Chapter 2
That settled, I turned to the luggage carousel, and, my good travel winning streak continuing, was able to immediately locate my suitcase. As I was reaching for it, Jack stepped beside me and grabbed it for me. I was impressed again with his manners and thoughtfulness.
His car was a standard, rental sedan and once my luggage was stowed in the trunk, he drove confidently into traffic. We had not driven long when he turned into the parking lot of an average hotel. Since luxury hotels are my business, I suspected that this hotel would not be a treat.
Jack had suggested that we drop our bags in his hotel room, freshen up, then head over to the community center where the memorial was being held.
A quick glance around the room confirmed my suspicions.
There was barely enough room for a queen-sized bed and an armchair.
The bedspread looked like a stiff, polyester nightmare to sleep under.
The two pieces of bland, innocuous “artwork” on the walls were, I was sure, screwed into the wall.
The tiny space next to the bathroom door must be what passed for a closet.
And the bathroom would have brought my boss to tears.
It was clean and functional, but that was about all that could be said for it.
A toilet, sink, and tub/shower jockeyed for space in the tiny enclosure.
There was barely any room to move, let alone unwind and relax after the end of a tiring travel day.
Jack saw my pinched expression and said, “Yeah, it’s not great. But I literally booked everything last night, so…” I was embarrassed to be caught being judgmental and said, “Non, I’m sure it is fine.”
While I was freshening up in the bathroom, Jack was changing into a black linen camp shirt over black jeans.
Since my travel outfit was black linen trousers, all I needed to swap out was a pearl grey silk blouse for the pastel pink I’d had on.
I looked in the mirror and brushed some powder over my face.
There. Good enough for people I’d never met and would never meet again.
On the drive over Jack reviewed the roster of people I was likely to meet. Rather than have to remember all of the names, I offered to pretend I spoke and understood very little English. That would limit my conversational engagement. Jack nodded his approval of this plan.
“Oh, and, your name is Eve Lambert, right? I saw the luggage tag.” He pronounced my last name with the American hard R and T. Like Lamb-Bert.
“Non, c’est Lambert” I said, demonstrating the correct pronunciation - Lamb -Behr.
“Oh, OK. Got it.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, nervously. Eyeing me sideways, he said, “This feels super lame, but…can we hold hands? I mean at the memorial? I just am really nervous about the reception I’ll get. I think the pretend girlfriend thing would be good.”
“D’accord, Jack. As you wish.” I answered serenely. But on the inside my fangirl was bouncing up and down with the thought that Jack Garcia wanted to hold my hand! OK, in a strictly supportive role, but still. Holding hands with Jack Garcia! I was more than OK with that.
I realized that since he’d asked my last name, I should ask his. Like I didn’t totally know who he was. Like his music didn’t comprise 90% of my playlists.
“You are Jack, oui, but what is your last name?” I asked casually.
Jack looked a bit nervous as he said, “Garcia,” shooting a look at me to assess my reaction.
“D’accord, Jack. Don’t worry. It will all be fine. You get srough zis evening and zen it will be behind you, and you need not be anxious anymore. “
He seemed to relax at my lack of reaction to his name. Mentally I was writing a thank you note to Bernard, the poker mentor of my youth, for my ability to keep a smooth, even expression.
When we pulled into the parking lot of the community center there were already several cars there.
Jack turned off the car and sat with his head leaning back against the seat for a few moments before getting out and coming around to open my door.
He offered his hand and I took it. He locked the car, I gave his hand a small squeeze, and we went into the community center.
It was a plain, cinderblock building that looked like it had been there a long time.
Across the front of the building was a sign that said Los Venturas Community Center.
We went hand in hand through the front door and were greeted by a plump, elderly woman in a floral dress.
She clapped her hands with surprise and joy as she called out, “Jack! You came!” He only winced slightly as she enveloped him in a tight hug.
“It’s so good to see you! It’s been so long,” she crooned as she gave him a once over.
Then she noticed me and said, “Jack, who’s your friend? ”
He drew me closer to him and said, “Mrs. Morales, this is my girlfriend, Eve. She doesn’t speak much English.”
I extended the hand that wasn’t holding Jack’s. “Enchanté”
Mrs. Morales gave me a quick once over and a warm smile, then leaned in toward Jack, whispering, “Ooh, she’s lovely. Congratulations!”
Jack gave a smile and said, “Thank you. Where are we supposed to go?”
“Oh, where are my manners?” Giving a girlish laugh, Mrs. Morales pointed down the hallway.
Jack thanked her and we walked toward the source of the buzz of conversation.
Double doors led into what appeared to be a multi-purpose room.
Painted lines of a basketball court covered half the room.
Basketball hoops were affixed to the walls at either end.
On one side of the room was a small stage.
There were several dozen folding chairs set up in front of the stage, and behind the chairs were about ten round tables with paper tablecloths and paper flower centerpieces.
There were easels set up with story boards—Nick’s life in pictures.
We started at the left with the baby pictures, and worked our way through missing front teeth, baseball games, science fair projects, camping trips, prom, and graduation.
Jack paused and inspected each one, occasionally making a comment under his breath to me about his memories.
The next set of boards were Nick and Valentina’s wedding. The birth of their two little girls. Nick with his work truck, proudly showing off his tools. Nick waving from the top of a roof.
Jack turned away, his face taut. I knew he had a lot to process there, so I just gave his hand a squeeze to let him know he had support. He turned to me with a small smile, leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Thanks for this.”
That sent shivers skittering down my spine. I turned and whispered back to him. “No problem. You’ve got zis Jack.”
After shaking a few more hands and smiling through a few more introductions, we grabbed seats in the back row. We received plenty of side-eye examination, but no one made a scene about Jack being famous, or having been the losing side of the love triangle with the deceased and his wife.
The memorial was not religious or formal.
People who had been close to Nick took turns standing up to talk about him.
There were stories from his time in school when he apparently had had a bit of a wild side.
Everyone was laughing at the recounting of Nick pulling up to the Dairy Queen drive through in a chicken costume, asking for a chicken burger and saying, “Make sure it’s no one I know.
” A co-worker talked of his time working with Nick, how he was always a dependable, stand-up guy.
His mother’s next-door neighbor, a sweet, fluffy older lady, nattered on for a bit about how Nick always mowed her lawn for her and would never take payment.
And then came Valentina. I was eager to see the woman who had won young Jack’s heart.
She must have been gorgeous. At one time.
Currently, however, she looked like she had a strong and enduring relationship with doughnuts, Diet Coke, and Doritos.
Her heart-breaking days were a distant memory.
Her black hair hung straight down to her shoulders, and her carefully applied makeup showed no signs of smudging or distress.
Either this woman had industrial grade water-proof mascara, phenomenal self-control, or she was not actually feeling the grief that she portrayed.
As she spoke of their life together and how happy they had been, dabbing at her dry eyes with a handkerchief, I felt Jack’s hand tighten on mine. I glanced sideways at him and saw the muscles in his jaw tense. “What?” I questioned softly.
His lips pressed together then he answered in a whisper, “All that crap she’s talking about?
That was her. That was all she wanted. That wasn’t Nick.
He wanted to travel and see the world, not stay in the same tiny town and put roofs on tiny houses.
” His gaze darkened and I could feel the anger coming off him in waves.
“Jack, zat was his choice. If he did it to make ze woman he loved happy, zen he was happy.” I wasn’t 100% certain of that, but it didn’t hurt to try to convince him that Nick had been satisfied with his life.
As soon as the speakers were done, Jack rose abruptly and headed for the beverages table.
I waved away his offer of a drink and he grabbed a beer.
There was a queue forming for the banquet table laden with homemade love offerings of food.
People clutched their paper plates and plastic forks as they inched forward, speculatively scanning the spread.
“Would you like some food?” I asked, hoping to distract Jack as he gulped his beer. Also wishing to soften the landing of that beer. I hoped we were not heading for an ugly confrontation, as so often happens when grief and alcohol collide.