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“You took so long,” she says when she opens the door, “that I drank all the champagne. Want a beer?”
“I’ve always known you were a lush.” Before the lock snicks, with all the subtlety of a bull in a china closet, I blurt, “Why isn’t Marco coming?”
Her face falls. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh, we’re talking about it, girlfriend,” I grumble, following her into the kitchen.
She sighs. “You have three minutes to be in my business.” She holds up her watch. “Starting now.”
“Why isn’t he coming?”
“He has a conflict.” She’s very matter-of-fact.
A conflict? This is a big event. The guest list includes the prime minister and the president, and every muckety-muck who was lucky enough to snag an invite. But it’s especially important for Rafael and Valentina—and he has a fucking conflict?
“A conflict?”
She nods. “That’s what he said. Although I suspect it’s because the gala is at my parents’ house and he’s not ready to face my father.”
What a coward. Maybe Rafael’s right about him.
Valentina takes a rag and a bottle of cleaning spray from under the sink and begins to scour the countertop. She looks like a housewife from the fifties, hair coiffed and makeup perfect as she scrubs a counter that doesn’t have a crumb or even a speck of dust on it. She’s stressed to the max.
Tonight is bad enough, but tomorrow we’re leaving for the US. We’ll be gone for ten days. It might not be quite as embarrassing for him not to be there as it will be for her tonight, but it will make a whirlwind trip more stressful. He better be on that damn plane.
“Is he still planning on making the trip to the US?”
“Of course,” she replies, but not with the conviction of someone who’s certain.
“What else aren’t you telling me, sweetheart?”
She shakes her head. “There are some things that are best kept between two parties in a relationship.”
That’s totally lame in this circumstance, but I let it slide because I don’t share every detail about my relationship with Rafael, even with her.
“I’m here for you. Anytime. If you change your mind and want to talk, I’m here.”
She takes a breath. “I just spent forty minutes in a makeup chair. I don’t want to ruin the war paint.”
It’s part of the armor.
I’m crushed for her. But she’s determined not to let that asshole ruin tonight, and I need to get on board too.
I glance in the mirror. “It does look a little like war paint,” I say in jest. “So do you have some bubbly we can sip while we pour ourselves into our dresses?”
She waggles her eyebrows. “Pink champagne?”
“Ohhhh. Now you’re talking.”
She pulls a bottle from the cooler, and I take two coupes from the bar, because they’re more fun to drink from than flutes.
“A toast,” I say, raising my glass. “To you and all the hard work you’ve done to get to this day. I’m so proud of you.”
She puts her glass down and hugs me tight, and I hug her back, grateful for waterproof mascara and the touch-up kit the makeup artist sent home with us.
“Let’s get dressed,” I coo softly, but long moments pass before she releases me.
42
