Spanish Disco

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“Yes.”

“You like it?”

More lies. “Delicious.” Anxious to change the subject, I asked about Cecilia. “So how many babies do rabbits have at once?”

Maria answered as she started washing and chopping vegetables, “I’m not sure. This is my first bunny birth.”

As she chopped vegetables, she set aside a little pile of cut-up pieces. She saw me look at them.

“For my birds.”

“Birds?”

“Yes. Sweet birds. Sing beautifully.”

I looked at Roland. He silently shook his head. In a moment I knew why. The loudest squawk I ever heard emanated from a sunroom off of the kitchen. It was a cross between a shriek and a banshee howl.

“One minute, Pepito!” Maria glowed. “My babies. Them and Mr. Riggs. Now shoo, I must start cooking dinner. If you liked my lunch, wait until supper. Very hot!”

“Great,” I smiled, completely lacking enthusiasm. A month of this and my ulcer would be the size of a crater.

“Let’s get you settled in.” Roland stood. We went through the gardens to my car and took out my suitcase and bags. Between the two of us, we carried everything in one trip.

Walking back to the house, I forced myself not to stare at him. I was staying with an icon, and part of me remembered when I was a little girl. There were three Christmases I remembered when my mother hadn’t yet left, and my father hadn’t yet broken down and everything was perfect. The tree was decorated like something out of a Fifth Avenue store window; a toy train chugging beneath it. Our apartment smelled of cider and mulling spices. It was a damn Currier and Ives card. And I remember pinching myself to see if it was real. And when I knew for sure it was real, I tried to remember every detail. I stared and absorbed and thought to myself, even then, that perfect doesn’t come along too often. I would remember everything about those Christmases forever. Well, for an editor, Roland Riggs was better than Christmas. He was history, and I was in his house, and when I was old and gray, I wanted to be able to remember everything about my stay. Every painting on the wall. Every word he said. Of course, I needed to remember it all for my nightly reports to Lou. He’d never forgive me if original galleys from Simple Simon sat on the bookshelf, and I didn’t tell him. Of course, neither one of us expected I’d be staying with Dr. Doolittle.

My room was better than the Four Seasons. It had its own private balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico and was decorated in French country, painted in a shade of blue to rival the sea’s. I felt almost serene when I stepped inside, though my eyes instinctively darted around, looking for a discreet place to plug in my coffeemaker.

“Over here is a desk…and you can plug in your laptop here.”

“Won’t I tie up your phone line?”

Roland Riggs leaned his head back and laughed loudly like a drunk in a bar whose bartender has just one-upped him in the joke department. I arched one eyebrow.

“Except for Lou, I haven’t called anyone in fifteen years. Maybe my old editor a couple of times. Then he died. But you get the picture.”

“Okay fine. So the computer won’t bother you.”

“No. I surf the Net myself some mornings. Do you get on your computer much before six a.m.?”

“No offense, but I don’t breathe much before six.”

He roared with laughter again. I realized the unseen parrot was merely mimicking its landlord. “Splendid. Well then, I will let you get unpacked. Take a nap if you want. Stroll the beach. I’ll expect you for dinner at six-thirty. Oh…hold on.” He withdrew a small roll of Tums from his pocket. “If you thought lunch was hot, you may want to keep a pack of these in your pocket at all times. I have a six-month supply of these little rolls in the linen closet at the end of the hall, behind the big stack of blue guest towels that I never use because I’ve never had any guests. Until you.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just tell your housekeeper you don’t like the food so hot?”

His eyes snapped wide open as if he’d just experienced a moment of sudden enlightenment. He appeared to think for a moment. Then he just shook his head.

“Well, then, I’ll see you for dinner.” He turned and shut the door behind himself.

I opened the French doors leading to my balcony, and then turned around and raced to the phone. I found my Daytimer, pulled out my calling card and dialed. Lou answered on the first ring.

“Well?”

“Lou, how much money do you think Simple Simon brings in?”

“I don’t know. A lot. It’s required reading in every high school in America. Why?”

“You wouldn’t believe this house, Lou. I was sort of expecting some rundown place inhabited by a hermit. But it’s sunny and beautiful and huge! Right now, I am looking out on my own private balcony. The Gulf of Mexico is rolling in. And he has gardens. Beautiful gardens with orchids and ponds and waterfalls and jasmine. It reminds me of Turkey. The scent of jasmine in the air. And everything is custom-built. The staircase is made of teak. The closet—” I walked over and smelled “—I was right, is cedar. The kitchen—not that I cook—but if I did, I would love it. All restaurant-quality stuff. The stove had eight burners.”

“What is he expecting? An army? The guy doesn’t see anyone. What’s he need eight burners for?”

“What does anybody need excess for? Why do you have seven fishing rods and three sets of custom golf clubs? To have it.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“How does he seem after all these years?”

“Nice. Kind of odd. The other half of the story is he’s got more pets and plants than a zoo and botanical garden put together.”

“Pets?”

“Loose rabbits hopping through the house.”

“Just so long as you don’t tell me he has a Push-Me-Pull-You or whatever that thing is called.”

“He has cats. And a parrot. And potato bonsai.”

“Potato what?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Have you seen the book?”

“No.”

“Have you talked about it?” I heard the anxiety in his voice.

“Only to have him say he’d like us to spend a few days getting to know each other first.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“What?”

“No offense, Cassie, but you are hardly the poster child for Miss Congeniality. What if he’s expecting someone different?”

“Well, he’s got me. And except for that prick Jack Holloway, I’ve gotten along with every author I have ever had.”

“What about Gussbaum?”

“Okay. Except for Holloway and Gussbaum—”

“And Daisy Jones…”

“Look, trust me, he’s nice enough. I can get along with Roland Riggs.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“You want to hear something else weird?”

“Of course.”

“His housekeeper is from Mexico. She cooks all this food. I mean for lunch she cooked enough enchiladas to feed Mazatlan. And spicy. Burn your mouth out, eyes water, nose-running spicy. I was afraid my nose was going to drip right in my food, for God’s sake.”

“A little less detail, please.”

“But get this. Roland Riggs hates hot food. He carries Tums with him around the house. Isn’t that weird? Why not tell her to cook something else?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. Remember how your dad used to hate those German dishes what’s-her-name cooked?”

“Mrs. Honish?”

“Yeah. He hated all that shit.”

“Me, too.”

“But she was a good housekeeper except for the food.”

“Yeah. Maybe. She’s beautiful by the way. The housekeeper. She is take-your-breath-away beautiful. Anyway, let me get going. I have to check my e-mail. Anything earth-shattering on your end?”

“Nothing. It’s Saturday. I didn’t even go in to the office.”

“Okay. Well, I’m just going to take in my view here. Make some coffee.”

“Call me tomorrow.”

“Or later if I have something to tell you.”

“Later, kid.”

“Later.”

I hung up and unzipped my huge carry-on bag, pulling out my coffeemaker. I plugged it in and set it on my desk and went about preparing a pot. My chest burned. I unwrapped a Tums and chewed on it. Next I plugged in my laptop and dialed up my e-mail.