“You need a break, Oscar.” Lupita went to the icebox and pulled out a jar of milk. “And you’re hungry, I know. Take this.” She sliced a wedge from a loaf of bread and pushed him through the door with surprising force.
Oscar could have protested, but he’d been up before dawn, driven his brothers to their jobs at the packing house, then was here by first light trimming the hedges and the ridiculous expanse of green lawn, cutting armloads of flowers for the house arrangements, and making sure the pool sparkled. Another three hours helping in the kitchen for extra pay had done him in. He’d take food and a rest if it would make Lupita happy.
He welcomed the cool night air and the sudden quiet after the noisy kitchen. The English garden stretched out behind the sprawling house—the scent of roses and calla lilies thick and cloying. Paths of crushed oyster shell glowed yellow in the murky light of sodium lamps, and the trimmed hedges took on sinister shapes, like predators stalking through the night.
He slipped behind a copse of rhododendrons, their half-spent blossoms drooping, and settled on the edge of a low wall, away from the spill of lights from the ballroom windows. He took a swig ofmilk and a bite of the soft bread and rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension in his neck. A muffled giggle came from somewhere in the dark. Guests were no doubt pairing up and finding private hideaways—and not with their wives or husbands. A shriek sounded from the direction of the pool, then a splash and wild laughter.
These people.
He’d be cleaning up broken glass and finding discarded clothing in the shrubbery for days. If there was any justice in the world, thesegringoswould have headaches the size of watermelons tomorrow morning.
He swallowed the last of his bread. Justice. It had no place in this world. At least tomorrow, when Señor Lester paid up, he’d be able to make the rent. Another month knowing Mamá and his brothers had a place to call home.
The patio door opened, letting out the light and noise of the party for a moment, then closed, muffling it again. Oscar leaned back into the shadows.Por favor,not a couple looking for privacy. Through the screen of flickering leaves, he saw a woman alone. Her back was to him, long and barely covered in shimmering green wisps. She was slim, her hair dark in the shadows but gleaming like copper when she stepped into the moonlight. She turned, clasping her arms around herself. Her face was the kind of beautiful theamericanospreferred—deep red lips and flawless milk-white skin. She looked fragile, like the delicate orchids he looked after in the hothouse.
Her shoulders lifted and fell, as if she’d taken a deep breath. Then her fingers brushed at her eyes. She looked up into the stars, her long lashes fluttering as she blinked. What did a woman like her have to cry about?
The door opened again, and this time a man came through, tall, white trousers, dark evening jacket. The light was dim, but hisfamiliar profile—the sharp jaw and slightly crooked nose—made Oscar draw back into the shrubs and hold his breath. The last time he’d seen Max, he’d broken that nose.
The milk soured in his mouth as Lupita’s nerves made sense. She’d seen Max and wanted to make sure Oscar didn’t. She needn’t have worried. The last person on earth he wanted to speak to was Max Perez, or did he call himself Clark now?
Max took a silver case from the inside pocket of his dinner jacket and snapped it open. His mother would be so proud, Oscar thought bitterly. Max even looked like anamericano. Max drew out a cigarette and put it between his lips. A match flared against the stone wall and he cupped it close to his mouth. He took a deep pull, then handed the cigarette to the silent woman. “Had enough yet?”
She tossed her head, then turned away, putting the cigarette to her red lips. “I’m having the time of my life, no thanks to you.”
Oscar watched the scene. It was like a film, the moon turning the colors to sepia, the muted music and the faces of the two actors intense and focused.
“You don’t have to go back there.” Max jerked his head toward the party.
She let out a small sigh that sounded a bit like a sob. “He’s waiting for me. And so is Louella.”
“You and Louella good friends now?” His eyebrows went up.
“She’s going to see that I get a part in the new film, if that’s what you mean.”
“That so?” Max didn’t sound convinced. “They played you like a piano, Mina.” He took the cigarette from her limp hand, dragged in a breath, and turned his head to blow the smoke toward Oscar. “Louella set you up like some kind of pimp.”
The girl didn’t argue. “Why didn’t you tell me about Clara? And Louella? You could have introduced me months ago.”
He didn’t answer.
Oscar knew Max’s silences well. He didn’t answer questions unless he felt like it.
She glanced up at him. “I need this part, Max. I need this break.”
“I’ll get you another part.” He offered her the glowing cigarette.
She shook her head. “I’m out of cash and this dress took all my rent.” She let out a frustrated breath. “Honestly, it’s like you don’t even want me to make it in this town. Like you’ve given up on me.”
Max looked away like he had something to hide. “It’s a slow time.”
“Don’t give me that line.”
Oscar’s hands tightened on the cold bottle. What exactly was he, her lover? Max always could pick the beauties. And break their hearts.
Max blew out a curtain of smoke that veiled them in silver. “Don’t tell me you like being pawed by that clown.”
“Of course not,” she spat out.
