Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (10 page)

“Greetings, ladies!” chirped Dori with their meals, causing Ofie to rejoin the living. She adored Dori and wished Nana Chata
could be more playful like her.

“Ofie, did Star tell you the surprise we have planned for her father?” Dori asked, eyes glistening with delight.

“No, but you’re going to tell us, aren’t you?” Nana Chata said.

Ofie scowled in her mother-in-law’s direction before replying to Star’s mom. “The trip?”

“Yes! Our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary is coming up and I booked a romantic getaway at the Omega Institute—the place where
we met—for three weeks. After seeing Star’s glorious shrine for Theo last night, it reminded me of when Al first told me he
loved me.”

Ofie sprinkled her red chili enchilada with salt. “That’s just awesome, Dori. You know what they say: Love is what’s left
in a relationship after all the selfishness has been removed. I’m so happy Star embraced her crafty side!”

Dori nodded and then kneeled down and slid her arm over Ofie’s chair. “Would you mind keeping an eye on our girl while we’re
gone? She’s going through a bit of a rough patch.”

“Of course! Friends are the flowers of heaven, right, Nana Chata?” Ofie asked.

Nana Chata didn’t hear. She was too busy scarfing a chunk of a blue corn tamale. She moaned with pleasure, and together the
Fuentes trio devoured every morsel on their plates. Del Tambor Africana, an African drumming circle, took center stage and
Ofie and Anjelica ordered a chocolate quesadilla for dessert. To their surprise, Nana Chata requested a kiwi margarita on
the rocks.

The goblet hadn’t even grazed the tablecloth when Nana Chata grabbed it. She cupped the glass with both hands and sucked on
the skinny straws until half the drink had entered her body. She put it down and shivered. Her thin lips glistened with the
green liquid until her tongue flicked out and cleaned them.

Please let her be okay
, Ofie silently prayed.
That’s all I need—Nana Chata tipsy.

Nana Chata picked up the glass again and finished the cocktail. “I love this music…,” she affectionately sang out. “It reminds
me of the African vacation my Juanito—God rest his soul—took me on for our honeymoon. He was such a good man. Did you know
‘jambo’ is the Swahili term for hello?”

“You went to Africa?” Ofie asked, slapping her chest from laughing and choking on a piece of chocolate-covered fried tortilla
at the same time. The twinkle in Nana Chata’s eyes confirmed she was buzzed. Oh well, it had become Girls’ Time Out after
all, thanks to the charm of La Pachanga.

“Sí,” she said as she dropped her elbow on the table and then parked her head in her palm. She grinned, her eyes moist with
happy tears. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me. If Juanito were still alive and sitting here now, he would
be up there drumming. We loved this music,” Nana Chata explained right before bouncing her shoulders frontward and backward
in tribal unison with Del Tambor Africana.

“You know what they say, Nana Chata: A love song is just a caress set to music!” Ofie chimed.

“Ofie…,” Nana Chata said, still engrossed in the music. “You should stop with the craft nonsense and learn to crochet. It’s
cheap, less messy, and I can teach you in an afternoon.”

Ofie frowned.

Nana Chata finished suctioning what was left of her margarita, but stopped when she spotted a local celebrity. “Hey, look
everyone—it’s Craft Bimbo! Someone go ask her if she puts that makeup on with a trowel… heh-heh!”

Ofie’s face blushed as if she had just won the lottery. “Oh. My. Glue gun! It’s Chloe Chavez! Nana Chata, she isn’t a bimbo!
She is high-gloss royalty.”

Anjelica held up a torn piece of butcher paper from the table covering and waved it toward her mom. Written in crayon it read,
“HANG FLYERS!!!!”

Ofie winked at her daughter and prepared to slink away. “I’ll be right back, I have to go to the bathroom. Anjelica, stay
here with Nana Chata.”

Ofie approached the board and hung her first sign, hurrying so maybe Crafty Chloe would see it before she left.

WANTED: Creative people to join a local arts and crafts collective. All skill levels welcome. We’ll make table centerpieces
for the CraftOlympics to be held in December and share glitterific ideas, eat snacks, and best of all, build new friendships
& have craftalicious fun. Serious chicas only. Call (623) 555-8750. Glendale area.

Ofie folded her arms and congratulated herself. A stunning job indeed. The craft group may have been initiated on Star’s behalf,
but Ofie would contribute the most.

“Mommy, I want you to meet my new friend,” Ofie heard her daughter say from behind.

Wait, wasn’t Anjelica supposed to be with Nana Chata at the table?
Ofie turned to scold her, but made an exaggerated “Wow!” face instead. Attached to Anjelica’s hand was Crafty Chloe in the
flesh. Ofie soaked up this once-in-a-lifetime moment and wondered what Chloe’s clever mind was cooking up today. She probably
had a ruler and mini scrapbook cropping station in that big bag that her assistant was carrying. It ticked Ofie off that many
viewers, even Star, referred to Chloe as Craft Bimbo. They were just jealous of Chloe’s natural beauty and expertise.

“Mommy, this is Ms. Chavez. Ms. Chavez, this is my mom, Ofelia Fuentes. She’s a groupie of yours. And my dad is Larry Fuentes.
He’s a cameraman at your studio!”

“What a small world,” Chloe replied, about to direct her attention elsewhere. She would have walked away, except Anjelica’s
concrete grip prevented it.

“Mommy, I told Ms. Chavez about your new craft group and she wants to join.”

Chloe scowled, as if the notion was beneath her, but attempted to appear as friendly as possible. “Excuse me?”

“You want to help my mom make the award-dinner centerpieces for the CraftOlympics? It’s a very high-profile job, lots of glory.
Martha is gonna be there! The meetings are at our house in Glendale.” Anjelica spouted off the details like an experienced
car saleswoman in the body of an eleven-year-old.

Anjelica’s maturity stunned her mother. How could anyone turn down that kind of offer?

“Oh, bummer. I don’t do the west side unless I’m on the clock. I live in Scottsdale…” Right then, Chloe’s plump assistant
appeared and whispered in her ear. Chloe listened while bobbing her head, blinking fast, and giving Ofie a once-over. Whatever
the girl said changed Chloe’s mind in an instant.

“Actually, count me in. Great speech, chiquita,” Chloe said, winking at Anjelica and then turning to Ofie, who hopped up and
down and clapped her hands.

“You’re saying yes?
You
really want to join
my
craft group?”

“Of course,” Chloe replied through a tight, beauty-pageant smile.

Chloe’s assistant fumbled through her bag until she retrieved a bright purple electronic organizer and used her thumbs to
type away. A few seconds later, she shoved her glasses up her nose, hunched over the electronic data gadget once more, and
looked up. “She can do Wednesdays, or Fridays after three p.m.”

“Can you plan around that?” Chloe asked with a polite “take it or leave it” attitude.

Ofie took it. Her first craft group member, Crafty Chloe! It would take a bit to win Star over, after the La Pachanga TV interview
tousle, but Ofie would deal with that later.

A song blared from Chloe’s leather hobo bag. She pried her hand free from Anjelica’s to answer her phone.

“Tonight at Sangria? It’s my night off. What do I get out of it?” argued Chloe.

Anjelica and Ofie’s eyes bulged with exhilaration.

Chloe caved. “It’s a deal only if it runs prime time.” Without so much as a goodbye, Chloe pressed a button on the phone and
shoved it in the pocket of her cream tapered blazer that covered a lacy v-neck camisole. Ofie wondered what her life would
be like if she had a sexy body and silky clothes like Chloe’s. Maybe she’d be the one on TV with her crafts.

“Frances, did you get that?” Chloe commanded.

“Already on it, Ms. Chavez. Sangria on 5th Avenue and Main Street in Scottsdale. Reception starts in three hours. Sangria
is that new dig in town. They are trying to get Saturdays going for the younger crowds with weekend art receptions. At ten
the place turns into a club. Kinda like a La Pachanga knockoff. The Theo Duarte art show is kicking the whole thing off tonight.”

“We know Theo Duarte!” Anjelica offered.

“You do? He’s why we’re here. I can’t believe how fast he fixed that mural. Anyone hear about who did it yet?” Chloe asked.

Ofie and Anjelica kept straight faces. “Nope,” they said in unison.

Chloe shrugged and handed Ofie a business card. “Call Frances, my assistant, when you get everything set up. Have a nice weekend,
ladies.”

Ofie and Anjelica spun around, slapped a mid-air high five, and headed back to the table. Ofie would have called Star to give
her a heads-up about Chloe and Sangria, but she forgot as soon as she noticed Nana Chata’s empty chair. Ofie and Anjelica
looked up to the stage and couldn’t believe what they saw—or rather whom.

Nana Chata! Behind a set of metallic teal bongos, drumming in perfect synch with the band. Atop her salt-and-pepper hair rested
a tilted kofia mud-cloth hat. She raised her brows at the girls and then tossed her arms in the air and unleashed a wild Mexi-Africano
grito: “Ay ay ay! Jambo Jambo!”

Ofie grasped her daughter’s hand and the two ran to the dance floor to join in the fun, thrilled that at last Nana Chata had
let La Pachanga cast its spell.

E
ven Star’s car felt the pain of Theo’s absence.

He helped her pick out the 1958 Chevy Bel Air two years ago, and assisted with the upkeep. He instructed her on how to maintain
and troubleshoot it. From changing the oil, spark plugs, and tires, he had it covered. They reupholstered and refurbished
the vintage auto inside and out until it became a visual sweet spot around town.

But now, after only a week alone, the brake lights went out and Star noticed a hot engine smell. She cursed herself for not
paying closer attention to Theo’s tutorials. How could she take so many things in her life for granted? As a Band-Aid solution,
she gave her car a pep talk and promised to take it to her dad’s mechanic on Monday. That is, on the condition it delivered
her to Sangria on time.

By 7:45 p.m. on Saturday, all systems were go for Operation Love Shrine.

Star whispered thank you and pulled her Chevy Bel Air into one of the few parking spots left at Sangria, turned off the ignition,
buried her face in her hands, and then sat up straight.

“I can do this,” she thought. As each day passed without Theo, she grew more and more aware that the last three years were
a gift she had taken for granted. Even to the point of hurting him. But she would make it up to him, no matter what it took.

Between her planned speech and the shadow box, how could he resist? She even wore an ensemble of his past gifts: the flowy
lime peasant dress from their day trip to Nogales; the chunky coral beaded choker from Christmas; the canvas tote he painted
when her wisdom teeth were pulled. For the final touch, she wore two long, thick braids weaved with red satin ribbons—the
same hairdo as when he painted her portrait two years ago. If that combination didn’t say devoted, nothing did.

Star couldn’t wait to be near him again, to take in his scent. His aroma intoxicated her—she would smoke it in a hookah if
she had the chance. She would can it as air freshener, or maybe put it in a spritz bottle and douse her pillow every night.
A Theo air freshener for her car! Bath bombs, so she could have his scent all over her skin after a long soak in the tub.
First she had to find him.

She entered Sangria and marveled at its beauty. Overall, the place could pass as La Pachanga, Version 2.0, only with a modern
industrial touch. While chunky wood and thick wrought-iron accessories trimmed her mom and dad’s outlet, Sangria possessed
a slick, sexy energy of polished steel and embossed silver. And as the new corporate-owned Latin hot spot, pricey details
punctuated every corner with accessories her parents couldn’t afford: scores of masculine leather barstools, a lit dance floor,
and vaulted ceilings. Any other time, she would have jotted down notes in her superspy competitor notebook.

Star clutched her bag as if it were the last life preserver on the
Titanic
and stepped into the pristine gallery. Her eyes widened in amazement at Theo’s evocative two-color abstract paintings that
adorned the gunmetal walls. A stark departure from his work for La Pachanga. Dark. Heavy. Definitely more serious.

There he stood, across the room, and the vision refreshed her thirsty soul. He glanced up, and their eyes connected as he
shook hands with a patron and sifted through the crowd her way. He wore patent-leather creepers, pleated charcoal slacks,
a snug gray knit pullover, and appeared all shiny and groomed. He even looked thinner.

Dusty Springfield’s “The Look of Love” piped through the gallery speakers, one of his favorite songs to sing a cappella. She
took it as a good sign. Star held her breath as the billow of his Krishna Musk oil swirled two steps in front of him and she
inhaled to capture every microfiber of his being. Overall, Theo’s makeover scored a ten, a solid step up from his usual khakis,
tees, sneakers, and wraparound sunglasses that he often wore indoors and at night.

“Hey,” he said, as if she were the last person he wanted there.

Rather than reciprocate the greeting like a normal person, Star’s jitters overtook her and she mechanically shot out, “Hi,
hi, hi, hi, hi, hi…” like a trigger-happy machine gun.

“What’s up?” he asked. Obviously his mini vacation had done nothing to lessen his anger.

She gulped to regain composure. “Can I talk to you alone?”

“Estrella, it’s my first reception at this gallery. Please, not tonight.”

“It’s really important. It’s something exciting, I swear,” she coaxed.

He gestured to the steel double doors at the back of the gallery and walked ahead of her, as if it were a chore to slow his
pace. When a tall blonde in a slinky cocktail dress and mile-high heels glided in front of him and smiled, he replied with
a sly grin. Star’s stomach churned at the concept of Theo flirting with someone other than herself.