The Icing on the Cake (18 page)

Authors: Elodia Strain

BOOK: The Icing on the Cake

13.24Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

“Of course, of course, anything,” I promised without thinking. And, let me tell you, if I had been thinking, I probably would have kept my little mouth shut.

“My nephew Patrique has just moved here from Santa Cruz. He does not know the area yet. He is showing his art at two different venues, one tonight and one tomorrow afternoon, and I am going out of town and will not return until Sunday evening, so I cannot accompany him. Go with him.”

“I . . . well . . . I don’t,” I stuttered.

“I’ll go fetch my nephew,” Jean-Pierre said briskly.

Jean-Pierre returned with a younger man, I guessed late twenties. The guy had dark curly hair, a goatee, and dark eyes. The look in his eyes seemed to scream, “I know you think I’m handsome.” This immediately made me think just the opposite.

“Chérie,” Jean-Pierre said to me, “this is my nephew, Patrique.”

I gave Patrique a stiff smile. “Hi, Patrique, I’m Annabelle.”

“Enchanté,” Patrique said, kissing me on my hand. It kind of shocked me, and when he removed his lips from the top of my hand, there was a blob of saliva just sitting there. He looked at me as if he had left it there as some sort of treat for me.

I tried to hide my disgust as I wiped my hand on my pants. I almost felt sorry for them. I mean, they were nice pants. But it was either them or me.

“I . . . I just remembered . . . I’m going to be really busy over the next couple of days,” I announced, suddenly determined to find some plans. Anything would do.

“That is a shame,” Jean-Pierre said, giving me a look I couldn’t quite decode.

“Please,” Patrique said in accent-free English. “I would love to be accompanied by such a luscious creature.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think you are loveliness in the flesh,” Patrique said.

Uh, you better keep your eyes off my flesh, mister
, I thought, disgusted.

Patrique continued. “I saw you this morning, and thought there could be no one better to accompany me to my first Monterey Bay art shows. When my uncle sent you away, I begged him to give you another chance.” Patrique moved close to me until he was practically touching my face with his. I backed away slowly.

“Oh, thanks,” I said without emotion.

“Will you please come, chérie?” Patrique asked. He again moved incredibly close to me.

I looked at Jean-Pierre. He was giving me a look that said, “If she cares about her article, she’ll go.”

I was silently fuming. How rotten of Jean-Pierre to use my need for an interview to get me to entertain his slime ball nephew. But, of course, I knew that in the magazine business it was customary to schmooze.

I thought for a moment. If I did this, my dream would be alive again. George would never know how close I was to giving up, and I would write the best article that had ever appeared in
Central Coast Living.

“All right,” I said finally.

Patrique moved away from me, a satisfied look on his face.

“And when you get back into town we can finally do the interview, right?” I asked Jean-Pierre.

“Monday morning at nine o’clock,” Jean-Pierre said, shaking my hand as if to seal the deal. Then he quickly disappeared from sight.

“I guess I should go home and get ready then,” I said to Patrique.

“No. We must leave now.”

I looked at Patrique and, like Dad had taught me to, I listened for any feelings inside of me that were warning me that he was dangerous. I didn’t get the sense that he was. Slimy, but not dangerous.

“All right then,” I said reluctantly. “Where is your car?”

Patrique made a face. “I don’t want to take my car. Gas is so expensive. And my car is a real guzzler. Do you have a car?”

Patrique asked as he shoved some packages of expensive soup crackers into his pockets.

I just stood there, watching him in disbelief.

“Well, chérie, do you have a car?” Patrique repeated.

“Yes, I have a car, but—”

Before I could finish my argument, a woman came up beside me. I recognized her as the kind lady who had given me directions to the restroom following the, uh, Refrigerator Locker Incident. “Do not make this poor girl drive you around town,” she said to Patrique. “You can take a catering van.”

“Fine, Jacqueline,” Patrique whined.

“Thank you,” I told the woman I now knew as Jacqueline, grateful for her kindness.

“I’ll need it back by nine,” Jacqueline said. “I have to take down a party.”

I looked at my watch. It was three o’clock. Of course we’d be back by nine. This thing couldn’t take more than a couple of hours. I looked over at Patrique, waiting for him to say something.

“All right,” Patrique groaned.

Jacqueline looked at me with sympathy as she wordlessly handed Patrique the keys to the catering van. Patrique then looked at me and said, “I’ll be right back,” before disappearing from sight.

“I really appreciate you helping me out,” I said to Jacqueline. “I’ve been . . . I’ve been having a bit of a hard time working on this article, and it’s nice to have a friendly face around.”

“It is my pleasure,” Jacqueline said. “I probably would not want Patrique in my car either.” She smiled at me knowingly.

Just then a pretty girl who looked about fourteen and who wore her dark curly hair in a pony tail at the back of her head appeared at Jacqueline’s side. “Where do I need to put the silverware?” the girl asked, and as she spoke I noticed a thick layer of shiny gloss on her lips.

I smiled at the teen and she smiled back.

Jacqueline answered the girl’s question and then introduced me. “This is my daughter, Amber. Amber, this is Miss Pleasanton. She’s writing an article about the restaurant.”

“Call me Annabelle,” I said. “What kind of lip gloss is that?”

“Foxy Glossy,” Amber answered.

“I’ve gotta get myself some of that,” I said.

“It’s my favorite kind.”

“It looks really pretty on you.”

Amber looked at the ground and touched her lips gently. “Thanks,” she whispered.

Jacqueline put her arm around Amber. “Amber helps me do catering so she can buy all of the cosmetics and shoes she insists she needs.”

“I know exactly how that is,” I said with a grin.

“So, do you work for the newspaper?” Amber asked.

“No. I work for a magazine called
Central Coast Living
.”

“My dad reads that,” Amber said.

“Hopefully he doesn’t stop reading it after he sees my article.”

“I’m sure you’ll write a really good article,” the girl said as if she were talking to a friend.

“Thanks,” I responded, looking at Jacqueline and Amber. At least two people at La Bonne Violette didn’t think I was a total loser.

Patrique returned and told me to follow him. I said good-bye to my new friends and followed Patrique into the dining area where he grabbed onto my hand. I quickly moved my hand away.

Sluggishly, I followed Patrique as he walked to a table and in one swift motion grabbed some violets out of a vase and handed them to me.

“Thanks,” I said lifelessly as I took the flowers. I mean, were violets stolen from a restaurant table supposed to impress me? Give me a hand-picked box of Milk Duds any day.

Patrique led the way to the back parking lot of the restaurant where we found two catering vans with the words “La Bonne Violette” painted on them in purple letters outlined in gold. Patrique looked at a number stamped onto the key chain he was holding and matched it to the number on the van parked closest to us.

“Why don’t you drive,” Patrique said. “I need to meditate.”

“Fine,” I grumbled, grabbing the keys from his hand. But then I realized that being nice to the slime ball was probably important for the sake of my article, and I changed my tone. “I mean, of course.”

I buckled myself into the driver’s seat and Patrique lounged in the passenger’s seat. “I’ll wait until we’re in traffic to meditate,” he said, giving me a creepy look. “That way I can sit next to you for a while.”

I completely ignored the comment. “So where are we going?” I asked flatly. I couldn’t believe I didn’t already know the answer to that question.

“Monterey. Del Monte Avenue. I’m showing some of my paintings at an art gallery there. It’s a one-day show.” Patrique looked at me like this was supposed to impress me to no end.

“Cool,” I said breezily, trying not to encourage him.

We drove to Monterey in silence. About halfway there, Patrique moved to the back of the catering van and sat in a meditation pose. Once, I took a quick glance in the rear view mirror to see what he was doing back there. He appeared to be in a trance.

As I pulled onto Del Monte Avenue, I brought Patrique out of his trance by swerving wildly when a motorcyclist came out of nowhere and pulled out in front of me. Patrique went flying, and hit the side of the van with his shoulder.

I apologized like crazy, afraid that if his temper was anything like his uncle’s, I could be in for some fierce words.

But Patrique surprised me by his reaction. Rubbing his shoulder, he moved to the front of the van. “That was the universe’s way of giving me pain, so I can feel my art.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding my head. I had thought it was my bad driving, but, hey, whatever.

“Turn left at the next light, and park on the street,” Patrique instructed. “The gallery is right up there.” He pointed to a building with peeling tan paint.

I parked the van on the steep hill, pushed the emergency brake all the way to the floor, hopped out of the van, and joined Patrique on the sidewalk. We both gazed down the hill at the bay. As I glanced at the gorgeous waters, I thought of Isaac. I would have loved to be seeing the view with him.

Patrique interrupted my thoughts by gesturing toward the gallery. “Let’s go inside.”

I took a deep breath and followed Patrique into the building.

The gallery was small with a beat-up wooden floor and art displayed on drab gray walls. As we stepped inside, an attractive woman with dark, wild hair shot me a hateful look.

“Do you know that girl over there in the tight black dress?” I asked Patrique quietly.

“Yes, that’s Tempest,” Patrique answered. “My ex.”

“Tempest, huh? The name suits her.”

“It should. She came up with it. Her real name is Bertha. Come with me.” Patrique held out his hand, and I pretended I didn’t see it. He walked toward a large painting against a back wall in the gallery.

I stared at the painting. It was a mass of black and deep blue with neon green body parts—arms, legs, and I think maybe a liver—floating around in the mass. Faces that appeared to be cackling were painted in white in the corners, blood dripping from their open mouths. I looked at the title of the piece:
Le Cauchemar.

I turned my eyes from the painting. I have been moved by art before. But this was the first time I was moved to nausea.

“What do you think?” Patrique asked, as if I were standing in front of a national treasure.

“I think . . . I think I’m going to be sick.” I teetered over to a nearby metal chair.

Patrique smiled wildly. “Yes!” he exclaimed. “It got to you!”

“What does
Le Cauchemar
mean?” I asked weakly, covering my mouth with my hand.

“The nightmare,” Patrique answered, putting tremendous emphasis on each syllable.

It was pretty much the perfect name for the painting, I decided. “Could you please get me something to drink, Patrique?” I asked, thinking maybe some liquid would help.

“Of course, chérie,” Patrique said, his voice enthused. “It really got to you!” he cried as he walked away.

Patrique returned with a glass of wine.

“Oh, Patrique, I should have been more specific,” I said. “I actually wanted water.”

“No wine?” Patrique asked, furrowing his brow.

“No wine.”

“Okay, I’ll get you water then.”

Patrique brought me a bottle of water and sat down next to me on the metal chair that really only had room for one. I opened the bottle and sipped.

“Do you want to see my other paintings?” Patrique asked.

“Maybe later,” I answered quickly.

I took a sip of the water and noticed the woman named Tempest walking toward us. Patrique immediately put a scowl on his face. “Hi, Tempest,” he growled.

“Who is this?” Tempest asked, pointing to me.

Patrique put his arm around me. “This is Annabelle,” he said.

I smiled at Tempest as I removed Patrique’s arm.

Tempest looked at me with disdain. “Obviously, she’s not an artist,” she said to Patrique.

“Actually, I’m a—” I began to explain that I was a writer.

But Tempest cut me off. “It’s a good thing. That way you can’t steal her ideas.”

This statement piqued my interest. What did she mean by that?

Patrique let out a huff as he stood up. “Come on, darling,” he said to me, the “darling” obviously for Tempest’s benefit.