Evenings at the Argentine Club (3 page)

Lucia looked down, then tapped Nelly’s shoulder. “Vamos, we can’t all be perfect parents. Let’s go help Victoria.”

Jaqueline and Victor may not have been perfect parents, but they were lucky with how their two beautiful daughters had turned out. Jaqueline had no complaints. Victoria was the older and the more difficult one to mold, but she was kind and loyal. A dreamer like Victor. A free spirit. And Jaqueline loved her despite all her unfocused and undisciplined traits. And Carmen, her baby, had gone away to college three years ago. Victor wanted her to study closer to home. But Victoria and Carmen together sent applications to the farthest colleges in the country, and Carmen ended up in a premed program in Pennsylvania. When Jaqueline
blamed Victoria for encouraging her sister to go so far away, Victoria simply looked at her sadly and said, “Let her do what
I can’t.”

And Jaqueline had let it go. Victoria was right. Let Carmen be the one who becomes a woman with an education, a woman who
lives her own life. She never had, and poor Victoria, as the first, had been her father’s child from day one. She would inherit
La Parrilla. She would live the life Victor wanted whether she wanted to or not. Sometimes Jaqueline wished she’d had a son
for Victor to share his dreams with, rather than dominating Victoria.

“Mami,” she called. “The band’s here. Can you show them where to set up?”

“Si, como no.” Jaqueline went to help, tucking her thoughts away—something she was well practiced at after over thirty years
as a mother and wife.

Victoria didn’t say much when she left work, Victor thought. She’d stayed in the office for some time after learning about
his plans. He imagined she was going over every detail of the paperwork from the banks and lawyers. She was probably worried
about her future and his and Jaqueline’s. But she shouldn’t be. He’d studied this idea. Had a financial plan created by a
professional. This would work.

He glanced around La Parrilla and, as always, it was packed. Regulars like the TV personality who brought his group of friends
in at least once a week. Or the CEO of a major radio broadcasting company who dined here with his family the first Friday
of every month. He knew all these guys on a first-name basis, and they loved him and his restaurant.

And they should have. La Parrilla was something to be proud of. It wasn’t a greasy hole in the wall like some of the other
Hispanic restaurants that were open a year or two and then closed. On the contrary, he owned an upscale steak house, and the
Americanos paid a lot of money for good beef. Argentines were known around the world for two things: tangos and beef. So he’d
given up trying to become un Americano and just accepted that he’d always be an Argentine living in a foreign country. If
that meant selling well-seasoned, expensive beef, so be it. Not what he’d imagined he’d be doing with his life, but it had
been a job that Jaqueline had accepted would pay the bills.

And he’d decided that now this noose around his neck would make him rich. He’d finally be able to go back to Argentina and
live his retirement years in style. Yes, that would be something. He strolled around the tastefully presented tables, and
smiled at his guests. “Are you finding everything satisfactory?”

“This is the best beef I’ve ever had. What
is
your secret?” said a guy sitting with a pretty girl.

Victor smiled, reached for the wine bottle on the table, and poured more into each glass—the elegant sound of wine flowing into the fluted glass reminding both guests and Victor that it wasn’t just food he served, but a dining experience. “Argentines know how to cook beef.”

“You’re not kidding.” The man motioned to his lady friend. “Isn’t this the best barbecue you’ve ever had?”

They’d ordered the house specialty—an Argentine parrilla. The little, sizzling grill sat at the center of the table, and everyone picked out what they wanted to eat.

“Delicious,” the woman said.

Victor thanked them and continued to make his rounds to all the tables, feeling almost drunk with happiness. He had a gorgeous wife. One daughter in college, another who would one day be his partner in the restaurant business, and a future that for the first time in thirty years he could say he looked forward to living.

Jaqueline had noticed the second Victor arrived at the club, dressed in his work clothes—an elegant black suit, which he’d have to take off because he would be manning the smoky barbecues. In fact, the other men were already at the grill, preparing the coals. Most of the members were gathered in groups socializing and listening to music, waiting for dinner to begin. Victor took off his shirt, coat, and tie and hung them in the closet to change back into later. Jaqueline tried to ask him about his day, but he just nodded, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and said that things had been the same as always.

“What does that mean?” Jaqueline asked.

He frowned, blocking the sight of his beautiful eyes. Charcoal-gray eyes that he’d passed on to Carmen. “It means, it was work. What do you want me to say?”

She wanted… what they’d once had. Jaqueline had been only seventeen years old when she fell in love with Victor, the most exciting boy in her barrio. Though at first she hadn’t been entirely interested in him, because he’d seemed so full of himself. He’d learned to speak English at the fancy private school he attended and bragged about how one day he’d travel to Norte America and make his fortune. Then he would return home to Argentina and buy a mansion in Buenos Aires.

Somehow, at one of the neighborhood bailes, she’d caught his attention on the dance floor, and he’d become determined to get her to date him. Every night, he’d show up at her apartment and call her, beg for her to come to the balcony and talk to him. He’d read her poetry, sing tangos full of passion, and call out his undying love.

Jaqueline’s father cursed at him and told him to go home. He threatened to go down stairs and bash Victor’s head in. But Victor kept coming back, not intimidated or thwarted by parental disapproval. He had even shown up at her high school and begged her to have a cup of coffee with him, go for a walk in el centro, sit on a park bench and tell him her dreams.

His charm and boldness had swept her off her feet.

She soon learned that Victor was a man who got what he wanted. And that he had been serious about traveling to the United States.

“We’ll get married and go together,” he’d promised.

“Victor, I can’t leave my family, my life, for that kind of adventure,” Jaqueline had said. “Forget all that. We can have a great life here.”

But Victor couldn’t let it go. It was his dream, and soon it became her dream. They’d gotten married two years later and received a big send-off by all their friends, who wished them a great life in the faraway land so full of promise.

Everything was new and exciting. Starting with the plane ride. Jaqueline had never been on an airplane before. She marveled at everything—the silverware, the small pillows, the way the chair tipped back. “See how little the houses look,” she had said excitedly, as she held Victor’s hand.

He had smiled, caressing her with those sexy eyes of his, holding his excitement in check even if she could feel it in his touch. “We’re really doing it,” he’d said.

“Do you think it will be very different over there?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m scared.”

He’d put his arm around her and said, “Don’t be, my love. I’ll always take care of you. I promise.”

And he had. But at some point, buried under the stresses of work and raising children, they’d drifted apart. He might have stopped loving her. Or maybe she’d stopped loving him.

Her children had become her entire world. But now, they no longer needed her. And Jaqueline had a vacant hole in her chest that she couldn’t seem to fill.

“I’ve got to go get the meat ready,” he said.

“Then I guess you’d better go.”

He nodded and hurried outside.

By nine that night, everyone who was going to show up for the July 9 celebration had arrived. Victoria sat down to a glass of wine and breathed a sigh of exhaustion, surveying all her hard work and feeling satisfied with her efforts. She’d been able to put aside her concerns about her father’s revelation and get to work. She had dressed the tables, made sure the place settings were perfectly arranged using the club’s best china, and set up the gardenia center pieces. At each end of the stage she placed three-foot decorative vases, and she’d instructed the three-man band—consisting of a keyboardist, a violinist, and an accordianist—on the songs that had been requested by their members so they could incorporate those into their performance. She had the guys put up the banner over the stage, called the photographer, who was late, checked on the food, and passed the cooking on to the men, including her father, who would handle all the barbecuing. In the kitchen, the women had salads and desserts under control.

They didn’t even pay her to work this hard. She must be insane. Well, to be fair, no one got paid. This was a labor of love. They purposely never had an event catered, preferring to do it themselves the way they would have in Argentina. So in a way, she looked at it as if she were serving 250 members of her extended family.

Her cell phone alerted her that her sister was calling. Victoria couldn’t talk to Carmen and not tell her about her father’s plans. And tonight was not the time. She answered hurriedly, “Carmen, let me call you later, we’re going to start dinner.” And that actually wasn’t a lie. The women brought baskets overflowing with bread to the tables, and the aroma drifting inside from the grills indicated that the meat would follow shortly.

“No problem. Have a great time. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

“Good idea. I need to talk to you, but not tonight.” She got up and purposely moved closer to the stage so the music from the band would get louder, making conversation more difficult.

“That’s okay. I can barely hear you anyway. Hasta mañana,” Carmen said. She made a kissy sound and hung up.

Victoria didn’t want to burden Carmen with news of their father’s plans, but she had to tell someone. Tomorrow they could talk privately.

At about nine thirty, with the summer sun finally having set in California, they began serving the food. As in Argentina, everyone ate late. By eleven the dishes had been cleared and loaded into the heavy-duty dishwashers in the kitchen by the older women. The younger ones took to the dance floor first. Victoria searched out her parents. They used to love to dance, but in the last few years her mother disappeared into the kitchen to help wash dishes, and her father stayed on the back patio beside the grills, smoking a cigarette and socializing with Mr. Ortelli and a couple of other men.

And she was too physically and mentally tired to dance. Hell, exhaustion was her middle name. Most days she felt like she was thirty-eight years old, not twenty-eight. She decided that instead of dancing, she’d get a cup of coffee before she made the drive home. As she filled her cup from one of the silver coffee urns in the back of the dance hall, she heard an unusual group gasp, and voices quieting as if someone had gradually turned down the volume. Only the music continued. Victoria looked over her shoulder. A tall man in a sophisticated suit, probably custom made to fit his great body, had walked in and stood just inside the entrance. He scanned the room as if he were looking for someone. Then Nelly Apolonia ran out of the large hall and into the kitchen. She came back out with Mrs. Ortelli, who called out in a high-pitched shock, “Eric!”

Eric? Ortelli? Victoria stood by the coffee urns, staring like everyone else at the guy who had inspired so much gossip through the years. There had been stories that he’d had a big fight with his parents, or that he’d gotten a girl pregnant in another state over spring break, or even that he’d killed someone and was hiding out. Speculation ran the gambit from wild to ridiculous. Eventually, all the gossip died down until, out of respect for Lucia Ortelli, no one mentioned Eric at all. So much time had passed since Eric had left home that Victoria had started to wonder if maybe he’d been a figment of their collective imagination and he’d never existed at all. A sort of tall tale that had taken on a legendary quality over the years. Yet here he was, looking very real, and very handsome, and like he’d done extremely well for himself.

Mrs. Ortelli ran to her son and pulled this broad-shouldered man into an embrace. Eric closed his eyes and held his mother close. He kissed the top of her head as she pulled back to look at him. Taking in the same image as the rest of the club—an amazingly put-together guy with dark, angular features and black, wavy hair that if left to grow longer would probably have curls. Different from the skinny, dimpled boy who left home.

After a brief private moment in a sea of observers where mother and son shared who knew what with their gazes, Mrs. Ortelli turned around with a huge smile and said, “Surprise. He made it home tonight after all.”

Was she going to try to pull off the lie that she
expected
him to show up? She’d been just as surprised as everyone else. But like her mother always said, Lucia should have been an actress because she lived her life pretending. Pretending her life was perfect.

She pulled Eric into the crowd, talking to everyone around her, calling for someone to bring him a plate of food. He offered a gorgeous smile as he shook hands and accepted hugs or kisses. Lucia led him to their family table, and Mr. Ortelli, who had been fetched from the patio, joined them. As if Eric were a celebrity or a war veteran come home, people passed by their table to welcome him—though Victoria knew it was more out of curiosity and nosiness than anything else.

“Can you believe this?” Jaqueline whispered, having come to stand beside her.

“What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t know, but to show up just like that, without warning, to such a public place. He has no shame,” Jaqueline said.

“Mrs. Ortelli said she knew,” Victoria offered. Often the target of club criticism herself, she felt a small need to defend Eric.

“Well what else is she going to say? Pobre Lucia.”