12. Daisy
Chapter 12
Daisy
"Peter's an old friend," Hugo says, breathing heavily into the phone. He answered my call in the middle of rearranging tables at Dama Oliva, Vivi's restaurant in town, and informed me he would not be taking a break because "My sister aka your best friend is a power hungry egomaniac who is also too poor to hire real help and she has forced me here against my will."
The phone must've been on speaker, because Vivi's voice not so kindly reminded Hugo that she's providing him with dinner, and she expects him to sing for it.
"How old of a friend is he?" I prod Hugo, frowning at my phone screen as I switch it to speaker and lay it on my desk. I'm in between clients, and I thought I'd use the time to look a little deeper into Peter Bravo. I’ve been unable to think of little else since running into him at Sweet Nothings, the thoughts parading back and forth in my mind until the gentle pushing turned to shoving and I finally picked up the phone.
I don't know what I was expecting from Hugo, but it wasn't cryptic responses. Hugo is not the strong, silent type. In fact, he can be quite the chatterbox. So his reticence right now is sparking suspicion in me.
"Umm, I don't know. We go way back." Hugo grunts with exertion, the loud sound of something heavy sliding across the floor filters across our connection. "When did you meet him?"
"I took a walk at Summerhill the night of my engagement party, just to, uh, get a break from all the well wishes." I better watch what I say. This is supposed to be a fact-finding mission, not a tell-all about myself. "Peter was there, parked behind one of the other buildings."
"Peter was at Summerhill?"
"Yeah. You didn't know he was there? That's when I met him for the first time."
"There's been more than one time?"
"He came to see me for a physical therapy appointment yesterday, and my curiosity was piqued. So I called you."
"Hold up," Vivi instructs, her voice coming through louder than before. I picture her standing next to the phone, arms crossed as her brain shifts the puzzle pieces into place. "The tall drink of water the old ladies turned into horn dogs over is the same guy who came to a physical therapy appointment with you yesterday? But you already knew him from your engagement party?"
"Correct."
"And you know him?"
This question is not directed at me, but I answer for Hugo. "Apparently they go way back."
"You go way back? No you don't." Vivi has adopted her bossy sister tone. "I know all your friends."
On this, I am silent.
"I have friends besides Ambrose," Hugo says in that annoyed tone a brother reserves for his sister.
"Who?" Vivi challenges, in a voice that clearly says No you do not .
"You know I've traveled the world, right?" Hugo sounds like he is finished with his sister's sass. "I've made friends you've never heard of. I have a gold medal."
"Pfft." Vivi scoffs so vehemently, I hear it clearly through the phone. "I'll bet it's made out of chocolate and wrapped in gold foil."
"Bite it and find out."
Their sibling banter incites a hollow feeling in my stomach. I don't have siblings, and when my mother goes, it'll just be me and my dad. I'll have Vivi, of course, but it's not exactly the same.
And Duke .
Shit. Right. I really need to stop doing that. Note to self: the man is going to be my husband in about a month.
"De la Vega siblings," I bark, using a tone I've heard from my mother over the years. "Pay attention to the subject at hand."
"Right," Vivi responds.
"Sorry," Hugo adds, sounding like he's talking through his teeth. Either he's fed up with his sister, or he's moving something heavy. He must take me off speaker, because all of a sudden his voice is coming through the phone, loud and clear.
"I met him at a K9 dog show in San Diego. I went out there to meet with a guy I was hoping would coach me for the Olympics, and I wandered into a dog show. He was there with some of his SEAL buddies."
"And you struck up a conversation and became best friends forever?"
"I—" Hugo starts, but I cut in.
"Here's the thing, Hugo. Peter Bravo does not strike me as the kind of guy who makes friends with perfect strangers. He's standoffish. There is literally nothing about him that advertises he is open to small talk with somebody he doesn't know, let alone enough conversation to become the basis of a friendship."
Hugo sighs. "Daisy, what do you want me to say? You asked me a question and I answered it."
It's very unlike Hugo to sound this annoyed, this exhausted with me. We've known each other a very long time, and well enough that I know these questions shouldn't get a response like this from him. If Vivi and I belting Kelis' Milkshake at the top of our lungs while dancing around the kitchen table where Hugo did homework never prompted an eye roll or sigh, pretty much nothing else should. This, in and of itself, is an additional tally on the side of reasons I have to be suspicious.
"Hugo Alexander De la Vega," I say in a warning tone.
In the background, Vivi crows, "Your ass just got middle-named by the sweetest person in town."
Now I'm happy I decided not to FaceTime, because there's no way I'd be able to hide the smile my best friend's verbal antics have put on my face.
Hugo ignores his sister. "Daisy, I promise you, I met him there. He was with his friends."
The line goes quiet. I think Hugo is waiting for the natural follow-up question, and as much as it hurts to talk about the boy who left me without a backwards glance, I dig down deep, put on my big girl panties, and ask the question we both know I want to ask. The real question I've been dancing around. The name I’ve been dancing around, but not daring to speak, for years. Peter was hired to come here and handle the house. By who? Only one answer makes sense.
"Was Penn one of the friends he was with? I mean, that must be how you met Peter, right? Through Penn?" And then, the question that's plaguing me. "Did you see him?"
"Yes. To all your questions." Relief breaks through in Hugo's tone. Almost like he's been dying to tell me. "You should know that I'm sorry, ok?" Across the connection comes the sound of a door closing, then water gurgling. It's the fountain in front of Dama Oliva, the weird one Vivi bought secondhand.
"What are you sorry for? Not telling me?"
A long silence, and then, "I suppose."
"I'm not upset with you. It's not like we had an agreement where you were supposed to tell me if you saw him, or heard from him." It would've been nice though, to know Penn is doing well. "Is he happy?"
I think this whole time I've been worrying that he wouldn't grow up happy, that his mother's problems would irrevocably alter him.
"Happy?" Hugo repeats, voice lifting on the second syllable like he hadn't considered this before. "I'm not sure if I would say he's happy."
The possibility saddens me. We haven't talked in more than a decade, but I still want to see Penn win. He deserves it, after the childhood he had.
"Look, Daisy," Hugo starts, and it's almost as if I can see him doing that thing he does when he gets frustrated where he runs the side of his finger over his eyebrow. "Penn might be happy. I'm not sure. He doesn't say one way or the other. But you are, right? You're planning a wedding to someone you've been friends with your entire life. The whole town wants to be in your bridal party. The only time you'll make people happier than they are now is when you and Duke announce you're having a baby, should you decide to."
A baby. I can't even begin to think about a child. Not because I don't want children, because I actually do. Hugo's comment is making me realize Duke and I need to have a conversation ASAP.
"You're right," I tell Hugo. "Of course you are. Voice of reason, and all that." Hugo has always been levelheaded and pragmatic.
"Everything will work out," Hugo reassures. "Peter will be here long enough to tie up loose ends on the Bellamy house, and then he'll be on his way back to San Diego."
And Penn. Back to San Diego where Penn lives .
"Oh, I almost forgot," Hugo adds. "I hired an event coordinator last week. She said to ask you about flowers. She said you haven't chosen any yet."
"Daisies," I answer automatically.
"Because of your name," Hugo responds, in a sure tone that is both a question and an answer.
Peter's tattoo flashes in my mind. "Yep," I lie.
We say goodbye and hang up.
So now I know where Penn lives, and his profession. Like a desert pack rat depositing treasure into its midden, I tuck away the details.
I will not obsess.
I will not obsess.
I will not obsess.
Can a person obsess about not obsessing?