Craving Perfect (13 page)

I surprised myself by having a great time before we entered the restaurant, which was sort of unusual for me. It was refreshing to be on a date where your date—your hot date—wasn’t checking his cell phone for messages before the appetizers were served. But something still nagged at my brain: What would a hot guy see in me? Could it be he was only interested in my lemon bars?

I didn’t mind that Carlos held my hand either. I liked it. The electricity from his fingers charged my entire arm. The sensation made breathing difficult, but in a good way. In an
I’m-kinda-interested-to-see-where-this-is-headed
way.

We entered the restaurant through the kitchen. This pleased me, mostly because kitchens were always a fascination—monstrous, tiny, modern, decrepit, it didn’t matter. I was weirdly wired to love them all. The kitchen was truly the heart of any place and Uncle Mario’s restaurant was no different. Simmering copper pots, cluttered counters, and fruits and vegetables hanging from wired baskets crammed the room floor to ceiling. Chefs in white aprons circled the kitchen, chattering in Spanish and English as a thin veil of steam hugged the air. Silverware clattered and knives chopped over meats and vegetables like a symphony tuning its instruments. I drank it all in with a single breath.

A dark, mustached man with a familiar smile walked toward us from behind a counter lined with baskets of corn tortilla chips. His name was stitched on his chest pocket.

“You must be Grace,” he said over the clatter.

Carlos placed his hand on my shoulder. “You must be Mr. Mario?” I replied.

“Uncle Mario.” He reached out and squeezed my hands between his like a sandwich. “Everyone calls me Uncle Mario.” Then he lowered his chin and his voice conspiratorially, wiggling a set of thick black eyebrows. “Except for my other chefs.”

I adored him instantly. And his accent.

“Welcome to my restaurant.” His eyes danced between Carlos and me, crinkling in the corners as if he and his nephew shared a secret. A few of the other cooks behind him stopped their chopping to grin and nod at Carlos. They all looked like Uncle Mario with beautiful brown skin and black dancing eyes except, maybe, a little younger.

“I understand that you too are a chef?”

“I bake pastries. But I’m not a chef. Not exactly,” I added quickly. “But I do love to cook just about anything.”

“Well, I hope we will not disappoint you today, Miss Grace.” He winked at Carlos.

I laughed. “My sister and I have wanted to eat here for over a year. I doubt you could disappoint.” And if only Kathryn were with us! She would have loved the excitement of this restaurant. She and Eddie and Carlos and I? We would have had so much fun, the kind of fun she complained we no longer had.

“Next time you want to come, you just call Uncle Mario. You and your sister are welcome whenever you like.” And then he kissed the back of my hand, just like in the movies. His mustache tickled and it all felt very Audrey Hepburnish. I was thankful that the kitchen was steamy because I was pretty sure that my cheeks flushed. A few of the men said something in Spanish and Carlos replied back. I caught the word
bonita
.

Me,
bonita?

When Uncle Mario released my hand, Carlos was quick to reclaim it while the hand rested behind my neck. The electricity returned to my arm as he led me to another door. Uncle Mario followed us.

“My uncle saved us a table on the patio.”

I turned. “
Gracias
, Uncle Mario.”

“
De nada
.” He waved as Carlos opened the door. The commotion resumed in the kitchen behind us.

We waded between tables and chairs to a table next to a gray fountain on the courtyard patio. Even though it was still daylight, tiny white lights twinkled across the open ceiling. Bougainvillea and vines with white flowers covered three of the walls, and I inhaled gardenia. In one corner, two musicians strummed classical guitars.

“No mariachi?” I teased Carlos.

He squeezed my hand before releasing it to push back my chair. “That’s not till later.”

“Are you sure this table is for us?” My eyes scanned the crowd waiting near the front door. Faces frowned in our direction.

“Quite sure.” He waited for me to sit at a small round table with a single red rose in a glass vase.

“Wow,” I whispered, sinking into the cushioned seat. “I feel so…special.”

Carlos chuckled behind me, his lips inches from my ear. “That’s because you are.”

“Stop doing that, Carlos.” I waved off another undeserved compliment as he sat across from me.

“Doing what?”

“You’ll give me a big head.”

“Not possible,” he insisted.

“Never say never.”

A young girl with raven-black hair pulled back in a loose braid appeared at our table as soon as Carlos was seated. She wore a bright pink blouse and a teal pleated skirt that reached down to her knees. Her smile radiated as much energy as her outfit, just like the rest of the restaurant. It was as if Uncle Mario’s was powered by some super-sized generator that wasn’t shared with the rest of the city. I so felt privileged to be plugged into it.

“
Hola
, Carlos.” Dimples caved the center of both of her cheeks.

“
Hola
, Maria.” He returned the smile and then turned to me. “This is my cousin, Maria Gonzales. Maria, Grace Mills.”

“Nice to meet you.” Her words were lightly accented, like everyone’s except mine. I envied that.

“Very nice to meet you too, Maria.”

“Busy day, eh?” Carlos nodded toward the other tables. There wasn’t an empty one in sight.

“Always like this on a Sunday.” She turned and shook her head at the bustling room. “Uncle Mario is making your order as we speak.” She winked at him. “
Muy especial
.”

My jaw dropped. “You pre-ordered?”

Carlos shrugged sheepishly.

I’ve never in my whole life had a guy pre-order for me.

“What would you like to drink?” Maria pulled out a notepad from her front pocket.

“Sangria,” Carlos said with the confidence of someone who had had it before. “It’s the best sangria anywhere—trust me.” He smiled. “Uncle Mario makes it himself.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Sangria it is, then.”

“
Dos
sangrias,” Maria said.

As soon as Maria left, I leaned forward and crossed my arms at the elbows. “Are you related to everyone here?”

Carlos nodded. “It’s
la familia
, Grace. It’s the only thing that matters.” He was more matter-of-fact than boastful.

“How many cousins do you have anyway?”

“Lots,” he whispered back. “Dozens, really.”

“You’re lucky.” I sighed with my chin resting on my hand. My eyes scanned the restaurant.

Carlos leaned closer. “You don’t have many?”

“A couple, but no one I’m really close to. Not like this.”

“It’s a blessing and a curse.” He sipped his water. “But mostly it’s a blessing.” Carlos fingered a thin silver chain around his neck. A medallion hung from it. “
Mi madre
used to say that we’re all ancestors of the cedar tree.”

“I thought your parents were Mexican?”

“They are.” He smiled. Despite the bruises around his eyes, they still twinkled. It was impossible not to smile back. And he had this way of locking onto my eyes with his so that I didn’t want to look away. “But she was a small part Cherokee.” He motioned an inch with his thumb and forefinger.

“Really? Well, that might explain why you’re so much taller than your cousins.”

Carlos shrugged.

Still smiling, I swept my gaze across his face. It may have been the first time I’d ever seen him squirm, just a bit. He probably felt the same way about attention as I did. But he did have such an interesting face, despite the bruises. And I was having a good time studying him. “And maybe why your jaw is more square…”

Carlos placed his hand in the middle of the table, reaching for mine. I only hesitated a second before placing mine in his. “She used to tell us that the Cherokee believed that the cedar tree held protective spirits, warded away evil. She said it was important to always water and protect it so its roots would grow deep.”

“In Arizona?”

He smirked at me. “I guess there are white cedar trees somewhere in Mexico. I’ve never seen them.”

“And what’s that got to do with family?”

His expression turned serious. He placed my hand between his, drawing a circle with his finger. My hand tingled as I watched the top of his head. He lifted his head and then said, “It means, Grace, that if you water the cedar tree and take care of it, then its branches will grow strong and protect the tree.”

“So that’s how we get a family tree?”

Carlos chuckled. “Something like that.”

“Well, consider me jealous. I’m deeply envious of your cedar tree. Mine doesn’t have more than two Charlie Brown Christmas tree branches. It’s pretty bleak.”

“Where do your cousins live?”

“Colorado. I barely know them.”

“On your mom or your dad’s side?” He pulled back, just for an instant, and then I knew that he knew. It flashed across his eyes.

I swallowed, hard. “Dad’s.”

“Hey, Grace.” His nostrils flared as he inhaled. “Elena told me about your parents. I am so very sorry.”

I started to pull my hand away, just a fraction, but Carlos tugged it back. “I just wish,” I blurted.

His eyes prodded mine. He squeezed my hand.

My lips pressed together and my eyes dipped, briefly. And we had been having such a nice time.

“Please. Tell me.”

“I just wish I could have said goodbye.”

There
. I’d said it. I’d never told anyone that, not even Kathryn. I always figured she wished the same thing. Who wouldn’t?

Our hands pulled apart, reluctantly, just as Maria arrived with a platter containing two blue-colored wine glasses and a matching pitcher of sangria. She arranged everything in the middle of the table.

“Food should be right up.” Maria began to pour sangria into our glasses with a knowing wink at Carlos. An orange wedge adorned the rim of each glass.

“Oh. My. God. This looks incredible.” I was grateful for the interruption, although Maria left as quickly as she appeared.

Carlos narrowed his eyes and continued to study me. “I think I understand what you mean, Grace.”

“About what?” My throat tightened a little.

“About goodbyes.”

I nodded.

“Sometimes you can’t plan them.”

“Very true.”

“That’s why you have to appreciate family while you can.” But then he lifted his glass and said, “To family.” It was very formal. Carlos continued to surprise me.

“And cedar trees,” I said quietly before adding, “And to your family, Carlos. Seriously. They’re amazing. You’re so lucky.” The sangria soothed my throat and I was grateful for another topic. “Delicious!” I took a second, longer sip.

“Careful, Grace. It might taste like punch but it doesn’t work that way.”

“Are you kidding? It’s a million times better than punch.” I took another sip and the tip of my nose tingled.

“Glad you like it.”

“Like it? I
love
it.” I set the glass down. “And Carlos, thanks for bringing me here. I’ve always wanted to try Mario’s…and I’m really having a nice time.” The nicest that I could remember in months, maybe even in years.

Carlos tilted his head. “Don’t thank me till you taste the food,” he teased.

On cue, another one of Carlos’s cousins from the kitchen delivered freshly made avocado salsa and a basket of warm tortilla chips underneath a red linen cloth.

“Mmm…” I closed my eyes. “I can smell the cilantro.”

“Wait till you taste it,” Carlos started. “It’s the…”

“Best salsa I’ll ever have,” I interrupted, grinning. “I know, I know.” I reached for a chip the color of a sweet potato inside the basket.

“You’re learning.” Carlos’s hand brushed mine as we reached for the chip basket, sending a new shiver down my spine. “Wait till you taste my uncle’s fajitas.”

“Fajitas,” I repeated, trying to mimic Carlos’s accent. Unfortunately, when it left my lips, it sounded more like
pajamas
.

Carlos chuckled but nodded, I suppose, giving me bonus points for trying. But his eyes gave me more than points. His eyes all but smoldered whenever he looked across at mine, igniting goose bumps all over my body. The feeling frightened and thrilled me at the same time.

But there was no time to dwell on goose bumps. Uncle Mario and each of Carlos’s cousins brought an endless stream of sizzling plates to our table. It was so well orchestrated and over-the-top that the other diners couldn’t help but stop and stare. I would have gawked too.

They delivered plates piled with plump shrimp and scallops sautéed with fresh lime juices and spices, cheese platters, fruits and vegetables of every color and homemade buttery tortillas that melted in my mouth. And the sangria pitcher never sat empty.

For dessert, Uncle Mario himself delivered two white bowls of homemade vanilla ice cream smothered in honey inside a crusty sweet pastry shell and two cups of strong espresso. I was unable to stop myself from swooning. It was a little embarrassing, really. And not a great day to start a diet.

If I embarrassed Carlos, he didn’t say. He seemed to enjoy watching me. And, maybe it was the sangria, but I didn’t mind that his eyes found me amusing.

After our meal, we walked slowly across the parking lot to Carlos’s truck, the music and voices from the restaurant growing softer. Ribbons of orange and purple lined the western sky as the sun began to set. Instead of hand-holding, Carlos draped his arm across my shoulder and pulled me close. My arm wrapped around his hip underneath his jean jacket. The rest of his body was warm like his hands. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.

“Thank you, Carlos.” I turned and leaned against the passenger door, looking back toward the restaurant. I wanted to capture it like a photo. “You were right, you know.”

“About what?”

“That was absolutely the best meal I’ve ever had.”

Carlos leaned alongside me and we stared back at the restaurant. “You’re welcome, Grace.” Then he turned to me, leaning his arm against the door. “I had a great time too. But being with you was the best part.” He turned to face me. His eyes deepened in the dwindling sunlight but still held my reflection. I was content and relaxed.