Page 2 of A Week Away
Thelma Houston, Gloria Gaynor, Chic, The Bee Gees, Bette Midler’sDivine Miss M. Junior had put them all and more onto two mixtapes, which were blaring out of our new Pioneer component stereo system. That, and a Jello mold, had been his contribution to our housewarming party. Well, there were also the striped bell-bottom pants he’d chosen to wear.
“What was he thinking?” my much younger, much prettier partner, Ronnie, asked after he’d dragged me into our newly painted deep-green home office. I was leaning on our partners desk. The party had begun an hour before at seven and had just been highjacked by our former roommate and now tenant, Junior Clybourne. “I never said anything about a seventies theme. Who has a themed housewarming party? It’s about how pretty our kitchen is, not the freaking nineteen seventies.”
The apartment was full of friends and clients, mostly Ronnie’s, though my boss, Lydia Gonzalez, was there with her husband, Dwayne.
“And why did he bring food?” Ronnie went on. “I told him we had it handled.”
“I’m sure he’s just trying to be nice.”
“A Jello mold? A Jello mold is nice?”
A Jello mold was also more sixties than seventies, but I decided not to bring that up since it wasn’t a themed party anyway. “At least it’s not the kind with olives and Spam.”
“What? Olives? Spam—oh God, that’s disgusting! Why would anyone…? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“It’s a great party. People are having fun. Everyone loves the apartment.”
“Condo.”
“Co-op. Don’t count your chickens,” I said. The building was currently a co-op, though Ronnie had every intention of getting on the board and taking it condo, which would very nearly double its value. We’d lived there nearly a month, part of me was surprised he hadn’t done it already.
“So, who’s the kid?” he asked in a gossipy voice.
“What kid?”
“The one in living room hovering by the ficus.”
“You don’t know him? I assumed you?—”
“No clue.”
“Well, I don’t know him.
“You’re sure?”
With a leer, I asked, “Are you afraid I’m going to leave you for a younger man?”
“Always.”
He wasn’t. He knew how much I loved him. He’d just taken to teasing me about our age difference and how he was getting ‘too old’ for me.
“In that case, I’d better get out there and introduce myself.”
I kissed Ronnie and then kissed him again. Part of me didn’t want to leave that moment. I pulled myself away and walked out of the office. In the dining room, Ronnie’s friend Doug, whose commitment ceremony we’d gone to at the end of July, waylaid me.
“This place is amazing. I love these old Spanish buildings. This is a George Riddle, right?”
“Maybe? Ronnie’s the one who knows those things.”
“I think our house was designed by an architect who worked with him. Or for him? I haven’t been able to prove anything, but I’m sure of it.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Junior doing some disco moves. I decided I had to get as far away from him as possible, so I said, “Ronnie’s down the hall in the office. Maybe he’s got some ideas on how you can find out.”
I squeezed Doug’s upper arm—I noticed he’d been going to the gym—and moved on. When I was back in the living room, the boy was still there by the ficus. Alone. It seemed odd that he was alone.
Wearing a pair of baggy jeans and an over-sized tomato red hoodie. He was young, small, and had a shock of black hair hanging over his left eye. His skin was dark enough to make me wonder if he was Mexican, and he hadn’t quite learned the art of shaving. But that wouldn’t explain his standing alone; a lot of our guests were at least part Mexican-American and several spoke Spanish. If he crossed the border yesterday he would still be welcome in this room.
So why did he look so lost?
