Summer Dreams (5 page)

Unwilling to contradict her grandmother, Natalia gave Pura's hand a quick squeeze and trained her eyes on the field.

The pitch came, fast but level, across the plate. Esteban grasped the bat in both hands, turning it sideways and punching at the ball. The ball spiraled into the air and thudded to the ground a few paces away. Esteban sprinted toward first base, but the pitcher was ready. He scrambled and grabbed the ball, throwing Esteban out. The opposite side of the bleachers cheered and leapt to their feet, raucous and loud in their victory.

Natalia sagged on the hard wooden bench. All her pent-up exhilaration and hope drained away, leaving her feeling like an empty Christmas present. Pura touched her shoulder and said, "It was inevitable. The coach made a poor decision."

"
Sí
, but Esteban will pay for it."

"
Sí
, Esteban will pay," Pura agreed.

They climbed down from the bleachers and went to Pura's Chevy to wait. The ballpark emptied of fans. Natalia didn't want to face Esteban after his defeat. But her grandmother refused to leave, saying he needed them. To Natalia's way of thinking, if she were Esteban, she'd want to slink away and lick her wounds in private.

He emerged from the locker rooms, freshly showered and with his brown hair wet. He wore his familiar uniform of faded denims and work shirt. Natalia found herself wondering if he possessed any other clothes. He lifted his left hand in greeting and smiled crookedly. His right hand clutched a long, tubular bag, with the head of a bat sticking out.

Natalia opened the pickup door and got out. With her hands folded into the pockets of her trousers, she approached him, not certain of what she should say, searching for words to make everything okay. But what could she possibly say to make it right? She glanced back at Pura. Her grandmother lifted her hand and waved, as if urging her on. 

"Hey, thanks for coming. I'm glad you saw me play," Esteban said without the slightest hint of rancor. He dropped the baseball bag and faced her with his hands riding his hips.

"You had two doubles and a triple. The score was close," she said. "It was a good game."

He half-grinned and looked away, as if it was too painful to meet her eyes. "
Sí
, a good game until the last inning."

"But the coach was wrong, Esteban." 

She didn't know why she felt a burning urge to relieve his pain. He was a big boy now, not a troubled youth. When was she going to let go of his bad boy image? As far as she knew, he was a model citizen.

"Maybe the coach was right, and I didn't execute properly," he said.

"But everyone knew the coach gave you the signal to bunt." She didn't want Esteban putting himself down. "The other team wasn't surprised and---"

"That's baseball," he said with a shrug.

"
Sí
, but the last pitch was straight and over the plate. I'm sure you could have---"

"Don't be so sure." He shook his head. "Nothing's certain in baseball."

"Like life?" She asked, echoing her grandmother. Maybe that's why Sonia thought she was so dreary, she seemed to be channeling her grandmother's seventy year old thoughts. But she agreed with much of what Pura said.

Suddenly, she wished she was more like her sister living life as it came, enjoying each day for what it brought.

He shrugged again. "
Sí
, as you say." 

His gaze fell on her. She wondered what he was thinking.  Did he agree with her cynical assessment, or did he wish she would lighten up?

Raising her eyes, she met his gaze. His smoky eyes hinted at more than philosophical sparring. He was staring at her intensely, his gaze curiously intimate and greedy at the same time, as if he were a starving man, relishing a banquet.

That image of a banquet gave her an idea. "Come home to supper with us. I'll make chicken enchiladas with rice and beans." 

"
Sí
, that sounds good," he agreed and smiled. But this time, it was a proper smile that lit up his storm-cloud gray eyes. "I'll meet you at the farm." He leaned down and grabbed his baseball bag and headed for his battered Toyota Corolla. 

She turned toward the pickup, but this time, it was she who stared. Her gaze tracked him, watching the way his rear-end moved in the almost too-tight jeans. With her blood pressure in overdrive and her heart pounding in her ears, she closed her eyes, blotting out his all-powerful male allure.

Chapter Three

Hector García stared at the neon, digitized stock market ticker. The unforgiving yellow lights flew by, a second-by-second pulse-reading of the ups and downs of the market. Closing his eyes, he willed the images from his brain. But as if mocking him, he could see them in his mind's eye, spelling doom.

Mouthing an obscenity, he pushed roughly at another broker who was trying to squeeze past him. The trading room was in an uproar. Analysts were screaming into cell phones and typing furiously into their laptops, trying to salvage their customers' investments. He should be doing the same, but he couldn't make his limbs respond. It was as if someone was holding him underwater, and he was slowly drowning.

The market was down. 

When he wanted the market to go down to cover his shorts, it went up. When he needed for the market to rise and justify his options, it went down. As fickle as a high-priced prostitute's heart---that was the stock market. 

Perspiration dripped from beneath his pin-striped Giorgio Armani shirt. Sniffing, he realized he stank. The stench of his fear was overpowering. Not wanting anyone to guess his reaction to this bear swing, he moved like a robot to his laptop and entered the sell information to stem the tide of his losses.

Once he'd stopped his own losses, he quit the trading room to retrieve his customer list from the glass cubicle that served as his office. Away from the crush, he found the long hallway deserted. Momentarily relieved, he leaned against the cool plaster of the wall and closed his eyes, wishing he could sink into the thick-piled carpet.

"Are you okay, Mr. García?" A pert voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts.

His eyes snapped open and he faced Candy, the firm's drop-dead gorgeous receptionist. 

Plastering a smile on his face, he lifted a hand to smooth back his hair, while furtively swiping at the river of perspiration on his brow. "I'm fine. It's this new diet I'm on. It makes me light-headed."

"Oh, but you don't need to diet, Mr. García," Candy said, her sugar-coated southern drawl soothing. "You look fit to me. Not like some of these old farts aroun' here."

Flattered by her compliment, he straightened his shoulders and adjusted his silk tie. He couldn't help but notice the twin mounds of her breasts beneath her lacy blouse. The hallway wasn't that wide and not much space separated them. He considered her in a new light. Before, he wouldn't have thought to pursue her, believing she was reserved for the senior partners of the firm. But he knew a come-on when he heard one. 

"Thank you, Candy. I try to keep in shape. You seem to, ah, take good care of yourself too," he added, openly staring at her impressive chest.

She laughed a high, squealing sound. "A girl has to protect her assets, isn't that what y'all preach around here?" She laid her hand on his chest, spreading her vermillion-tinted nails for a second before withdrawing with a wink. "Know what Ah mean?"

Hector knew exactly what she meant. And he was eager to pursue the matter, ready to uncover any hidden assets she might have.

"Mah break's almost over. I need to use the little girl's room." She giggled as if it was a wonderful joke and left him with, "See yah sometime."

He watched her totter away on too-high heels, her hips bouncing like an over-heated thermometer. She was quite a number, and he wondered how she'd perform in bed. More often than not, women with gorgeous figures were basically cold, relying on their perfect bodies as enticement enough.

At the far end of the hall, the ladies' bathroom door swung shut behind Candy, halting his wandering thoughts. Reality intruded. Hearing voices from the other end of the hall, he pushed himself away from the wall and continued to his cubicle.

Like a pet hamster in a wheel, his thoughts spun and spun. He needed money, several thousand dollars at least. And there was no way to raise it. That was why he was in this fix in the first place. His condominium and Jaguar were financed to the hilt. His family expected him to provide their financial security, not the other way around. They had nothing to give him.

If only he hadn't followed his hunch and used his clients' funds to buy short, four months ago, then he wouldn't be in this fix. But he'd had to do something. Slow and careful plodding in the stock market didn't make a man rich.

Faced with criminal charges if he didn't replace his clients' money, he had turned to the only source for quick cash he knew---the Pérez brothers. He was no fool, he knew they were loan sharks and would demand exorbitant interest, but he'd had no choice.

After replacing his clients' monies, he retained a portion of the loan and invested in growth stocks, stocks that would earn ten times their value in a bull market. But he'd bet wrong again, the upswing hadn't lasted. 

This Monday had shown a small decline, yesterday brought a moderate downturn, and today, with the Fed's tightening of the interest rate, unleashed a bloodbath. He'd guessed right about the Fed rate, but he'd guessed it too soon when he'd sold short before. Timing was everything, especially in the stock market.

Cursing under his breath, he entered the cubicle and pulled up his client list on the table top computer. The names danced before his eyes; the list included some of Dallas' movers and shakers. On top of his personal woes, he would be faced with screaming clients, demanding he return their money to them.

He slumped over his desk and pressed his fists against throbbing temples. It was too much; all too much. He couldn't be right all of the time. His father couldn't begin to understand the ferocious competition in the market and the fickleness of investments. No, his father believed he could perform miracles.

And the Pérez brothers would be expecting him to repay the loan, or at least, pay interest. With his investments floundering, he couldn't hope to pay them off. It would take, minimum, about four thousand dollars to keep them happy---a piddling sum. Almost ridiculous for a man of his stature to worry about. 

Would American Express advance him the sum? No, he was maxed out on his credit cards and his bank account was overdrawn. He chewed on his thumbnail, biting it ragged. He had to get the money for the interest on the loan. 

He spit out the sliver of thumbnail and forced himself to take several deep breaths, considering his options. The easiest solution would be to put off the Pérez brothers. Maybe they would give him an extension. After all, his family was highly esteemed in the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex. His family's status should be worth something. How could they possibly turn him down?

***

Natalia placed a plate, filled with steaming enchiladas, Spanish rice and pinto beans in front of Esteban. She returned to the kitchen and fetched her own plate and Pura's.

When she seated herself, Pura instructed them to clasp hands across the table, and she led them in the blessing. Natalia tried to focus on the words of her
abuela
, but she failed, finding herself relishing the warm, calloused feel of Esteban's hand in hers. 

How many times had they held hands? As children, they had gone everywhere, hand-in-hand. But for the past three years, since her engagement, Esteban hadn't touched her. Not until she'd come home this time, not wearing her ring.

The blessing over, they squeezed hands. Was it her imagination or had his hand lingered, enclosing hers in his strong fingers for a brief second more, as if he savored the feel of her hand, too?

She lowered her gaze to her plate and cut a bite of enchilada, followed by a mouthful of rice and beans. But she wasn't hungry. Eating was just an act. What she was hungry for, she couldn't have.

"This is delicious, my compliments to the cook." Esteban's gray gaze swept her and he smiled, white teeth flashing in his sun-bronzed face.

She ducked her head, uncomfortable with compliments of any kind, especially from Esteban.

"
Sí, mi
Nieta, you got the beans just right this time. Not too many peppers. You'll make a wonderful homemaker," her grandmother said.

Natalia stiffened. What was Pura hinting at? As much as she loved her
abuela
, she could kill her at certain times. This was one of them.

Esteban put his fork down and said, "Natalia has other goals. She wants to be the best special education teacher in the world. I can understand that. I want to be the best ballplayer."  He laughed. "Dreams are wonderful, aren't they?"

Pura agreed, "
Sí
, dreams are wonderful. Sometimes, dreams are all that keeps us going."    

"Speaking of dreams," he said, "I saw a scout from the Kansas City Royals at last week's game.
Por Dios
, I'm glad he didn't come to this game. Last week, I hit a homer and our team won. Timing is everything, that's what coach tells us."

Silently, Natalia agreed with him. Timing was everything. Would she have turned him down, four summers ago? She had been dating Hector then, but they hadn't committed to each other. And she'd had a crush on Esteban since she was a child.

Her gaze traveled, with a will of its own, over Esteban. What was it that drew her so? He was handsome, but many men were handsome. Was it his slate gray eyes or his cocoa-colored hair? Or the sculpted planes of his face? What about the tiny scar over his left eyebrow?  She'd asked him about that scar, years ago, but he'd laughed and evaded her question.

Or was it his body that drew her? His lean, muscled body outlined in denim and khaki. Hector's body was nice---trim and fit. But there was something about the lithe grace of Esteban that left her breathless. Could she be foolish enough to want him because she knew she shouldn't get involved with him?