Chapter 27 Luisa
My stomach flutters irrationally, as I ready myself to knock on Eli’s front door. It’s just an afternoon cookout, for Chrissake. Why am I so nervous?
The exterior of the house is charming and inviting, with bright white siding, a vibrant yellow door, and a set of colorful, hanging flower baskets that have been artfully tended. Eli’s truck is in the driveway, and the mere sight of it sends fresh frissons through my gut.
After our first date ended at the White Windmill—now a week ago—Eli drove me home, then walked me to the porch.
We stood staring into each other’s eyes for a long beat, the promise of a kiss lingering between us—that is until Mami abruptly turned on the porch lights and scowled at us through the sidelight window by the door. So much for privacy.
Holly burst out laughing when I told her what happened. Luckily, she won’t have a nosy Puerto Rican mother lurking about for her date tonight with the professor.
Meanwhile, I’ll be at Eli’s—meeting his sister for the first time.
When Eli texted me midweek to invite me over, I relished the idea of a break from the all-consuming money laundering and embezzlement investigation.
I’m turning into quite the expert, if I say so myself.
Maybe I should take Mami’s advice and get that law degree after all.
But even though I was looking forward to a night off from sleuthing, I was so nervous about the prospect of meeting Eli’s only family that I finally asked Carola to make good on her promise of a makeover.
Now here I am, sporting a fresh blowout, feeling restless.
I run my newly manicured hands over the pleats of my dress, thinking for the hundredth time that I’m overdressed.
I should’ve worn jeans. I should’ve worn that new pair of jeweled sandals.
But just then, the door swings open and a young woman beams back at me. Too late now.
“You’re Luisa,” she exclaims, pulling at the screen door to lead me inside.
“I’m Pearl. You like chocolate cake? Eli wasn’t sure.
Went ahead and made it anyway! Mamaw’s Coca-Cola cake.
It’s Eli’s favorite. I hope you’ll like it.
” She says all of this in one breath, then lifts a cake platter.
A lopsided three-tiered cake is festooned with cherries, marshmallows, and rainbow-colored sprinkles, like something out of the Mad Hatter’s tea party.
I’m perplexed by the cake, and by Pearl.
She’s an explosion of color in a red scarf, wrapped over two long braids of wispy blond hair, and a pair of navy coveralls coated in vibrant paint spatter.
The jumpsuit is unzipped at the top, hanging around her waist, a worn Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt underneath. And I am so, so overdressed.
“So good to meet you, Pearl,” I say warmly, stepping inside the house. “And yes, I love chocolate cake.” I smile, my gaze roaming the room in search of Eli.
“He’s on the back deck,” she says. “On grill duty.” She stands by the door, smiling and staring, her slanted cake propped between us. “You have a very pretty face,” she observes matter-of-factly. “You remind me of an Amrita Sher-Gil portrait. Must be the red mouth.”
“Thanks,” I say, blushing under the scrutiny of Pearl’s keen gaze.
My fingers instinctively reach for the Flamenco Red shade of lipstick covering my lips—a gift from my mother.
Pretty sure she didn’t intend for me to use it on a date with “the hairy one.” After the hasty end to our Buford Highway date, I endured an hour-long nagging session on why I was wasting my time with an actor when I could be gearing toward an engagement with a doctor.
I told her maybe she should date Juan Pablo herself, but that didn’t go down well.
“I like your dress,” Pearl remarks, peering at my emerald-green skirt. “Eli said you were very sophisticated.”
My cheeks go hot, embarrassed at the compliment. “These are for you,” I say, showing off the gift bag in my hand, an attempt to deflect attention away from myself. “Chocolates and macaroons. Each one is like a little piece of art.”
“Thank you,” she says giddily. “We’re eating out back. Hope you’re hungry.”
“Can I help you with something?” I ask, following her down a long hallway, noting the boho decor—a tangerine couch set against white wood paneling, a magenta Persian rug covering the parquet floor, eye-catching throw pillows, art books, and plants dotted around the room.
The house is cozy, tidy, and clean. There are gorgeous paintings hanging from almost every wall.
“Wow,” I exclaim, awed. “Who made these?” Bold, figurative scenes stretch out on large canvases, painted in striking Southern colors—barn red, haint blue, creole pink, verdigris green.
They are interspersed with mixed-media compositions, embroidered textiles, and photographs.
The images feel intimate, chaotic, honest, and also painful.
“They’re part of my art school portfolio,” she says, her expression abashed and self-conscious as we pause to admire the haunting figure of a teenage boy underwater, pushing toward the surface, just on the verge of breaking through.
“That’s my brother,” she says quietly. “Before we came to live here.”
“Where were you living then?” I ask, appraising the fluid lines of the water, the fragile expression on the boy’s face.
“Biloxi, I think,” she says absently. Something murky and glum flashes across her eyes, but she doesn’t allow it to linger. I wonder what she remembers of her transient childhood, being ten years younger than Eli. It was probably a blessing having her older brother to rely on.
Her manner shifts abruptly, leaning into the cheerfulness from moments ago. “The water is turbid there. Nothing like Puerto Rico.” A smile returns to her lips as she leads me to the back deck.
Eli is standing by the grill wearing an apron that reads: This is a manly apron, for a manly man, doing manly things, while cooking manly food. I can’t help but laugh out loud.
“See?” Pearl exclaims in Eli’s direction. “I told you it was funny.” She sets her cake down on the table, then turns to me, adding proudly, “It was my Father’s Day gift.”
Eli turns to me, his face breaking open with the most arresting smile.
“You made it okay?” he asks. I move to him as if in a trance, lulled by the pleasant summer breeze coming off the back garden, the dim light of the stringed bulbs above us and the opening guitar melody of Tracy Chapman and Luke Combs’s “Fast Car” duet, playing in the background.
When I reach him, his arm slides around my waist, and I fuse into his side, into the solid contours of his body.
“Hi,” he whispers, staring into my eyes.
“Hi,” I say, staring back at him, my heart beating furiously.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, brushing my lips with a chaste, lingering kiss that leaves me breathless and wanting.
Behind us, Pearl clears her throat, reminding us that we’re not alone. “Luisa, can I get you something to drink?” she asks politely. “Eli got some wine.” She picks up the bottle from the table, reading the label. “Sancerre?”
“That’s perfect,” I say, giving Eli a meaningful look. I’ll have to tell Holly her wine lessons have stuck, and that I’m personally reaping the benefits. I help Pearl with the corkscrew and pour a glass for myself. Eli sips from a beer bottle, and Pearl nurses a very festive Shirley Temple.
“These are almost done,” Eli says. He opens the grill, then bastes butter over two steaks.
“It smells incredible,” I say, moving aside the little flower vases on the table so that Pearl can fit a bowl of creamy mashed potatoes and a platter of roasted asparagus.
“He watched a million recipes online,” Pearl whispers. “And he changed like ten times before you got here. I think he really wants to impress you.”
“Don’t believe a word she says,” Eli exclaims, transferring the steaks onto a board. He cuts the flame, then joins us, carrying the steaks in one hand and a plate with grilled portobello caps in the other. “For the vegetarian,” he says, placing the mushrooms in front of Pearl with a flourish.
“Vegetarians are the future,” she says to me. “Meat consumption is unsustainable.”
“Which is why,” Eli retorts, slicing the meat, “we’re enjoying this juicy steak while we still can.” He slides a few pieces onto my plate. Pearl passes me a serving spoon for the mashed potatoes.
We load up our plates and dig in. The steak is perfectly cooked, the potatoes have a bliss-inducing amount of butter, and the asparagus is tender and fresh.
“So this is what manly food tastes like,” I tease, dabbing at the sides of my mouth with a napkin. Pearl laughs.
“I told you: meat and potatoes, I can do,” Eli says, grinning.
“I’ve learned not to underestimate you,” I prod. “What other secret talents are you hiding?”
“The night is still young,” he responds, his tone flirty, one eyebrow curved upward. “Plenty of time to find me out.”
A sudden heat wave creeps up my skirt, leaving me desperate to shift away from the physical tension between us. “So, Pearl,” I say, my voice coming out shrill, “how are you feeling about moving to Savannah?”
She looks to Eli before answering. “I’m a little nervous,” she admits. “I’ve never been on my own before.” She shrugs, sinking into her chair. “New place. New people. I’m excited, but also, a little terrified?”
Eli reaches for her, placing his hand on her back reassuringly.
“You’re only a few hours away,” he says. “You call and I’m there.”
Pearl nods appreciatively, and it strikes me that she has no doubt that Eli will show up if she calls him, that she can count on him. I can barely contain the swell of emotion inside my chest.
I clear my throat before sharing, “When I moved here from Puerto Rico, I didn’t know anyone, either.” I set down my silverware, giving her my full attention. “Can I give you some unsolicited advice?”
“Yeah,” she says, her loaded fork suspended over the plate. “I’ll take all the advice.”