Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
Alana
Hugo opens the back door of the car, and I climb in.
I’d prefer to sit up front, but I don’t know the proper protocol for having a personal bodyguard.
My father has security due to the risk politicians face, but I was always allowed a high degree of freedom.
Probably because I preferred to be behind the scenes as much as possible.
On the one occasion I left the house after my fateful wedding day, I was in the back of a limousine with Hank and another man with a gun.
Hugo climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. “It’s safer in the back,” he says as though he read my mind. “The driver is always the first target. Although most of Mr. Montoya’s cars are bulletproof, so we’re pretty safe.” He gives me a grin in the rearview mirror.
“I’m just happy to be out.” I put on my seatbelt and lean back against the seat.
A short time later, we pull into the parking lot of the exclusive yacht club. Hugo jumps out first and looks all around before he opens my door and reaches for my hand. He remains hypervigilant as he escorts me through the club to the room where the charity committee is meeting.
“I’ll have to come inside, but I’ll wait near the exit,” he says in my ear. “It will be like I’m not even here.”
I let him know I appreciate his discretion, and after a deep breath, I walk into the room with him close behind. Everyone is already seated, and they look up when I enter. Breathe, Alana. Smile, Alana.
“Alana, dear.” A blond woman who I guess to be in her mid-forties walks over to me and gives me two dramatic air kisses.
“Ladies,” she declares, taking hold of my elbow and turning me to face the room.
“This is Alana Montoya, and she has come to join us in our work for good causes. I know you’ll all give her a warm welcome. ”
Every pair of eyes in the room are now on me, scrutinizing my appearance.
No doubt all of these women are wondering what the king of LA sees in a woman like me.
I probably should have opted to wear something a little more chic.
Some ladies offer me a smile, but others are unable to hide their contempt.
I note the bottles of expensive champagne on the table and wonder if this is a celebration.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” I say apologetically, feeling self-conscious as they continue to stare at me like I’m an exhibit at a museum.
My one designer dress—Chanel; my best thrift store find ever—definitely would have been more appropriate.
There are enough designer labels in the room to feed a small community for a year.
“Don’t be silly. We meet here every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday.” The woman I assume to be Amanda ushers me toward the table. Once I’m seated, she introduces herself as Amanda Grant and informs me her husband is one of Alejandro’s investors.
“It’s truly a pleasure to meet you,” I tell her.
Amanda sits on my right, but I don’t have a chance to speak to her any further because the woman on my left grabs my hand and examines my ring finger.
She snorts. “I would’ve expected a bigger rock than that from the king of LA.”
I yank my hand back and work to speak evenly. “It was my grandmother’s.” I wore it on my right hand for years after she died, and Alejandro had no objections when I requested to use it as my engagement ring instead of some flashy diamond that would cost an obscene amount of money.
“Your grandmother’s?” another woman repeats. “How quaint!” She titters, and a few others laugh along with her.
They have no idea that I grew up in politics. Dealing with fake people comes as naturally to me as breathing, so I simply offer them a saccharine smile.
“Take no notice of them, dear.” Amanda pats my thigh. “They’ve had far too much to drink already.”
I turn my attention to her, and she gives me a rundown of everyone at the table.
It seems I’m fortunate enough to be in the company of the LA elite.
These women are the wives of the wealthiest men in Los Angeles, and I’m told that if I want into a party, onto a list, or to be someone of any note at all, then this is the crowd I need to win over.
At least that’s the way Amanda sells it to me.
I’m not so sure she’s right, at least not about the kind of parties and lists I’m interested in.
I’m not so sure I have anything in common with any of these women.
When there’s a gap in the chatter, I take the opportunity to ask about their charity work, hoping we can at least find a mutual interest there.
“Oh, we’ve already chosen our charity for this year,” Amanda answers. “We’ll be hosting a fundraising event in the fall, so we’ll start planning in the next few weeks. There’s no rush to get started yet.”
My interest piqued, I rest my chin on my hand and give her my undivided attention. “What charity are you fundraising for?”
She makes a faint sighing noise, like this is all too much for her to bear. “The school needs a new wing. Their sports hall isn’t fit for purpose now that they have so many new pupils.”
“And which school is that?”
“Montlake Academy,” she replies dismissively, making it clear she’s already bored of my questions.
Well, I guess that’s one thing we have in common. I am bored out of my mind.
Montlake Academy! A private school already dripping with money is the charity project they’ve chosen?
I don’t belong here at all. That crushing sense of loneliness I experienced after Alejandro’s mom left is back, and this time I’m not sure I’ll ever shake it. Is there any place in LA where I might fit in?
I make a point of checking my watch before I push my chair back. “I’m sorry, ladies, but I have another appointment to get to,” I say, forcing a smile. “But it was lovely to meet you all.”
“Oh, no. Really?” Amanda pouts. “You’ll come back on Monday, though, won’t you? It’s quite the coup having the new Mrs. Montoya in our midst. The donors will love it.”
“I’d love to, if my schedule allows,” I lie with ease.
I bid them goodbye and head to the door. Hugo steps out of the shadows and is at my side before I reach the exit. Like a gentleman, he holds the door open for me.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
I wait until we’re outside to answer. “Yeah. That just wasn’t what I was expecting, that’s all. I was hoping to do something meaningful, to actually help people, but I don’t think I’m going to find that here.”
Hugo quickly scans the parking lot before leading me to the car and opening the door. Once again, I climb inside and drop my head back against the headrest with a sigh.
I don’t realize Hugo’s already in the car until he speaks. “Where to now?”
I recall an article I read about the women’s shelter downtown that’s about to lose its funding. That seems like a place where I might be needed and somewhere my fundraising skills might be useful.
“Do you know the Maggie O’Malley shelter downtown? I’m sure it’s in Central City East, near East 15th street.”
“Yeah, I know the area. It’s called Skid Row for a reason, and I’m sure Mr. Montoya would not want you going there.”
To hell with what Mr. Montoya wants. “You work for me now, don’t you? That’s where I’d like to go. And what Mr. Montoya doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“You want me to lie to the boss?”
Absolutely. Although I don’t want Hugo to get into trouble. “No, of course not. If he asks you, feel free to tell him the truth. But he probably won’t ask. That’s all I’m saying.”
He grimaces.
“Please, Hugo. If the place looks unsafe, then we won’t go in.”
“You’re gonna get me fired, Alana.” Chuckling, he shakes his head. But then he pulls the car out of its space, and I pray he’s taking me where I want to go.
It’s almost six by the time I get home. The women and children’s shelter was exactly what I was looking for, and they’re in desperate need of a new fundraising coordinator.
I spent most of the afternoon with Kristen O’Malley, the woman who set up the shelter eighteen years ago after she fled her own abusive marriage and found support from a similar organization.
Once she’d gotten back on her feet, she wanted to give something back too, and the Maggie O’Malley Center was born.
Kristen named it after her mother, who passed while the center was being established.
There’s no doubt Kristen works tirelessly to help all the women and children who come through their doors, but it’s also apparent that she’s desperately short-staffed and that the center’s limited funds are dwindling.
Not to mention the lease on their building is up for renewal, and the landlord doesn’t seem to be a very charitable person at all.
When I offered to help fundraise, she accepted gratefully, but it was only when I told her my name that she really paid attention.
She didn’t recognize me as Alana Montoya, but as Alana Carmichael. She follows politics, unsurprising given her career, and remembered my work on my father’s last campaign. That she knows me as someone other than Alejandro’s wife gave me a sense of pride I haven’t felt in a good while.
For a moment, I felt like myself again. I promised I’d do everything I could to help, and she gave me the warmest hug I’ve had in months.
I can’t wipe the grin off my face as I walk through the house to the kitchen where Magda is busy near the stove.
She briskly wipes her hands on her apron. “Oh, Mrs. Montoya, I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Magda, would you please call me Alana?” I ask her for what must be the hundredth time since I first walked into this house. “Mrs. Montoya makes me feel really old.”
She winces slightly but nods. “Alana,” she says, and it sounds like the word had to force its way out.
Still, I appreciate the effort. “Thank you.”
She clears her throat. “Mr. Montoya will be home for dinner—”
“He will?” Interrupting is impolite of me, but he hasn’t been home for dinner once since we got married.
“Yes.” She nods eagerly. “So what shall I cook? What is your favorite dish?”
I’m busy thinking about how much of an impact this will have on my evening. Not that my evening consists of much more than reading or watching Housewives of Beverly Hills, which is surprisingly addictive. “Whatever he likes is fine by me.”
She shakes her head and huffs. “But he has instructed me to cook your favorite meal. So?”
The sight of him chowing down on a greasy burger almost makes me laugh. “I don’t think he’ll appreciate my tastes.”
She waves her hands in front of her, and her voice raises an octave. “That may be, but those are my orders.”
I chew on my bottom lip and think. I suppose I could pretend that my favorite dish is something exotic and cultured. But no. He can take me how I come or not at all. “Okay then. My favorite meal is a bacon cheeseburger and fries.”
Magda blinks at me. She’s an incredible cook, and her family’s paella recipe is a closely guarded secret that her mama wouldn’t even confess to the priest, Magda told me. She’s probably never made bacon cheeseburgers before in her life.
“I can cook them if you’d like. I like cooking.”
“No.” She glares at me like I’ve insulted her entire family. “There is no dish that Magda Hernandez cannot cook.” She pats her chest with pride. “You go and get cleaned up for dinner. It will be ready at eight.”
“If you’re sure?”
Her nose twitches, and I’m at risk of having her swat me with a soup spoon if I’m not careful. “I’m sure. Now go. Out of my kitchen,” she says, waving her hand in my direction.
I don’t know what comes over me, but perhaps it’s my happiness at finally feeling like I have something to do in this city, or perhaps Kristen’s earlier embrace melted the wall of ice I’ve built around myself these past few weeks, but I run over to Magda and give her a huge hug.
She remains as stiff as a board, and I’m worried I’ve crossed a line. Magda and I have become closer as we’ve gotten to know each other, which is good because she’s the only person I really speak to. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable.
But right as I’m about to pull away, she places her hand on my back and pats me gently. “Dulce nina.”
I don’t know what that means, but it sounds lovely, and when I look at her face, she’s smiling.
Happiness, true happiness, floods my chest. I might just grow to like my life in LA after all.