Chapter 13 Luisa
Late at night, after spending the day on our sapphire bracelet–funded shopping spree, I slink out of the house and take the garden path toward La Barna, behaving like the criminal I now am.
I’ve been a jittery mess since we drove to Cheshire Bridge Road this morning, to find a pawnshop with no security cameras and no paper trail.
The place was a total dump—tucked between a strip club and a fried chicken ’n’ catfish shack.
Holly stressed that under no circumstances should we let them take the jewels to the back room, or risk losing a few diamonds.
Apparently, she’s something of a pawnshop expert.
Blessedly, they paid cash and didn’t ask any questions.
Our cat, Chapulín, slips out of the house beside me, reminding me that Mami and Abuela are asleep upstairs and there will be hell to pay if they catch me sneaking around with a stranger in the dark.
Operation Maid in Manhattan is set for a midnight launch. I should be excited that our plan is in motion, that I’m closer than ever to getting justice for the Castillos, and with any luck, resuscitating my career. So why do I feel so lousy?
Maybe it has to do with the infuriating way that Eli gets under my skin.
I hate that he sees past my usual disguises, rendering useless my attempts at becoming invisible.
I hate how much effort it takes to keep him on the other side of every boundary line I’ve created for myself.
And I especially hate his unnerving habit of locking that wolfish gaze on mine every time he walks into a room—just like the first time we saw each other at Ginny’s bar.
He’s nothing like the brutish, narrow-minded swindler I expected him to be.
And yet I can’t figure it out: What’s his story?
Who is he? Where does he come from? Why does nothing about him add up?
Eli has proven to be clever and sharp, handsome and insouciant, but can we really trust him to help us?
I’m still not sure. I hope Holly’s faith in him isn’t misplaced—that I won’t come to regret all of this.
I enter La Barna and find Eli standing, as instructed, by the hair dye station.
He’s washed in moonlight, studying color swatches under the light of his phone.
Behind him, San Antonio rests upside down on Abuela’s altar, in hopes he will find me a man.
I’m pretty sure this is not what Abuela had in mind.
She might, however, approve of the bespoke Japanese denim jeans Holly picked out and which accentuate his toned thighs and ass, and the smoked cashmere quarter zip that brings out the gray in his eyes.
I push away any thoughts of his thighs, eyes—or ass, for that matter—or risk losing both my mind and my objectivity.
“Deep Purple Dream?” he asks, holding up a sample of violet-tinted hair. “Sounds like a Prince song.”
“Middle-aged white ladies love it,” I tell him, taking the sample from his fingers and placing it back inside the color book. “I think it makes them feel rebellious.”
He chuckles. “Against what?”
“Their privileged yet tedious suburban existence?”
He flashes me a lopsided grin that transforms his face into that of someone softer, almost boyish. I’m momentarily disarmed by the sincere glint in his eyes. A confusing mix of irritation and yearning churns in my gut, forcing me to take a step back.
To my disbelief, Chapulín ambles toward his feet, then circles his leg, shamelessly soliciting pets. This cat hates everyone. Is he really that deprived of attention?
“When do we start?” he asks, crouching down to stroke the cat’s fur.
I scan the salon. Everything we need is here.
After considering our options, La Barna After Dark seemed like the safest place to transform Eli into something resembling the heir to a wealthy Mississippi cotton empire.
And given my family’s proclivity to meddle, interfere, and ask too many questions, I judged it best to schedule a midnight makeover session.
“Now—” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “Holly’s on her way.”
But then I hear the loud echo of my full name, bouncing off the walls.
“Luisa María Martín Moreno,” Mami exclaims as the bright lights come on.
Chapulín darts outside with a howl, and I yelp in alarm, regressing a whole fifteen years to the night I was caught making out with a boy in my mother’s old salon in San Germán.
“What’s going on here? Is this what you do when I go to sleep?
Who is this man?” She’s standing impossibly tall, arms crossed tight over her very large breasts, her own don’t-fuck-with-me expression contorting her face.
Shit.
“Jesus Christ, Mami,” I exclaim. “Are you trying to kill me? My heart almost came out of my mouth.”
“Count yourself dead, senorita, if you don’t start explaining,” she says, tapping her chancleta against the linoleum, her face twisted into a scowl.
I’m a grown-ass woman, for Chrissake. I shouldn’t be afraid of my own mother.
And yet.
Maybe it’s a Puerto Rican mother thing.
“It’s for work,” I say, my hands in the air, gesticulating God knows what.
Eli raises an eyebrow in surprise.
“Work?” Mami asks, unconvinced. “It’s past midnight!”
“I’m not exactly in the position to turn down jobs, am I?” I say defiantly.
“What work?” she presses. Then switching to Spanish, she adds, “What is this, some homeless makeover?” She glares at Eli, wrinkling her nose as if she’s smelling sour milk.
“Oh my God, Mami,” I cry out in Spanish. “Do you even hear yourself? That’s so offensive.” My face burns with embarrassment. I cut Eli an apologetic look, praying he can’t understand. And maybe he doesn’t, because he seems quite entertained by this whole shit show.
She rolls her eyes. “Miss high-and-mighty. You could’ve been a lawyer. You could be married already! Instead, you’re wasting your time and talent. Getting fired—why? You won’t say. And now this? Who is this gringo you’re sneaking around with?”
I dig my fingers into my scalp, pulling at my hair by the roots.
Implied in “this gringo” is the staunch Islander belief that all mainland white men are colonialist pricks whose only aspiration is to pillage and plunder—they take and take and take until there’s nothing left.
This gringo—she’s really saying—cannot be trusted.
I mean, sure, in this case, she’s probably right. But I’m not about to give her an inch.
“This man”—I motion to Eli, switching back into English, arms hovering up and down his body as if showing off a prize in a game show—“is Eli. He’s a…” My brain sputters, struggling to come up with an airtight story. This is exactly why I don’t do unprepared.
“An actor,” Eli asserts without missing a beat.
“That’s right,” I say, following his lead. “A friend of mine hired me to be his publicist. She works with one of those film companies always shooting around town.”
“A friend?” Mami asks pointedly. “What friend? You’ve never mentioned any friends?”
“Holly,” Eli offers. “She’s on her way. Excellent film producer.”
I stare at him, searching his face for any indications of a lie, but I find none. I’m both impressed and alarmed at his seemingly innate ability to deceive on the spot.
I should be thrilled, I tell myself. After all, that’s exactly why we hired him.
“He’s got a big audition in the morning,” I continue. “Playing a young, rich investor.”
“It’s a thespian emergency,” Eli deadpans.
I snort, then pretend to sneeze to cover it up. Thespian emergency?
“God bless you,” he says with a wink.
Mami stares dubiously between us, then evaluates Eli with the fastidiousness of someone about to buy a used car. I can almost hear her mind ticking off a makeover checklist inside her head. Shave. Haircut. Nails. Eyebrows. Skin.
“Fine,” Mami says, as if answering a request that was never verbalized. “I’ll have to change into my work clothes.” And with that, she swivels and marches back into the house.
I watch her leave, then close my eyes in a strained attempt to find some calm.
“Taking a standing nap, are we?” Eli asks. I open my eyes to find him staring down at me, his expression bemused.
“More like contemplating matricide,” I mutter. “Do you have any experience digging graves?” I narrow my eyes, then rethink my question. “Actually, don’t answer that.” I put up a hand between us. “I don’t want to know.”
I text Holly, filling her in on the rickety details of our story. Ten minutes later, Mami’s back, Holly in tow. She arrives in a University of Georgia sweatshirt, carrying a tablet in one arm and a tray of coffees and a box of pastries in the other, as if she’s here for a college study session.
“A midnight makeover,” she exclaims, passing around hot coffee cups. “This is so fun.” Then she proffers the tablet, showing off a collection of photos that can only be described as Country Club Hotties. “Let’s get to work!”
Mami’s hands are already clutching a pair of scissors. Eli sits on her salon chair before I cover him in a black styling cape. “Sit up straight,” Mami demands, her tone uncompromising.
“Yes, ma’am.” He quickly obliges.
I bring a hand to cover my mouth, trying not to laugh. This man was a shark when it came to hustling those frat guys at the bar, but now, under Mami’s scrutiny, there’s a childlike alarm in his eyes.
Mami takes off his trucker hat and tosses it aside. She runs her fingers through his hair and beard, tsking and shaking her head. “This all has to go.”
Eli winces. “All of it?” Then, turning to Holly’s tablet, he adds, “One of those guys must have long hair. Look again.”
“Let’s start with the hair and beard,” Mami says mercilessly. Eli’s right hand catches his beard, wretchedly stroking the hair about to come off. “Then we’ll tackle his skin, eyebrows, and those nails.” Mami’s face twists into a grimace.
“I’ll look like a toddler.” Eli grunts.
“Baby face,” Holly chirps, nodding encouragingly. “The younger you look, the better.”