“Her name is in fact Betty,” I say, trying to sidestep the tirade I know is coming.
“More benefits to thehelp?” she repeats, mimicking Mrs. MacArthur’s elaborate Southern cadence. “Undesirable tee times?” She throws up her hands in exasperation. “What a grade-A bitch! Why do you let her treat you that way, Holly?”
“It’s my job,” I reply, suddenly dejected.
“Well, then maybe it’s time for you to look for another job,” Luisa shoots back. “Stop waiting on nosy old hags and find aworkplace where you get the respect you’ve earned.” She gestures angrily with that god-awful camo shirt still dangling from her wrist.
“But I like my job,” I say, knowing full well that I sound unconvinced.
Is that a totally pathetic thing to admit, that I enjoy working for rich people, some of whom can be outrageously patronizing, but many of whom are perfectly nice and respectful? Honestly, I can’t imagine not working at the club—not spending every day with Byron and Justine, not getting regular astrological checkups from Irma. And how would I survive without Janey’s daily dirt dumps? Who would I even be without all of them?
“Christ Almighty, Luisa,” Eli says, coming up behind her, “How ’bout a little sympathy?”
We both turn to look at him, and for the first time today, I feel encouraged. If it weren’t for the scruffy beard hiding half his face and the long hair that sticks out from underneath his baseball cap, he’d be a perfect Tripp Bedford.
“Ain’t no way I’m wearin’ this here thang,” he says, thrusting a salmon-striped golf shirt in my direction. “But that one there’s all right, I reckon.” He points to the terrible camo shirt.
Well, I guess it will have to do. After all, the shirt accentuates his Bubba disposition.
OperationPretty Womancomplete, I take the shirt from Luisa and head to the cash register, reminding myself that sometimes we have to make small compromises along the way to achieve our greater goals. Calling to mind my conversation with Ms. MacArthur, though, I’m starting to wonder whether I’ve let myself make way too many of them.
CHAPTER 13Luisa
Late at night, after spending the day on our sapphire bracelet–funded shopping spree, I slink out of the house and take the garden path toward La Barna, behaving like the criminal I now am.
I’ve been a jittery mess since we drove to Cheshire Bridge Road this morning, to find a pawnshop with no security cameras and no paper trail. The place was a total dump—tucked between a strip club and a fried chicken ’n’ catfish shack. Holly stressed that under no circumstances should we let them take the jewels to the back room, or risk losing a few diamonds. Apparently, she’s something of a pawnshop expert. Blessedly, they paid cash and didn’t ask any questions.
Our cat, Chapulín, slips out of the house beside me, reminding me that Mami and Abuela are asleep upstairs and there will be hell to pay if they catch me sneaking around with a stranger in the dark.
OperationMaid in Manhattanis set for a midnight launch. I should be excited that our plan is in motion, that I’m closer than ever to getting justice for the Castillos, and with any luck, resuscitating my career. So why do I feel so lousy?
Maybe it has to do with the infuriating way that Eli gets under my skin. I hate that he sees past my usual disguises, rendering useless my attempts at becoming invisible. I hate how much effort it takes to keep him on the other side of every boundary line I’ve created for myself. And I especially hate his unnerving habit of locking that wolfish gaze on mine every time he walks into a room—just like the first time we saw each other at Ginny’s bar.
He’s nothing like the brutish, narrow-minded swindler Iexpected him to be. And yet I can’t figure it out: What’s his story? Who is he? Where does he come from? Why does nothing about him add up? Eli has proven to be clever and sharp, handsome and insouciant, but can we really trust him to help us? I’m still not sure. I hope Holly’s faith in him isn’t misplaced—that I won’t come to regret all of this.
I enter La Barna and find Eli standing, as instructed, by the hair dye station. He’s washed in moonlight, studying color swatches under the light of his phone. Behind him, San Antonio rests upside down on Abuela’s altar, in hopes he will find me a man. I’m pretty sure this is not what Abuela had in mind. She might, however, approve of the bespoke Japanese denim jeans Holly picked out and which accentuate his toned thighs and ass, and the smoked cashmere quarter zip that brings out the gray in his eyes. I push away any thoughts of his thighs, eyes—or ass, for that matter—or risk losing both my mind and my objectivity.
“Deep Purple Dream?” he asks, holding up a sample of violet-tinted hair. “Sounds like a Prince song.”
“Middle-aged white ladies love it,” I tell him, taking the sample from his fingers and placing it back inside the color book. “I think it makes them feel rebellious.”
He chuckles. “Against what?”
“Their privileged yet tedious suburban existence?”
He flashes me a lopsided grin that transforms his face into that of someone softer, almost boyish. I’m momentarily disarmed by the sincere glint in his eyes. A confusing mix of irritation and yearning churns in my gut, forcing me to take a step back.
To my disbelief, Chapulín ambles toward his feet, then circles his leg, shamelessly soliciting pets. This cat hates everyone. Is he really that deprived of attention?
“When do we start?” he asks, crouching down to stroke the cat’s fur.
I scan the salon. Everything we need is here. After considering our options, La Barna After Dark seemed like the safest place to transform Eli into something resembling the heir to a wealthy Mississippi cotton empire. And given my family’s proclivity tomeddle, interfere, and ask too many questions, I judged it best to schedule a midnight makeover session.
“Now—” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “Holly’s on her way.”
But then I hear the loud echo of my full name, bouncing off the walls. “Luisa María Martín Moreno,” Mami exclaims as the bright lights come on. Chapulín darts outside with a howl, and I yelp in alarm, regressing a whole fifteen years to the night I was caught making out with a boy in my mother’s old salon in San Germán. “What’s going on here? Is this what you do when I go to sleep?Whois this man?” She’s standing impossibly tall, arms crossed tight over her very large breasts, her own don’t-fuck-with-me expression contorting her face.
Shit.
