Brown-Eyed Girl

If Alameda had any doubts about whether or not the relationship was genuine, I was fairly certain they had just vanished. Steven and Sofia were damned convincing as a couple. Which worried me. With the Warner wedding still ahead of us, this was not the time for a tempestuous relationship and all the accompanying Sturm und Drang.

There was also a chance that Steven would revert to his regular self tomorrow morning. As well as I knew Steven, I couldn’t tell what was going on in his mind. Would he totally compartmentalize this entire experience? No doubt Sofia was wondering about that, too.

The chicken turned out to be a masterpiece, bathed in a velvety dark sauce of unsweetened Oaxacan chocolate, spices, and the earthy heat of guajillo chiles. Steven exerted himself to be charming, readily answering Alameda’s questions about his parents, who lived in Colorado. His mother was a florist and his father was a retired teacher, and they’d been married for thirty years. Under Alameda’s probing, Steven admitted that he might not want to stay in event planning forever; he could see himself managing bigger, corporate-related projects or maybe going into public relations. For now, however, he had a lot more to learn at the studio.

“If only I wasn’t so incredibly underpaid,” he added in a deadpan tone, and both Sofia and I started laughing.

“After your last bonus?” I asked in mock indignation. “And your upgraded health plan?”

“I need more perks,” Steven said. “What about a company yoga class?” Comfortably, he slung an arm around the back of Sofia’s chair.

Sofia held a folded tortilla up to his mouth to quiet him. Obligingly, he took a bite.

Alameda smiled thinly as she watched them. She would never like Steven, I thought. I felt certain he must have reminded her of my father. Even though Steven didn’t technically look like Eli, he was tall and blond and possessed a similar WASPy handsomeness. I could have told Alameda that Steven was cut from an entirely different cloth, but it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference. Alameda was determined not to approve of any man Sofia chose for herself.

We had flan for dessert and small, strong cups of cinnamon coffee. Eventually, Alameda announced that it was time to leave. The good-byes were awkward, interpolated with the awareness of what wasn’t being said. Alameda wouldn’t apologize for having brought Luis to Houston, and Sofia was still inwardly seething about having been ambushed. Alameda was only marginally civil to Steven, who, for his part, was scrupulously polite.

“May I walk you out to the car, Mrs. Cantera?” he asked.

“No, I want Avery to come with me.”

“Absolutely,” I said, thinking, Anything. Anything to get you out of here.

We walked outside to the parking spaces in front of the studio. I stood beside Alameda’s car while she climbed into the driver’s seat. She sighed heavily and sat with the door open.

“What kind of man is he?” she asked without looking at me.

I answered seriously. “A good man. Steven doesn’t bail when things get tough. He’s always calm in an emergency. He can drive anything on wheels, and he can do CPR and basic plumbing. He’ll work an eighteen-hour day without a word of complaint, longer if necessary. I can promise you this, Alameda: He’s not like my father.”

A humorless smile flitted through the shadow patterns on her face. “They’re all like your father, Avery.”

“Then why were you trying to push Sofia and Luis together?” I asked, bewildered.

“Because at least he would bring her back to live close to her family,” Alameda said. “Her real family.”

Infuriated, I strove to keep my voice calm. “You know, Alameda, you have a nasty habit of taking shots at your own daughter, and I’m not sure what that’s supposed to accomplish. If you expect it to provide incentive for Sofia to be near you, it doesn’t seem to be working. You might want to try another tactic.”

Glaring at me, Alameda slammed the car door shut and started the engine. After she drove away, I went back into the studio, where Sofia was closing the dishwasher and Steven was drying the blender pitcher. Both were quiet. I wondered what, if anything, had been said between them while I’d been outside.

I scooped up Coco and turned her to face me. “You behaved very well tonight,” I told her. “You’re such a good girl.” She strained to lick me. “Not on the lips,” I said. “I know where that mouth has been.”

Steven picked up his keys from the counter. “Time to roll out,” he said. “And after that meal, I mean it literally.”

I smiled at him. “You saved the day,” I said. “Thank you, Steven.”

“Yes, thank you,” Sofia said in a subdued voice. All the animation had drained from her expression.

Steven’s tone was carefully neutral. “Don’t mention it.”

I pondered how to make a graceful exit. “Would you like me to —”

“No,” Steven said quickly. “I’m going now. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Sofia and I both said in unison.

We both occupied ourselves with casual tasks while Steven let himself out. I picked up a paper towel and wiped the already clean counter. Sofia sprayed the interior of the sink, which had just been rinsed. As soon as the door closed, we burst into conversation.

“What did he say?” I demanded.

“Nothing special: He asked me if I wanted to save the rest of the salsa, and where did we keep the plastic bags.” Sofia covered her face with her hands. “I hate him.” I was startled to hear a sob escape.