One Perfect Man. Lynda Sandoval
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met Erica’s father, and the rest was history. Moises Gonçalves had been raised a kind but strictly traditional man, and into the attic went his wife’s guitar. No time for “frivolity” with babies on the way and a husband to tend, Erica supposed. What a shame.
Call her a skeptic, but Erica refused to believe her mother didn’t have regrets about leaving that musical dream behind. As for herself, she didn’t plan to have a single regret. No way would she give up her identity, her life, her goals and dreams for a band around her finger and the “opportunity” to serve a man all her life. No way in hell. Nothing Mama could say or do would ever change her mind.
“So, what I’m looking for are some really innovative ideas of how you’d like to represent your town in your particular medium,” she told the gathered artisans, her voice composed, her look professional, her manner that of complete control. “The sky’s the limit here, folks. I want to push the envelope and really get New Mexico into the news. This is the first Cultural Arts Festival of this type for our state. Let’s make history.” She smiled with confidence. “Ideas?”
The event planner sent down by some large company in Santa Fe crossed her arms and leaned one toned but still shapely hip against the edge of the front table. Her head tilted slightly forward and to the side, sending the razor-perfect ends of her straight black hair brushing across her shoulder to dance against her cheek like a sheet of satin.
Tomás Garza sat back in his chair and studied her. Erica Gonçalves. He hated to admit it, but she couldn’t be more perfect if he’d conjured her up from his most fervent, most hidden fantasies. Organized, take-charge, encouraging and yet still approachable.
Hope wouldn’t feel threatened—an important consideration.
His jaw tightened, but he pushed aside his inner resistance and refocused on the lady at the front of the room, trying to read her, to soak her in. He needed to get a handle on her before he approached with his proposition. With only five months left, he couldn’t afford any more false starts or setbacks.
He listened while the sculptor representing Albuquerque suggested a Michelangelo-size idea to represent his city—a mixed-media sculpture that would suspend from the rafters of the event hall. A false sky, if you would, filled with faux hot-air balloons to represent the renowned Balloon Fiesta held in Albuquerque each October. An excited murmur rippled through the room as the artist and the planner discussed logistics for a work of this scope. Soon, others began offering their ideas, all praised and efficiently cataloged by Ms. Gonçalves with quick taps of her fingers on the laptop keyboard.
The tone of the meeting was electric, a creative thunderstorm, led by a woman who knew just what to say and do to make things happen. Tomás felt supercharged, both by the atmosphere and the fact that he may have just stumbled on a solution to his dilemma in the form of a petite, fast-track business dynamo named Erica.
The city representatives—specially selected artists, all of them—kept the flow of ideas rushing forth until only a few towns remained—his included. Without warning, the lady he’d been studying turned her dark-eyed gaze on him.
He straightened in his chair—a holdover habit from his less-than-stellar high school days, he supposed, when hearing his name meant he’d been busted for screwing around.
“Mr. Garza? Do you have any ideas for how to incorporate Las Vegas into your piece?” She smiled.
He relaxed his expression, but a flare of inexplicable self-preservation ignited inside him. Lifting one ankle to rest atop the opposite knee and smoothing his palms together, he took his time working his idea into words. Luckily, he had given this some thought, and he considered himself reasonably articulate, even paying only half attention. “Yes. I’d like to craft piñatas to replicate some of our city’s historic buildings, for an interesting twist. An amalgam of Mexican craft work with New Mexican culture. And definitely representative of Vegas.”
Her gaze brightened, and Tomás caught several appreciative nods from the other artists around the room in his peripheral vision. That pleased him. Some artists dismissed piñata making—his family’s artistic heritage—as a child’s craft rather than the endangered art it truly was. He worked hard to overcome the misconception, creating piñatas people wanted to display as well as those for children to break open at birthday parties. The reaction from his peers gathered here today seemed encouraging. He looked to the lady and raised one eyebrow in question.
“Fabulous,” Ms. Gonçalves said. The distant look in her eyes told him that sharp mind of hers was already three steps ahead in the planning. “Really different.”
“Gracias.” He warmed beneath her praise.
“How many houses were you thinking of incorporating?”
“One to represent each of our historic districts. Seven total. They’ll need to be big to capture detail. I don’t want to overdo it.”
“No, that’s perfect. You’re right.”
“Great.”
“Perhaps we can suspend them low over a map or photo of the town,” she said, swirling her hands out in front of her as though she had the full picture in her mind, “approximately near the locations of the districts they represent.”
He shrugged. “Works for me.”
A raised hand caught their attention, and they both turned toward a dazzling, dark-haired muralist from Angel Fire who sat near the far wall.
“I have a cartographer friend who’d jump on this project if the budget allows enough to pay him,” offered Monét Montoya, bangle bracelets tinkling as she gestured. “He’s worth it. His maps aren’t just maps, they’re art.”
Erica nodded. “Great. Get with me after the meeting and I’ll take down his information.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “If that’s all right with you, Mr. Garza? It is your project, after all.”
He appreciated the consideration. “Fine.”
“Good, then.” She typed the idea into her laptop with finality, and moments later it appeared on the projector screen:
Las Vegas: Display of seven piñatas in the form of historic buildings suspended above an art map of the city.
“Thank you, Mr. Garza.” Erica smiled at him, and his stomach tightened with a distant emotion he vaguely recognized as lust. His wariness increased. Granted, she was hot. Any red-blooded man could see that. But he had no intention of bringing a strange woman into his life—or his daughter’s life—lust or no. As Bob Marley so wisely crooned, “no woman, no cry.” He and Hope had learned their lesson on that account long ago.
“My pleasure.” He managed to smile with his mouth, but his eyes failed to cooperate. Not wanting to appear surly, he softened what he was sure had been a cold expression with a wink. To his surprise, her eyes widened slowly before she averted her gaze and cleared her throat. Interesting. When she raised her face to the crowd, Tomás noticed a flush to her chest in the V of her blouse, which belied the calm, cool exterior. He looked away, denying his own awareness. Awareness that had no place in this meeting room, or in his life.
“Okay, let’s move on.”
Please do, he thought, with palpable relief.
He watched Erica toss her hair and focus on another lucky artisan in the room. Grateful that her disconcerting attention had shifted elsewhere, Tomás tuned out a bit while the rest of the towns weighed in. He sat back to ruminate further about the best way to approach Erica Gonçalves with his proposition.
The job probably wasn’t as prestigious as her regular gigs, but he needed her, much as he hated to admit it. She could pull this off without a hitch, and he…well, he wasn’t so sure he could pull it off at all on his own.
The very thought of not being capable, of knowing he needed to seek help, brought self-disgust bubbling up in his throat. He and Hope had never needed help from anyone before. He hated admitting that he didn’t have every aspect of his busy life under control. Lately