Tall Cool One (20 page)

“Do you ride?” Eduardo asked.

Sam nodded, her eyes still on the horses. “Sleep-away camp in Maine when I was twelve. I had a crush on the equestrian—wait. Why am I telling you that? What are these horses doing here?”

“I thought perhaps you’d enjoy a trot down the beach.”

Sam was trying to let this sink in. “You had them bring horses.”

“Precisely. There’s something I’d like to show you. All right?” He held a hand out to her.

She didn’t know what his game was, but he was gorgeous, the horses were gorgeous, and this day in paradise was gorgeous.

What the hell, she figured, and took his hand. Let’s go for a ride.

A fifteen-minute gentle canter north on the beach from the resort brought them to an unspoiled expanse of palm trees and brilliant white sand. Sam thought that Eduardo had wanted to show her a glorious deserted beach. Fair enough. But instead of stopping, Eduardo urged his horse into the ocean—it splashed through the calm, foot-deep brine toward a small island a few hundred yards away. Before Sam could say anything or do anything, her horse plunged into the warm water, too.

A minute or two later, they were ashore; Eduardo led the way through the underbrush to a hoof-beaten trail and then to a clearing. Sam’s mouth dropped open when she saw what was in the center of the clearing: a linen-covered table for two, with wicker chairs and a beach umbrella shielding it all from the sun. On the table was a pitcher each of iced margaritas and lemonade, tostadas, fresh oysters on the half shell, a basket of baked rolls, right out of the oven—the wonderful odor wafted through the air—and giant, succulent strawberries.

“Um, do you have a hidden love for romance novels?” Sam marveled, eyeing the lavish spread.

Eduardo chuckled and dismounted his horse, hitching the animal to a tree. Then he held out a hand so Sam could dismount; he secured her horse, too, before holding a chair out for her. “Sit, please. I will tell you the whole story.”

She sat, still in a state of shock. “When did you arrange all this?”

“I told you, I’ve been to Las Casitas many times. It’s a wonderful resort. The staff can accommodate almost any request, as long as it is reasonable.”

“And apparently at Las Casitas a beach-side smorgasbord for two complete with horses is reasonable.” Even Sam was disarmed by the opulence. He nodded.

Sam cocked one eye at him. “What if I’d said no?”

Eduardo shrugged. “Brunch for one, I guess, alone on this beautiful island. It wouldn’t have been bad. But here we are. Two of us. Much better. Please.”

He gestured toward the food. As in: Please eat. This was getting more surreal by the minute. Boys in Beverly Hills
never
told her to eat.

Sam reached for a crusty roll. “It’s still hot.”

Eduardo smiled. “As requested. The catering staff is very thorough.”

Uh-huh. Sam figured she was dreaming, because things like this just didn’t happen in real life. But as long as she was in this fantasy, she might as well enjoy it. She buttered the roll, took a bite, then slipped an icy fresh oyster into her mouth. Fabulous.

As they ate, Eduardo told her about himself. He was the eldest son of a prominent Peruvian politician. He came from a large family that lived in a huge villa outside of Lima; he had been educated at Andover in Massachusetts, then at boarding school, and at Oxford in England. Now he was studying art at the Sorbonne in Paris.

“Basically, you’re from a royal Peruvian family,” Sam summed up, biting into a strawberry.

“Peru has changed. It’s a democracy now,” Eduardo told her. “But close enough. Some say my father will be the next president. So tell me about you, Mary Poppins.”

“Let’s stay with you for the time being.” Sam swallowed the strawberry and reached for another. “And let’s drop the bullshit, though I must admit that it is clever bullshit. Here’s my version. You’re a screenwriter wannabe from God knows where. Any moment now, you’re going to reach in your tennis bag for the spec you always carry, the one you think should star my father. In fact, no one could play the role
but
my father. How am I doing?”

Eduardo reached for an oyster and motioned for Sam to open her mouth. Why she did it, she didn’t know. He slid the oyster down her throat. “What are you talking about?” he asked while she chewed it.

Sam licked oyster juice from her lips. “You expect me to believe that you don’t know who I am?”

Eduardo shrugged. “A girl named Samantha who is very suspicious of me for reasons I cannot quite fathom.”

Jeez . . . he was really clinging to his story. On the off chance that he was telling the truth, Sam cautiously began to offer some truth of her own. That she was the daughter of the great Jackson Sharpe. “But you already knew that,” she concluded.

“No, I didn’t.” Again he looked utterly guileless. “Of course, I’ve heard of your father. Being his daughter must be troublesome, from time to time.”

“Yes,” Sam admitted honestly. “It is. I’m a suck-up magnet.”

“I have the same issue in Lima. Anyone who wants a favor from the government wants to be my friend. That’s why I never minded being sent away to school. Are you still angry that your friend shared your name with me?”

“No,” she decided. “I’m not.”

How could she stay mad at him? He seemed so nice. And interesting. And thoughtful. And hot.

Sam spread her arm wide. “I still can’t believe you planned all this. Did you buy off the tennis pro, too?”

Eduardo looked sheepish. “Let’s just say I arranged for him to be unavoidably detained. I couldn’t figure out another way to spend time with you.”

“It worked.”

“Good. The only thing is, I wish we had met earlier, Sam. Tomorrow I must return to Paris.”

She was amazed at how awful that made her feel. It wasn’t like she knew him.

“Oh, well,” she finally said, reaching for the last strawberry. “This was fun.”

“Actually I was hoping that you’d have dinner with me tonight. At the French restaurant? They make a wonderful
epaule d’agneau.
”

“Translation?”

“Braised mutton shoulder. With a wine list that’s unparalleled.”

Sam made a face. “I’ll skip the mutton. But, yes, it sounds great.” She felt shy . . . even more shy than she’d been in the water last night.

“Wonderful.” Eduardo beamed at her. “Then it’s a date.”

Sam couldn’t believe what was happening; that this incredible guy had taken one look at her—a naked her—and had decided to pursue her. She made one last stabbing test at his sincerity.

“You know, my friend Anna speaks fluent French,” Sam commented. “I guarantee she knows what wine goes with what dish. She probably studied it. Maybe we should invite her, too.”

Eduardo shook his head emphatically. “I’d prefer to have you all to myself.”

“Oh.”

Oh?
That was the best she could come up with?
Oh?

“I mean, it’s a date,” she added. “Anna and I are going to La Trinidad to shop. The hotel van is bringing us back to the resort at five-thirty.”

“Excellent. I’ll meet you up at your casita at seven. All right? Enough time to get ready?”

“Perfect,” Sam agreed. And it really was perfect, like some fairy tale she had dreamed up. But no alcohol or hallucinogens were involved—this was real life; it really was happening.

Then Eduardo leaned across the table, took her hand, and kissed it. It wasn’t lame or corny at all. It was sweet and sincere and, from Sam’s point of view, absolutely amazing. But even more amazing was what he said when he moved her hand from his warm lips.

“Sam, may I say one more thing to you?”

She nodded.

“Just this.” He gazed into her eyes. “You are very beautiful.”

Moth Larvae

A
nna and Sam studied the wood sculpture of a Mexican peasant mother cradling her infant son. It was two feet high and gloriously done. Sam had expressed an interest in it, and the artist with the weather-beaten face had just named his price.

“I have an aunt who collects primitive art,” Anna murmured to Sam. “That piece is worth at least five thousand dollars. He’s asking the equivalent of five hundred.”

Sam shook her head. “Only one problem. I don’t have that kind of cash on me.”

It was early afternoon. As planned, the Las Casitas van had dropped them off at the La Trinidad town square. They’d wandered around the small town and stumbled into this artist’s studio—basically a hole-in-the-wall. No wonder the sculptor had such an anxious look on his face.

“I can’t buy it,” Sam realized. “Let’s not prolong his agony.” She began to tell the artist this in her very fractured Spanish, but Anna interrupted.

“Listen, Sam. I’ve got an idea. We can call Las Casitas and have them send out some Mexican pesos with the driver when the van picks us up. I’m sure that would be no problem. They’ll just put it on your account.”

Sam nodded. “That’s a great idea.”

Between Anna and Sam, they were able to explain their plan to the artist. At first he wasn’t buying it. But eventually, they managed to convince him. He was so pleased about the purchase that he kissed both Anna and Sam on the cheeks like long-lost relatives. Then he reached into his ancient trousers and extracted a business card. Anna examined it when he handed it to her.

“It’s a restaurant. El Toreador. The Bullfighter. I think he wants us to eat there.”

“Sí. La comida es muy buena,”
said the artist. “Good. Good.”

“Then we should go,” Sam agreed. “I’m starved. When you don’t eat for three weeks, it’s amazing how hungry you get.”

“Maybe we should just hang out in the town square until the van comes back,” Anna suggested.

Sam gave her a cockeyed look. “Are you crazy? Hang in the town square when we can go be wild women? Where’d you learn all that Spanish, anyway?”

“An extended trip with my aunt to Marbella when I was twelve,” Anna explained. “She taught me every Spanish curse word she knew. We worked up from there. Then I took it at Trinity.”

“Good. Teach me some good ones at the restaurant so I can shock Eduardo tonight.”

Anna agreed to Sam’s plan. She wasn’t all that hungry, and she thought sitting in the town square and sipping a coffee while the colorful world of La Trinidad passed by would have been fun. But Sam was right—it wasn’t all that adventurous.

The artist gave them rough directions to El Toreador, kissed their cheeks again, and the girls walked away. As they departed, Anna tried to call Las Casitas on her cell. No luck. She couldn’t even get a signal and realized that there was probably no microwave relay tower in La Trinidad. They’d have to find a landline. Well, that was fine. They could use the phone in the restaurant, if there was one. If not, they’d figure out something.

“Wow, I just bought my first piece of art,” Sam realized as they headed down the rough-hewn sidewalk. “That is so cool.”

“I think it’s this right turn,” Anna said, pointing at a narrow side street that went downhill. They followed the street, turned left, right, and left again and finally came upon El Toreador by accident. They tried the front door, but it was locked.

“So much for adventure,” Anna said. “No one’s here. Should we go back to the town square?”

Sam shook her head and pointed across the street. “Isn’t that a restaurant?”

The place was called Los Molinos. The exterior was nondescript: a gray wooden door with a hand-painted sign and the menu tacked to it, a glass window with hand-painted lettering announcing the name of the restaurant and
BUENA COMIDA, CERVEZA FRIA
. Good food, cold beer.

They crossed the street and tried the door. Tinkling bells signaled their entrance. The interior was small, with a dozen battered tables and wooden chairs, a wooden bar with a mismatched set of bar stools, and an ancient billiards table. Two old men played dominos at one of the corner tables; a third snoozed with his head against the wall. A few younger guys sat at the bar, watching a soccer game on TV. The bartender—a beautiful dark-haired young woman in American-style clothes—read the Spanish edition of
Cosmopolitan
magazine. She barely glanced at the girls before returning to her reading.

A cadaverous elderly waiter with a thick shock of white hair greeted them effusively in good English, guessing at their nationality. “Lovely American señoritas!” he cried, clasping his hands. “Welcome, welcome!” He gestured to a table, held out one chair for Anna, then hurried around the table to help Sam get seated. “You would desire menus?”

“We would,” Anna told him. “But can we use your telephone first?”

“To where are you calling?” the waiter asked, a bit wary.

“Las Casitas resort,” Sam told him. “We’ll pay you for the call, of course.”

“Certainly,” he said, with a small bow. “And there is no charge.” He turned to the bartender and barked out some instructions. She scowled but still got the old-fashioned rotary phone out from under the bar and dialed some numbers. She talked briefly with the person at the other end, then held the telephone receiver toward Anna and Sam.
“Para usted.”
She gestured.

Sam got up, took the receiver, and had a quick conversation with the Las Casitas desk. A moment later, she was back with Anna. “Done. They’re bringing pesos for me. Listen, let’s celebrate my purchase.” She turned to the waiter, who had waited patiently for her. “A bottle of mescal. Some tapas. No. Lots of tapas. Bottled water. And two glasses.”

“
Muy bueno.
” The waiter beamed happily. “We make our own tapas and our own mescal also!” He kissed the tips of his fingers, indicating just how well they had chosen, then hustled behind the bar and told the bartender to prepare what they ordered. She fired a sullen look at Sam and Anna before getting up to work.

“So, mescal.” Anna felt a little uneasy. “That’s on my long list of new experiences I might try someday, maybe.”

“Kind of like tequila, but stronger. Made from the mescal cactus. I crossed it off mine when I was fourteen at this party in Topanga Canyon,” Sam recalled. “This guy who was a junior at Harvard-Westlake showed me how to down a shot straight up. He said it made girls sexy. Pathetically enough, I downed seven of them. Cammie rescued me.”