Barbacoa, Bomba, and Betrayal by Raquel V. Reyes

Author:Raquel V. Reyes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

Chapter Twenty

My friends were still fantasizing about their show as we walked to the lunch cabana from the locker room.

“En serio, we should propose it to Ileana,” Alma said.

My BFF was friendly with the La Tacita host. That connection had gotten me my on-air job. Ileana did have a lot of UnMundo pull. Their crazy idea could sprout wings.

“I have the perfect name!” Jorge stopped in the middle of the path.

Alma and I stopped too. It was then I noticed Jorge had applied mascara, eyeliner, and lip gloss while in the changing room. I’d barely managed to look in the mirror to fix my hair.

“Casa Party.” Jorge moved his head in an arc as he said it.

“I like it. House Party,” Alma said. She snapped with both hands and did a little shimmy.

We resumed our procession to the cabana. The table was set with white plates and decorated with conch shells. It was so pretty that we all took out our cameras to take photos of it. I squatted to get a table-level shot with the waves in the background and almost lost my balance. Thanks to the massage and pampering, I’d temporarily forgotten my belly was a beach ball. Then, as if unhappy with my critical observation, my stomach growled. Okay, mi sirena, you will get to eat in just a second.

The grill off to the side of the cabana had heat mirages coming off it, but there was no food on it nor a chef behind it. We sat. Jorge and Alma continued developing their Casa Party pitch. I took a moment to post an image of the tablescape to the Abuela Approved Instagram. I used the hashtags #ChefsTable, #Seafood, #SeeFood, #PuertoRico, #BestLife, #BlessedLife, #SaltLife, and #Playa. I think I’m getting the hang of this. I put my phone facedown on the seat cushion. It chimed a notification. I grinned, pleased with myself and thinking it was Delvis approving of my post, but it wasn’t. Instead, it was a text message from Detective Pullman.

Veronica, call me when you get a chance. I have info on your man.

My man? Jules! I’d asked him to run a check on Jules Howard. I was pushing my chair away from the table, about to excuse myself to make the call, when the chef appeared. It was a battle between my curiosity and my hunger. La Sirena won. She wanted to eat. The call had to wait.

“Bienvenidos, soy Chef Tito a su servicio. Today, I have prepared a fresh ceviche de camarones for your appetizer. Please enjoy.”

A waiter brought a tray of martini glasses filled with the chilled chopped shrimp salad. I took a bite, worried the acid from the lime, orange, and tomato juices might have made the shrimp tough. But the chef was serious when he said fresh. The ceviche had probably been made no less than thirty minutes prior. The refreshing seafood salad had cucumber, red onion, cilantro, red and green peppers, seedless tomatoes, and garlic. But there was another flavor I couldn’t put my finger on.

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