Chapter Eighteen
The hospital kept Javier for only another two days before releasing him – with many instructions and exhortations – to Paulo's care. They flew out of Hong Kong later that evening, beginning the long great circle journey around the Pacific, landing several times to refuel and let the pilot, Tony, rest. Paulo was cautious enough to also hire an English-speaking private nurse to accompany them to keep an eye on Javier, although the latter slept most of the way. (No cheapskate, Paulo then put her up in a nice hotel in Guayaquil for several days' vacation before sending her home first class, all on his dime.)
But at last, Paulo was showing Javier around his new home atop one of the several residential towers dotting the Ecuadorean port city. Stretching along one long side of the building, the penthouse (the mirror image of the one on the other side) boasted a luxurious master suite at one end, then three smaller bedrooms in between that and the spacious 'public' rooms of living room, dining room, and a jaw-dropping gourmet kitchen with large grill-top stove and oven, industrial-size fridge, two sinks, and humongous center work island. "What do you think?" Paulo deadpanned to Javier, who was simply agape. Javier slowly turned his head towards his boss, and simply laughed, then gleefully rubbed his hands together.
His new apartment, at the opposite end from the master suite, aside from having its own entrance from the outside hall, also connected via an unobtrusive side door directly to the kitchen. It was definitely meant for "the help": a large single room with a tiny kitchenette, but a decent bathroom. At present it contained only a twin bed, easy chair, big-screen TV on a stand, and a tiny table with a single straight-backed chair in the kitchenette – which consisted of sink, tiny fridge, and microwave.
But it would do. Letty would be dying to redecorate this place, Javier thought to himself, and immediately added decisively, So I'll just leave it for her then, as if the promise obligated Fate to allow him to find her.
The best part of the place was the sliding glass door, which led to a continuation of the same wide balcony that ran the entire length of the penthouse. Over the next few weeks, he would bring home an eclectic collection of planters and flowerpots, along with crates and small tables to put some of them on, and planted dozens of different herbs in them, until he had an amazing variety of fresh culinary herbs to choose from growing in a tame miniature jungle on his end of the balcony. A wooden Adirondack chair with footstool and side table to relax in amid his herb garden was the only furniture he added.
He and Paulo quickly came to an understanding of his chef duties, as well, which gave him spectacularly wide latitude. Paulo would let him know each morning what he felt like for breakfast, and continued to get lunch at the dozens of restaurants in walking distance from his office, but dinner each evening was all up to Javier – there was nothing Paulo didn't like or was allergic to. The weekends had their own rhythm dictated by the coming and going of Paulo's kids and their activities, but they likewise proved very appreciative and enthusiastic consumers of whatever Javier cooked up, although he relished the new-to-him challenge of cooking for teenagers: not-quite-kids, not-quite-adults. Nor was Javier expected to purchase foodstuffs from his (ridiculously) expansive salary; Paulo handed him a credit card on the first day, told him the (generous) limit, and paid it off each month without complaint. Javier was soon salting away most of his earnings in preparation for the future, whatever it might hold.
His secondary duties of Chief of Security were quickly dealt with, as well. Paulo's assessment of the security already in place in both the apartment building and his company headquarters (which took up an entire smartly-designed ten-story office building a dozen blocks away) was correct: Javier found no holes to plug in either place. The rest was a matter of getting Paulo to vary his commute, including departure times, routes, and means of travel, to be as unpredictable as possible; as well as simply putting down the paper and paying attention along the way. "No more work in the taxi," Javier told him, "you have got to stay alert to your surroundings at all times!" It took some practice, but Paulo did the best he could. He also got Javier to teach him some self-defense moves in the apartment building's modern gym. Finally, Paulo also talked his Security Chief into coming along on his frequent trips abroad and acting as bodyguard; a chore that made Javier jumpy at first, but he soon settled into alert awareness.
With a great deal of caution and trepidation, Javier went back onto the dark web and built a new profile, quietly fishing for work in his new country. He shared none of that with Paulo, however, and would not until and unless he had something concrete. Nor did he accept any of the few tentative nibbles he received, of course, but reading through them to eliminate any that weren't targeting Paulo – all of them, as it turned out – was unexpectedly painful and difficult. All he could see was Letty's eyes, staring at him tearfully, and he was repeatedly swamped by an echo of the revulsion he'd felt driving away from the last couple in the storage shed. Had some long-dormant missing piece of his morality at last woken up? He wasn't brave enough – or introspective enough – to figure it out.
One Saturday afternoon a few weeks after his arrival in Guayaquil, Paulo's fifteen-year-old daughter Maribel wandered into the kitchen where Javier was chopping vegetables, asking what he was doing. He could hear Paulo in the living room, reliving with his thirteen-year-old son, Paulito, the boy's football game from that morning. The boy had games or practice every Saturday, and Paulo – an almost stereotypically conscientious father about such things – always went to watch, which made them the perfect hand-off mechanism for the kids' weekends with Papa.
"I'm making an Ecuadorean version of American fajitas for lunch," Javier explained, adding a description of the dish as found in US restaurants. He knew by then that communal dishes like that were favorite post-game meals among the Rodriguez family. "Have you ever had fajitas?"
"No," she replied, tipping her head so she looked at him through her eyelashes. "But I'm sure they'll be delicious, if you're making them."
He gave her a puzzled glance, but she looked quickly away, leaning over the island on her elbows to look into the various bowls of chopped food – a move which "just so happened" to show off her cleavage. She was a pert, pretty girl with long curly hair she wore loose around her shoulders, and as sweet as the day was long. Javier couldn't help but like all of Paulo's kids, but Maribel was something special. And here she was, flirting with him – or awkwardly trying to. This would never fly.
Putting his knife down, he wiped his hands on the towel at his waist, then leaned on the island himself on his two hands. "Señorita, may I be perfectly candid for a moment?" Wide-eyed, she nodded, trying to put on a worldly air, and Javier had to stifle a grin. The last thing he wanted to do was insult her.
"Please forgive me if I'm misreading the situation – I'm out of practice. But..." He paused a moment, then brought his left hand up before him, palm in. "I'm married. Very much so – even though she's not here," he added ruefully. "And you being the daughter of my boss... it just wouldn't be right for..." Suddenly flustered, he couldn't think how to end that sentence. Maribel was blushing furiously by that time as she looked away, having caught on at last, and now he felt abashed. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I really put my foot into that one," he tried to backtrack, but she cut him off.
"No, you didn't." She really was a sweetheart. "I did." Both of them nearly cleared their throats and shuffled, but then she tossed her hair back, trying to be nonchalant. "You're too old for me, anyway," she proclaimed airily.
On the spur of the moment, Javier reacted with a heavy, disappointed sigh. "Yeah, you're probably right," he nodded reluctantly. "You should have somebody closer to your own age... somebody who... has the same goals and outlook – the same taste in music, movies... stuff like that." He nodded agreement with himself. "A boy like that would be much better for you."
"Or a girl," Maribel murmured softly as she shrugged.
That caught Javier up. "Ooooooh?" he queried, eyebrows nearly meeting his hairline.
Her face had turned comical as soon as the words had left her mouth, as she realized she'd actually said it aloud. "Oh... I didn't meant that like it sounded," she tried to brush it off.
Javier threw his hands up between them. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop. I don't care," he emphasized, then contradicted himself immediately. "Well, I do, because I care about you. I want you to be happy. But as long as there is mutual respect and friendship, I don't care who the other person is, male or female." A pair of excited masculine shouts erupting from the living room made him swiftly glance at the door, but they were still involved in replaying the game.
"Really?" He could tell from her expression how much she wanted to believe him. He leaned over the island on his forearms, making sure his voice wouldn't carry too far, and she slowly copied him, leaning forward to hear.
"Really. I'm from the US," he reminded her. "I don't bend that way, but it doesn't bother me if others do. It's no skin off my nose. Unfortunately," he added ruefully, lifting a hand to finger his schnozz.
"I like your nose," Maribel offered with a twinkle. "I think it's quite handsome."
"Thank you," he replied solemnly, then added confessionally, "But there is a lot of it." She tightened her lips to hide a smile. "So," he went on, inviting confidences, "you like girls better than boys?"
"No," she said innocently, confusing him for a second. "I like both."
"Oh, good for you! More to choose from!"
"No, less, actually." Glumness itself. At his puzzled look, she elaborated. "Because whoever I like, has to be okay with me liking the other side, too."
"Ooof. You're right. I hadn't thought of that."
"Is it really better in the States?" she asked wistfully.
He started to nod, then caught himself. "In most places. In some, it's still pretty bad. But it's getting better. And it will get better down here, too. I'm sure of it."
"Not soon enough," she said morosely. Then, suddenly desperate, "Oh, god, please don't tell anybody. Mama will kill me, and Papa... oh my god."
He had to laugh quietly at that. "Whoa, stop," he said again, then pointed to his temple. "There are many, many secrets up here, not all of them mine. And I've never told any of them, to anybody."
"Not even your wife?" Maribel asked slyly, catching him out.
"Okay. I've told her some – but only my own. Any secrets that aren't mine, I have never told, and never will." A breath. "But I have to add something. Obviously, I don't know your mother – I've never met her – but I think you're doing your father a disservice. I really think he's more open-minded than you're giving him credit for. I think he'd be okay with it."
"Maybe," she replied warily. "But I'm not anxious to find out. Kids get kicked out of families for that down here still."
"And not only that," he murmured, thinking of his own past. He nodded at her approvingly. "You're right. Wait till you're an adult – and self-supporting. Just to be sure."
Realizing suddenly that they were both leaning face-to-face on their elbows, only a couple of feet apart across the island, Maribel blushed again and dropped her eyes, and Javier felt a rush of affection for the girl. Taking a deep breath, he tipped his head, considering something.
"Señorita," he began. "I'd like to suggest something. A deal, just between you and me."
"What?" She was curious, not quite sure of him.
"Now that we both understand each other, and we both know perfectly well that it won't go... anywhere..." He drew out the last word in heavy emphasis. "If you wanted to... practice flirting with me..." he shrugged, smiling, "I wouldn't mind. I could use the practice myself. I'm rusty," he admitted with a self-deprecating growl. He waited a beat, then held out his hand toward her. "What do you say?"
First she giggled, covering her mouth with both hands. Then, straightening up and obviously trying to act much older, she took his hand and shook it. "Deal." Another giggle rather ruined the effect, especially when he grinned more broadly, and brought her hand up to kiss it gallantly.
"Excuse me, am I interrupting something?" came Paulo's pointed question from the swinging doors into the living room. Both Javier and Maribel jumped and straightened up swiftly, but Javier added a theatrical groan – while winking at Maribel with the eye away from Paulo so he couldn't see it.
He turned towards his boss, folding his arms across his chest and plastering an amusedly exasperated look on his face. "How is a cook supposed to find out what you like for your birthday, if I don't ask? Hmm?"
"Oh!" Paulo was startled. "Um... excuse me." And he turned and walked back out, but not before they caught a glimpse of his pleased smile. The two of them managed to keep their laughter quiet enough that he didn't hear.
Then Maribel leaned over the counter again, beckoning Javier to her with a finger. "Chocolate cake with berries and whipped cream!"
"Ooooh, that sounds good! What about you?"
She considered, but only for a beat. "The same."
"And Paulito?" Javier was a bit suspicious – with reason, it turned out.
Maribel's voice turned sardonic. "Ice cream. Chocolate."
"Well, that's easy. Wait a minute," Javier straightened up again, digging his phone out of his pocket. "I'd better write that down – and the dates." Calling up a new note, he held his phone in front of his chest with both hands, then looked up at Maribel with the air of a soldier awaiting the order to fire. "Okay, go!"
Her giggle really was infectiously sweet.