Houston, We Have a Problema Page 3

  Jessica heard the pitiful mewing before she saw what was making it, and immediately forgot all about the dogs. She stepped over boxes and paint cans to get to the far corner of the garage. In a nest of faded towels, four kittens tumbled over one another and into their mother, who lay there looking tired and proud.

  “Aw!” Jessica’s heart completely melted. Guillermo smiled at her as if he’d made the kittens himself, for her.

  “Let me go get her more food,” he said.

  Jessica noticed empty sardine and tuna cans all over the floor. That was so like Guillermo, to feed them better than he fed himself. He came back with another sardine tin and knelt beside the cats. They played with the kittens while their mother ate. Jessica fell in love with them all, but the black one was already her favorite, because of the brave way he looked up into her eyes.

  “I knew you would like them,” Guillermo said. “Now, every time you visit, they will know you. When you’re not here, they will cry in my window and ask me why.”

  Jessica had to smile at his assumption that she’d continue to visit regularly.

  When Hunter was ready to nurse her babies again, Guillermo led Jessica inside.

  In the living room, she saw that he’d pushed the gold camelback sofa and matching Queen Anne chair to the wall. The rest of the room was filled with easels and canvasses in all stages of completion.

  Jessica knew the house belonged to his grandmother. The year before, she’d become ill and had moved into Guillermo’s parents’ house in Monterrey. It had been decided that Guillermo would move out of his efficiency apartment in the Houston area and into the house, to take care of it until she returned — if she returned.

  “Are you getting ready for a show?” she asked.

  “Maybe. If the people call me again, now that my phone is fixed.”

  She assumed he meant the Houston Council on Latino Arts, whose number she’d given him weeks before. But she knew better than to push for details. Like her, he was superstitious and hated to jinx opportunities by talking about them before they panned out.

  On the nearest canvas, he’d penciled a light sketch. It looked as if it were going to be a person reclining, but she couldn’t tell any more than that. Next to that was an easel covered with cloth. Jessica reached to uncover it, but Guillermo shook his head. “Don’t look at that one. It’s not ready yet. Here, look at this. I’ve been wanting your opinion of this one.”

  He led her across the room to yet another easel. This one held a still life she hadn’t seen before. He’d painted a bottle, a mango, half a lime, and a bulb of garlic.

  “What do you think?” he said.

  Jessica studied it carefully. “Are you done with it yet?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, staring at the painting critically himself. “I thought I was, but now I think maybe it needs something else.”

  Jessica looked again. “Maybe . . . maybe another lime, right here.” She pointed to a blank spot on the painting. “A quarter lime, facing this way.”

  Guillermo looked as if he could imagine exactly what she did. “That’s a perfect idea. You’re good,” he said. “You have good eyes. You should be painting here with me instead of typing papers for old men all the time.”

  Jessica smiled. It was nice to be appreciated, she thought, for something she was really good at. Especially by an artist as talented as Guillermo.

  “Come on,” he said. “Later you can tell me what you think about all the other ones. But right now let’s relax.”

  He led her into the kitchen, saying, “Please don’t notice this mess,” waving his hand around to encompass everything.

  His kitchen, as usual, was a disaster area. The knotty pine cabinets were all ajar, and the counter was covered with paintbrushes, discarded palettes, jars of colored water, and lime wedges. However, he’d obviously cleared enough space to cook. And he’d cleaned the tiny table in the corner and set two places.

  “Here. Sit down,” he said, leading her to one of the folding chairs in his makeshift dining nook. “Let me bring you a plate. No, wait. I have a present for you.” He disappeared into another part of the house. Jessica could hardly contain her curiosity.

  He came back carrying a small wooden box and put it into her hands. On closer inspection, she saw that the lid was intricately carved with flowers and tiny birds. “Guillermo, this is beautiful. Where did you get it?”

  “I made it.” At Jessica’s look of surprise, he explained, “I had the box already, but I cut the flowers and finished painting it yesterday.”

  Jessica ran her fingers over the carvings, which he’d obviously sanded smooth.

  “I put the flowers you like — the ones that were in my garden in spring — and I painted it your favorite colors.”

  They were her favorites — all of them. “But I never told you my favorite colors,” she said.

  “You always wear them,” he explained. “I know which ones you like best because you smile more when you wear them.”

  Jessica couldn’t help but smile now.

  He went back to the stove to make her plate. Jessica sat back and watched him wait on her. She knew he was doing it only to get her in a good mood and to avoid the lecture he knew she would give him sooner or later. Still, it was nice to relax and watch him worry about her for a change. She wished he could be like this all the time, but without her having to get mad first. And without his shirt, the way he was right now. His lean muscles flexed and unflexed as he worked and definitely put her in a good mood.

  She watched him pile their two plates with rice and something that looked like thick, dark gravy. It was mole, she realized, smelling the slightly spicy, slightly peanut-y aroma. With turkey. She hadn’t had mole since she was a child.

  Guillermo brought the plates to the table, then went to the refrigerator for drinks. “There’s beer,” he said, “and tequila.”

  Jessica raised her eyebrow. “Didn’t I leave some diet soda last time I was here?”

  “I poured it in the sink. I keep telling you, chiquitita, you shouldn’t put unnatural things in your body. I’ll make you some tea, with hierba buena.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll take a beer,” she said. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to taste the food. She didn’t want to wait for him to make tea.

  Finally, with two bottles of Negra Modelo in tow, he sat down. Even though she was eager to taste his creation, Jessica had to take a moment to look at his face first.

  She could look at that face all night. The high cheekbones, the perfect nose, the delicate but still masculine chin. That mouth . . . He looked like an Aztec warrior. Or a brilliant art student, plus a few extra years. Actually, he looked a lot like Leo Fiorenzo from Young Lives to Live. But unlike the actor, Guillermo had proven that he was definitely straight. He was the hottest guy she’d ever dated. Not that the others had been dogs . . . and not that she was bad-looking, herself . . . But she’d never imagined she would score a man as good-looking as Guillermo, especially as hot as he looked right now.

  He was waiting. Jessica took the first bite. Guillermo watched and waited for her response.

  “Mm,” she said, looking for a napkin and immediately wishing she hadn’t put so much into her mouth.

  He looked around for a napkin as well, then handed her a paint rag from the counter. “What’s wrong? Not spicy enough?”

  “No, it’s spicy enough,” she said. It reminded her of the curry at her favorite Thai restaurant — except hotter. She’d already swallowed the mouthful and now fanned at her lips. “How much chile did you use?”

  He held her beer bottle to her lips with one hand, then reached over to the counter with the other, this time for a lime.

  “Here. I’m sorry, chiquitita.” He spilled a little beer out of the bottle so that it ran down the side of her mouth. He put down the beer and quickly wiped her face with his fingers, then licked them. Although her lips were burning, she had to laugh. He smiled sheepishly and handed her the lime. “I tried to make
everything romantic for you, and now I’m messing it up.”

  She laughed again. She couldn’t help it. He looked so silly and helpless, trying to be macho and sweet at the same time, hands full, with no shirt on. He even had a little patch of blue paint glistening in his black hair, she noticed now. “Stop,” she said, taking his hands before he could dab at her face with the rag, which smelled a little like turpentine. “Stop, Guillermo. I don’t need you to make everything romantic.”

  “Okay,” he said. He seemed relieved. He sat back down, visibly relaxed, leaning into his chair and taking a swig of his own beer. “I’m glad you came over. It feels like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

  “You haven’t,” she said. She wanted it to come out bitterly, but it was a little too late for that.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been working so much. I forget the time. And you’re always so patient with me. I don’t deserve a woman like you.” He reached around the table and stroked her hand.

  “No, you don’t,” she said — again, not as harshly as she could have. “Guillermo, if you miss me so much all the time, why don’t you call me more often?”

  Very briefly, she saw a look cross his face. Not of annoyance, exactly, but more like the look of a hunted animal. Of a man who didn’t want to be tied down. But maybe she imagined it, Jessica thought, because just as quickly, he smiled and looked penitent instead.

  “Didn’t I tell you, chiquitita? My phone was broken because I forgot to pay the bill. But I did call you, when I could, last night.”

  Jessica sighed. She could have argued with him. But suddenly she wasn’t in the mood. Like he said, he had called her when he could. And here she was now, in his house. What was the use of lecturing him now? She might as well just relax and enjoy herself. Guillermo may not have been very reliable, but he was at least good at getting her to relax.

  He stood and picked up both their drinks with his left hand. Then, with his right, he helped her up and pulled her toward the bedroom. She went along without protest.

  His bedroom was the one part of his home that was neat. He always said it was because he liked having a peaceful place to rest. The house’s single air-conditioning unit hummed softly in the window near the headboard of the full-size bed, which was covered with the soft, worn quilt his mother had made.

  On the tall pine dresser, against silver-framed photographs of his family, he’d propped up snapshots he’d taken in the countryside outside Monterrey — his pets, a waterfall, the mountains under which he’d grown up. Jessica’s only experience of Mexico was a few trips over the border to party with Toby and one visit to Marisol’s parents’ ranch a long time ago. But ever since meeting Guillermo here in Houston, she’d wanted him to take her back with him to Mexico. He made it sound beautiful — full of peaceful people who did what they wanted to with their lives, instead of skyscrapers and corporations full of unhappy robots. But when she asked him about a trip, he always said it was too depressing and he didn’t want her to be sad. She knew that he hadn’t been back since he’d traded in his green card for U.S. citizenship several years before.

  A faded border of wallpaper roses held up the tiny patch of ceiling above their heads. It was such a charming, homey little room, she almost felt guilty about what they always ended up doing in it.

  He set the beers on his nightstand, then lay across the bed, propped up on the headboard, and reached out for her to join him. The light of the lamp played across his chest, and Jessica stopped feeling guilty. She slipped off her sandals, then sat on the edge of the bed and swiveled to face him.

  “How was work today?” she asked.

  He finished his beer in one long swig and carefully set the empty bottle on the floor. “I didn’t go to work.”

  “What? Why not? I thought you said you were supposed to finish that house by the end of the month.”

  “I was,” he said. “But then the man’s wife was talking to me, and now I’m painting her picture instead.”

  Jessica raised her eyebrow. “Does her husband know that?”

  “If she told him, he does. I didn’t ask. She’s paying me a lot of money. Let’s not talk about that anymore. No more worrying, okay?”

  Before Jessica could say anything else, he reached over and put his arms around her waist, tugging her down onto the bed. She ended up lying next to him, facing him, with her head on his arm. He traced the line of her jaw with his fingertip.

  “So, corazón. When are you going to quit your job so you can stop looking so sad?”

  “I don’t know. I guess when you get rich and pay my rent.” She managed to look at him defiantly, even while his touch was already forcing the tension of the afternoon out of her body.

  “I’ll pay your rent if you come live here and cook for me.”

  She knew he was kidding, as usual. He knew she couldn’t cook. “How about I order us pizzas, and you paint my picture instead?”

  He took his hand from her face and placed it on her hip, where the hem of her skirt was riding up of its own volition. Then he leaned down to kiss her neck.

  That familiar feeling started up. A slow, simmering sensation radiating through her body.

  “If you want,” he murmured against her ear, “I’ll paint your picture right now.”

  She pressed herself against him, then turned her face to his so she could lick his lower lip.

  “No, that’s okay,” she whispered. “Later. . . .”

  4

  Jessica liked that she could walk through Guillermo’s house totally naked, with no curtains on his windows, and not worry about being seen. The nearest house was four acres away. It was as if he lived outside the normal rules. Also, she liked that she could walk through his house naked and not worry about being seen by him.

  Once, at the dentist’s, she’d read a magazine article called “Under the Covers and Beyond: How to Hide Your Figure Flaws the Morning After.” It had advised her to say, with a sexy shiver, “Ooh, it’s getting chilly in here,” and then wrap her boyfriend’s blanket around her body like a toga while getting out of bed.

  With Guillermo, she didn’t need to hide anything. Her friend Toby had told her once that her butt was like J. Lo’s, but with a Quarter Pounder and fries. Guillermo didn’t seem to mind her extra curves, though. He told her that her body was beautiful. And he was an artist, Jessica reasoned, so he should know.

  Back in the living room, she examined his latest work again. The still life was done in acrylic. Next to that, there were mountains under a red sun, done in oil. His style called to mind Rivera and Kahlo. Jessica loved that his work reflected Mexican influences but never resorted to the clichéd skeletons and roosters that so many Latino artists — like Robert, her ex-boyfriend — were painting today. Guillermo was really good. She wished she could paint half as well as he could. But she definitely couldn’t. She’d found that out a long time ago.

  “What happened to the mermaid?” she asked as he emerged from the bedroom to get another beer.

  “I sold it.”

  Despite the fact that he didn’t lift a finger to promote himself, Guillermo had a small group of loyal patrons — mostly rich people whose portraits he’d painted after painting their homes. The mermaid had been Jessica’s favorite, and she wistfully imagined it in some rich old guy’s house. “Who’d you sell it to?”

  “Carlos.”

  “Not Carlos who does the flooring?”

  He nodded. “He gave me fifty dollars.”

  “Fifty dollars?” Jessica was instantly annoyed. This wasn’t the first time he’d practically given away one of his paintings. “Guillermo, you could have gotten five hundred dollars for that painting. Or even way more than that. Why did you sell it to him?”

  He shrugged. “He wanted it for his daughter. His wife is making her a room full of the Little Mermaids, he said. He only had fifty, so I took it.”

  Jessica folded her arms and said nothing.

  “And also,” he added as if he’d just remembe
red, “I needed money to pay the electricity bill.”

  “Guillermo . . .”

  There was no use launching into a lecture about the proper way for him to manage his artistic career. She’d helped him as much as she could, trying to hook him up with the few art connections she knew from her days at the Centro, but he was too proud to accept more than that. She had offered to make him a web site, to help him set up shows, even to be his manager. He always refused. On the one hand, she had to admire him for wanting to succeed on his own. On the other hand, though, it annoyed her that he was too stubborn to see how much he needed her.

  She turned to tell him this in a non-nagging way and then noticed, again, the easel that was covered with cloth. She walked over to it.

  “Chiquitita . . . ,” said Guillermo. She looked over at him, but he didn’t say anything else. The look on his face was hesitant. All of a sudden, Jessica realized what this painting must be. She reached out and, unable to help herself, pulled up the cloth.

  It was exactly what she thought: Finally, he had done a portrait of her. Guillermo had painted her nude, leaning back on the camelback sofa, in sunlight. From memory, obviously. She smiled.

  She leaned close to get a better look. He hadn’t done the face yet. Or the hair. So far, there was only the body, and now that she saw it up close . . . Jessica took a step back now. It wasn’t her. She looked harder. It was someone thinner. Someone else.

  Suddenly, the room was too cool. She took a striped wool blanket from his couch and wrapped herself up in it.

  “Who’s this?” she asked. “Someone from a magazine?”

  His face was cool, nonchalant. “No. She’s one of my patrones . . . my client. The one I was telling you about, whose husband hired me to paint their house.”

  Without vain women wanting their portraits done, Guillermo wouldn’t have been able to afford art supplies. Jessica knew this. But this was the first time he’d painted another woman in the nude. Since Jessica had been dating him, that was. That she knew of, that was.

  “Are you sleeping with her?” she heard herself ask. Loudly.