And Yesterday Is Gone (20 page)

But he would not be denied. “Steve, I've got enough clothes to open a store and we're the same size. Come early. Rica will be here.”

M
r. Mackey sat at a small table in a corner of the kitchen. His wife placed a plate of food before him.

“Hurry up,” she urged. “I've got a dozen things to do—all these people coming in with the buffet and I'll have to see that everything goes right.”

“This must be an extra fancy party. We haven't had one this big in years. The whole property is lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“Yes, Miss Sara is premiering that painting she's just finished for someone real important, I'll guess. I heard her tell Dr. Teddy it was Juan's introduction to the art world, too. Says he's an undiscovered genius, that he should be teaching her.”

“That's pretty high praise coming from someone as well known as she is. Guess I've lost my helper—he was awfully good with the roses, even if he is a queer,” admitted Mackey.

“That boy has brought Miss Sara so much happiness,” Mrs. Mackey snapped, “and it looks like Dr. Teddy has adopted the other one. He's sure driving proud in that truck. Those boys sure have fun when he visits. It's nice to cook for someone who really digs into meat and potatoes. Nice to have young people around.”

Mackey looked up from his food. “I don't see where that girl fits in with two queers. A looker like her—seems to me she could do better with one of her own kind. Or is she one, too?”

“You know, you're going to be out selling pencils on skid row if you don't get off this ‘queer' business,” his wife said disgustedly. “Can't you understand friendship? Or have you never had a friend? I think this might be a good time for you to get out of my kitchen. Here…” She pushed a piece of cake on a plate toward him. “Take it with you. Go home. Maybe you can find a prizefight on TV. Watch a couple of macho idiots beat each other's brains out. That you understand.”

A
s the lavish event at the mansion drew near, I reconsidered. Reluctantly, I agreed to go, but the images of that war-torn Asian country a continent away left a residue in my mind that I could not shake. I was not in a party mood.

As if my thoughts had reached Juan, the phone rang.

“I thought you were going to come early,” he said in an aggrieved voice. “Hurry up—I've got something I'm dying to show you.”

It was late when I crossed the bridge and traffic was heavy. It was near dark when I started up the hill. In the distance I could see the line of colored lights that danced along the lengthy driveway like a stand-up comic before the main event, pointing to the old house standing regal and tall at the top of the hill, brilliant as a diamond in the sunlight.

Juan must have been watching for me. Almost before the ignition was turned off, he was opening my door, a billboard grin across his face. With one arm around my shoulders and the other hand carrying my bare essentials, he almost pushed me into the house. I looked back to see a uniformed valet parking my truck.

Laughing and talking, we passed the bustling maids. Mrs. Mackey was supervising, giving orders like a four-star general.

I glimpsed the buffet table laid out and ready for the great unveiling, and myriad other signs of preparation.

Juan was as happy as I had ever seen him. He took the stairs to his apartment two at a time. “Come on,” he urged. “What are you waiting for?” His happiness seemed to rub off on me and my mood lifted. I was glad to be here.

“This is for starters,” he said, handing me a cold beer, then pouring one for himself. It seemed to me that his drink disappeared before my glass was half empty. He was in a flurry of excitement. As I swallowed the last drop, he stood quickly and walked to the door, flung it open and stepped into the studio.

He switched on one light, and then another that centered on a paint-stained easel that held the mostly finished painting of a face I had memorized in my heart and one that had visited me often in my dreams. It was Rica, and it was beautifully done.

When I could speak, all I could come up with was, “Damn lucky for you it wasn't a nude.

“She poses for you?” came my half-jealous question.

“Of course,” Juan said. Noting my expression, he added, “You know you don't need to worry about me. I'm waiting for you.”

He turned his face away as the impulsive words tumbled out of his mouth, and I thought to myself that we were both embarrassed.

“What's to eat? I'm starved.”

“I'll bring up some sandwiches,” Juan answered as he left the room.

Standing there, I was not smelling the oil and turpentine, but the lingering fragrance of her hair and remembering the teasing, lying promise in her eyes.

I was in shock, too, thinking of the Juan who had spent his formative years in a tiny remote village in the mountains of Mexico. His old grandmother, schooled in the ways of her grandmother, his only contact with the outside world. Later a local woman had taught him the rudiments of the English ABCs, but a God-given talent was crowned this night.

When he returned, I said with honest awe in my voice, “I hope that I will someday write as well as you paint.” He blushed at my praise and his smile raced from ear to ear.

A quick knock at the door and his Mamá Sara stepped in. Resplendent in a flowing chiffon dress, a jeweled headband holding her hair. Over her arm was an extravagantly ruffled shirt with jeweled cufflinks dangling from one sleeve.

“Steve—I'm glad you came,” was delivered with a hug and returned in kind. “I got this especially for you.” Sara beamed, holding up the shirt. “I know it will fit you.”

“I laid out your clothes,” Juan added. “Hurry and get dressed. I'll change in the bathroom.”

Escaping into the bedroom with my finery, I dressed quickly and stepped out. Miss Sara adjusted the cummerbund as Juan, in an elegant tux, dodged around to straighten my tie and insert the studs, then helped me into the finest jacket I had ever worn.

They had such fun dressing me, turning me this way and that, that it was my pleasure to accommodate them. I looked down at my black silk stockings in the patent leather shoes and knew my feet would forever sneer at cotton.

As Juan adjusted his cufflinks, I could tell it wasn't the first time he'd worn a tux. I thought he was the handsomest man I'd ever seen.

As we stood together in front of the mirror, I felt like Cinderella. Miss Sara clapped her hands and said, “Such a handsome pair. You could be twins if Steve didn't have that curly blond hair.”

I was complimented, and while gazing into that mirror, I thought, Steve, you are a long way from the farm.

“Hurry down,” Sara said. “I must go—the guests are starting to arrive.”

Her footsteps were noiseless on the thickly carpeted stairs.

A few last-minute adjustments and Juan and I followed. Walking down the wide, curving stairway into the incredible luxury of this other world overwhelmed me. The drawing room was now teeming with San Francisco's elite.

I spied Dr. Teddy who stood greeting guests, and marveled at her appearance. She was conspicuous in the simplicity of a satin tuxedo cut almost exactly as my own, the exceptions being the sequined lapels with a hint of ruffle at the throat and the jeweled studs I didn't doubt were real.

The trousers that hung from her slim hips emphasized the long line of her shapely legs. Diamonds that blazed from beneath the short, curly hair caught the brilliance of the chandeliers.

I wandered about. A maid, in a frilly apron that would have made Ma laugh, paused beside me with a tray of something that appeared so beautiful in the long-stemmed glasses that it seemed almost criminal to drink it. But as it lingered on my tongue, my taste buds declared that crime did pay. And when she came back, I felt it was a kindness to lighten her burden at least twice more.

I was definitely not tired and my mood bordered on the hilarious.

I caught glimpses of Juan as he circulated through the celebrants. Watching as women of all ages vied for his attention, he was trying to get past the reserve that marked his indifference. I was amused to see a man, later identified as a famous landscape painter, seemingly grow fast to Juan's elbow.

The trapped look on Juan's face brought Miss Sara to the rescue. They joined the group who were excitedly discussing her painting that sat high on an easel in the center of the room.

Posing beside it, the senator's wife was smiling at the attention, holding a cocktail glass high. Her gown attested to the skill of a well-known designer; a fur carelessly thrown over her shoulder would have paid for a tropical island.

Then the attention turned to Juan as Mamá Sara proudly introduced him as her protégé and promised that the next showing would be his.

Wandering through the rooms, I hadn't seen Rica. Juan had assured me that she would be there. Then the door opened and I knew why I had come to this party.

A maid took her wrap and my breath caught in my throat at the beauty of this woman. A low-cut strapless sheath clung to her every curve and revealed more of her than I had ever seen. Her black hair was piled high and secured with some kind of jeweled pins, her big eyes dancing with excitement. I moved toward her.

Then came the crushing disappointment. That damn fiancé, who was
always
busy, apparently had not been too busy to escort her to this prestigious party.

I stepped back quickly, but too late.

Smiling, she walked to me and formally extended her hand. I held it until she pulled away.

Turning to her fiancé, she said, “Doug, I'd like you to meet Steve, Juan's friend.”

He didn't offer his hand and I was glad. He had a bored, superior look on his face as he glanced around, seeming to appraise everything. Finally his eyes came back to me.

“So this is Juan's boyfriend.” His eyebrow went up, and with a knowing smirk he added, “What a cozy arrangement.”

Rica tugged his arm and said sharply, “Please, Doug.”

I felt the blood rush to my face hard enough to break a vessel. As he turned away, he gave a limp-wrist wave. “See you later, boyfriend.”

My foot slid out almost as though it weren't part of me—a schoolboy trick reminiscent of the third grade. He tripped, half sprawling.

“My goodness.” I grinned as I helped him up and straightened his tie. “Better go easy on that booze.”

He glared at me and slapped my hand away. Rica gave me a look that would have frozen a polar bear. As they walked away, I called after them. “The buffet is wonderful—try the caviar.”

Juan, who had been talking to some lady dripping diamonds, was looking past her and laughing so hard I could see his tonsils.

As the evening progressed, I wandered around watching the colorful scene before me, wishing with all my heart that Rica's companion would get an emergency call that would delay him forever.

I seemed like a magnet to all those maids in their frilly aprons. As I was busy exchanging glasses, a pretty redheaded woman took my arm and said, “You look lonesome. Want to dance? My name's Peggy.”

“Dance? Sure—why not.”

I loved to dance. Ma and Sis had taught me, and Sis and I had won a couple of contests when we sneaked out at night. I was smarter than Tim, though—I replaced the screens.

My patent-leather shoes slid over that polished floor with ease. Peggy was a good dancer and followed my fancy steps. I was almost enjoying myself.

Looking past Peggy's cleavage, I saw Rica dancing a slow waltz, looking bored as her fiancé pushed around the dance floor like an old plow horse with bad feet. I waved at her and she stuck out her tongue.

“Peggy,” I said. “Would you do me a favor?”

“Anything.” She giggled and did a suggestive little dance step that Ma hadn't taught me.

“I'm going to dance over to that couple,” I said, pointing. “I'd like you to tap him on the shoulder and say ‘tag,' then take him away and keep him happy. He's very rich.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes, really,” I lied.

“My pleasure,” she said. “Don't hurry.”

Doug looked surprised, but recovered quickly and stepped back.

I moved in and pulled Rica into my arms. She fit into me just as I had always known she would.

“That was a pretty put-up job, Cowboy,” she said as we danced away.

“You're a pretty put-up job yourself,” answering as I held her close, then closer still.

“Cowboy, you're drunk,” she accused.

“I am, I am,” came my elated answer. “Wonderfully, happily drunk.” Then I sang a few bars of “The night is young, you in my arms” until I realized that wasn't what the band was playing. And I was also very off-key.

“I think we better sit this one out,” Rica told me, pulling away and taking my hand. “Let's go out on the veranda until you cool off. There's a glider porch swing in the little alcove. You might even catch a wink. You don't want to embarrass yourself.”

“Sure, why not.” But my sparkling conversation ceased as my patent- leather shoes betrayed me. As we turned the corner, I stumbled and fell, pulling Rica with me. By sheer luck, we landed in the swing.

A golden opportunity, my mind declared. Holding her tight, I bent my head to kiss that soft, perfumed spot, somewhere beneath her ear. I'd like to say she swooned in my arms, but she retaliated with a stinging slap that almost sobered me up.

Then came her sarcastic response, “Your aim is way off, Cowboy. Those bad guys are safe with you.” So saying, she untangled herself and stood.

“Damn it, that hurt,” I cried indignantly, lifting my hand to the cheek that stung. Then I grabbed her, pulled her back and held her down as she struggled.

“How long have we known each other?” I demanded.

“Who the hell cares? Let me go.”

“I care. It's been sixteen months, three weeks and two days. I don't count the hours. And all these months you've teased and flirted and tried to make a fool of me.”