dog beds. Pirate was fast asleep in the one at the far end.

“You look upset,” Roddy said, checking out Sunny as she flung herself onto one of the two old Wal-Mart chaises. It creaked ominously, and she noticed it had definitely developed a list to the left.

“Not that you don't look wonderful, as always,” he added, leaning against the deck rail and taking in her narrow white Gap pants, black James Perse tee, and Chanel flats. No jewelry except for the small gold hoops, hair pulled on top with a scrunchie, not a speck of makeup.

“Goddammit, Sunny, I don't know how you do it,” he said admiringly. “All the way from northern California and you look fresh and beautiful as a daisy.”

“At least you didn't say ‘
goddamn'
daisy.”

She grinned at him and he apologized. “It's the dogs, they've driven me to cursing,” he said, reaching out to pat Tesoro, who gave him a baleful look and a curled lip.

“You see what I mean? That dog can drive a man insane.”

“That dog loves her mama, don't you, darling-heart?”

Roddy wafted a dismissive hand. “You must be dying of thirst. What can I get you?”

Sunny looked at the sullen silent sea, at the oddly threatening sky and the relentless sun. Even under the shade on Mac's terrace with the fan turning the air around it was stifling. The beach was almost never like this.

“Do we have any Pimm's?” she asked, suddenly inspired by the thought of the cool, summery English drink.

“My dear, of course we do.” Roddy beamed, delighted. He smoothed down his sleeveless black wife-beater tee and black satin swim shorts and clapped his hands delightedly together. “My dear, I even have
fresh mint
for it. Stole it from next door's terrace when they weren't looking. Just stay right there and get comfy. Won't be a sec.”

“Roddy,” she called as he disappeared through the sliding glass door into the kitchen. “Any news of Mac?”

He popped his head back out. “Only that he's in Barcelona. And that he has one of the blackest eyes you ever saw.”

“Purple?”

“Probably turning yellow and green by now. Trust me, sweetheart, you would not want to see him.”

Oh but I would, Sunny thought sadly.
Barcelona!
Oh, Mac! Lonely, she wondered what he was up to.

 

Chapter 26

Barcelona