Page 18 of One Week To Claim It All
The driver stopped in front of the main entrance of the theater where the curator for the Latinx Diaspora Film and Television Archives was waiting for them. He turned to her and bit back the smile threatening to appear on his face. She looked so damn edible with that scowl on her face. He was so tempted to lean in and kiss all that annoyance right out of her. “It’s open for us. There’s something I want you to see.”
He pushed open the door to the town car, but she would not budge. “No, tell me what we’re doing here first.”
He crossed his arms, mirroring hers. “Terca.”
“You’re the stubborn one. Just tell me.”
He shook his head smiling and reached for her hand. “Ven. There’s someone waiting for us,” he told her and pointed at the curator who was patiently waiting for them to get out of the car.
“Fine,” she groused as Rodrigo stepped out of the car and helped her do the same. Once they both had their feet firmly planted on the pavement, he had to force himself to let go of her hand.
“Señor Almanzar.” The curator walked over to them, a welcoming smile on his face. “And this must be Ms. Sambrano.”
“Sambrano-Peña,” she corrected the man in a friendly tone. Rodrigo admired that in Esmeralda—she knew who she was. And nothing would change that. Not even losing the CEO position.
Rodrigo extended his hand to the man and made introductions. “Esmeralda, this is Huchi Piera. He’s the curator and archivist for the theater and he’s been kind enough to prepare some footage that I think will be helpful for your presentation.” He saw when his words landed and for a fleeting moment a genuinely pleased smile appeared on her face. The realization that Rodrigo had done something to help her.
And he wished he could tell her what he was really thinking. That he’d woken up wanting her. That he could not get last night out of his head even for a second. That he’d almost had to jerk off in his office, because he still had her smell on his hands. That he was desperate to know if she was thinking about it, too. He wished he could ask if what he’d overheard her tell her mother had been true, or if, like him, she was just trying and failing to keep her feelings in check. But instead, he gestured toward the entrance.
“Shall we?” His tone was a little sharper than he intended. But when she looked at him, her eyes were wide and her mouth parted just a little. She looked excited and touched by him bringing her here, and it was getting harder to not give in to his instincts. To not bring her close, or place a hand at her back, so Piera and anyone else in the theater could see she was his.
“This way, Ms. Sambrano-Peña,” Piera called, breaking the spell between them. By the next second she was all business, turning to follow the curator to the private screening area he’d prepared for them.
“Have you been to a show here before?” the curator asked as they crossed the large foyer of the theater and took a set of winding stairs up to a mezzanine.
“Yes. I have, many times,” she said as she looked around. The Grand Palace was a gorgeous old theater, built in 1930 by the renowned architect Thomas W. Lamb. The sumptuous filigree carvings on the walls were exquisitely done and made it one of the most beautiful theaters in Manhattan. “It’s such a beautiful building. The last time I was here, I brought my mom to see Johnny Ventura,” Esmeralda said, slowly taking it all in, pausing to admire the beauty of the place. She’d always been like that, an admirer of other people’s craft. Reverent when she was in front of true artistry.
Piera made an approving sound at the mention of the legendary Afro-Dominican merenguero. “Those were excellent shows.”
“I missed that one,” Rodrigo explained. “I wanted to come, but...” He was going to say he was working, which he had been, but he didn’t want to talk about the office. “I never got around to getting tickets.”
“Next time let your novia handle the tickets. My wife is always a lot more organized about that sort of thing than I am.”
The older man calling Esme his girlfriend flustered him so much he missed the last step and almost fell flat on his face at the landing. When he got his footing back, he shook his head in her direction. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake. Esmeralda stiffened at his harsh tone. “Wow, you’d think he just accused you of something.” With that she turned to Piera. “We’re not dating. In fact, we’re barely friends.”
Piera raised an eyebrow and stopped just beyond the doors to the small screening room. “Of course. My mistake.” He didn’t sound sorry at all. He was at that age when Latinx people said whatever they wanted with impunity and lived for getting their noses in people’s business. “But you really should consider it. You make a very elegant couple.”
Rodrigo swallowed down the growl in his throat and pointed at the open double doors in front of them. “Is this it?”
The curator gave him that shameless old man grin and nodded. “Yes, everything is ready for you.” He winked at Rodrigo as if they were in on the same joke, then he turned to Esmeralda. “I’ve left copies of some old photographs that we have from when your dad didNavidad Para el Pueblohere at the theater.” A beatific smile appeared on the old man’s face at the mention of the free concerts for the Latinx community in New York City that Patricio had sponsored for decades. “Your father was a great man, and a true champion of our culture. He saved the theater in the ’90s when developers wanted to tear it down. Did you know that?”
Esme gasped at Piera’s revelation and turned to Rodrigo, an eyebrow raised in question. Her voice trembled ever so slightly when she finally spoke. “I had no idea.”
Rodrigo felt a stinging in the back of his throat as he took in Esme’s reaction. He’d been so caught up in getting through this week that he’d forgotten this was not just a competition for Esmeralda, this was her chance to finally reclaim a part of her she’d been denied her whole life.
Piera smiled kindly at Esmeralda. “Mr. Sambrano quietly did many things for a lot of groups looking to conserve and document the culture of the diaspora. That’s what the footage you’ll see showcases. It’s a shame the documentary was never finished.”
“We’re watching the footage from the documentary? I thought that—” Esme asked, looking between Piera and himself.
“I’ll take it from here. Thank you, Mr. Piera.”
The old man dipped his head again and pointed at some doors that were visible from the balcony in the mezzanine. “My offices are down there. You can come get me once you’re done. We’ve left everything you asked for in the screening room. You’re all alone up here, so if you need anything you can call down from the phone that’s inside. Just dial zero. It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Sambrano-Peña.” With that he left them standing alone together.
“After you.” Rodrigo stood awkwardly in front of Esmeralda, gesturing toward the door. And it seemed he could not stop himself from sounding like an ass.
She narrowed her eyes at him, but her curiosity seemed to win out and she finally stepped inside.
