I leaned over to step into a pair of clean panties and heard that groan behind me again.
I snapped up straight and turned around to find Ramirez grinning from ear to ear, his eyes glued to the rising hem of my towel.
“Um, do you wanna wait outside?” I asked.
The grin widened and he slowly shook his head from side to side. “Uh-uh.”
I rolled my eyes. “Come on, I’m late. I have to get dressed.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Honey, you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”
Yeah, but that was before we’d turned into the Hat-fields and the McCoys. After our being at each other’s throats the last week, I wasn’t quite ready to do a striptease in my living room for him.
I tugged at the hem of my towel again.
“At least turn around.”
Ramirez raised an eyebrow at me, but complied, turning to face the door.
I quickly stepped into my panties and slid the dress over my head.
Even though I was ninety-nine percent sure he was peeking.
Ten minutes later me and my half-painted toenails (luckily the pumps were closed-toe!) were in the front seat of Ramirez’s black SUV pulling out of my driveway.
I glanced across the street. “What happened to the patrol car?” I asked, noticing the conspicuously absent spot between my neighbor’s garbage cans and the mailbox.
“I sent them home.” Ramirez sent me a sly sideways look, then rested one hand on my thigh. “You’re all mine today.”
I did a dry gulp and crossed my legs.
Oh boy.
My cousin Molly lived in a fifties-style bungalow in the Larchmont district of L.A., just south of the 101. Larchmont was a popular shopping area filled with little mom-and-pop bookstores, trendy boutiques, and three coffeehouses on every block. On the weekends it was home to locals browsing for bargains, and on the weekdays, actors memorizing their lines and moms pushing strollers two by two. Molly was one of those moms. Only there was no way her stroller would fit two by two anywhere. With four rug rats under the age of five, I think Molly was applying for sainthood in the near future.
Either that or head of the West Coast division of Mommy and Me.
“Mads! I’m so glad you could make it, ” she said, throwing open her screen door and attacking me with air kisses. I awkwardly tried to navigate a hug around her Buddha belly.
“Come on in; everyone’s already here, ” she chided.
Hey, I was only fifteen minutes late. That was a record for me!
“Ma, ma!” the Terror yelled, toddling across the carpeted living room floor. He had on a teeny-tiny pair of chinos and a dress shirt that was already stained with three different colors of baby drool. Instinctively my new heels and I took a step back.
“That’s right, Connor. Maddie’s here.”
I gave the little person an awkward wave. It’s not that I don’t like kids. Kids are great. I might even have one someday. It’s just that I was never quite sure how to talk to them. Somehow I couldn’t do the high-pitched mommy voice Molly did, but I felt slightly ridiculous talking to a drooling, baldheaded guy in a diaper as if we were meeting at Starbucks for lattes. So, I settled on the noncommittal wave.
“Hey there, big fella, ” Ramirez said, leaning down and giving Connor a high five.
Connor blew him a spit bubble. “Ablablabla!” he screamed.
I resisted the urge to cover my ears.
“What do you want, Connor?” Molly asked. “You have to sign it. Sign it to Mommy.”
Connor blew some raspberries and yelled, “Abooo-boooboo.”
“Sign it, Connor. Mommy can’t understand you.” She turned to me. “We’re teaching Connor baby sign language. All the experts agree that it’s the best way to foster early communication skills and ensure proper conceptualization of interpersonal dynamics at a young age.”
Connor smiled at me and drooled onto his chinos.
Oh yeah, a baby genius in the making.
“Now, ” Molly said, crouching down and slowly enunciating to the drooling wonder, “use your signs and tell Mommy what Connor wants.”
“Mabooooogoooo, ” he yelled, going red in the face.
“Use your signs, ” Molly prompted.
The Terror stomped one foot, then let out a wail that could wake the dead. “Mamabooogooooooo!”
He raised one chubby fist in the air and, I could swear, lifted his middle finger.
How’s that for sign language?
Molly sighed and shook her head. “We’re still working on it, ” she reassured us. “Anyway, come on out back, everyone’s here.” She grabbed Connor under the armpits and slung him onto one ample hip as she led the way through the Fisher-Price-littered house into the spacious backyard, strung with streamers, balloons, and HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY signs. Molly’s brood of munchkins were on the lawn playing some kind of game that involved sticks, paper hats, and lots of loud war whoops. A pony sat in the corner, being petted by my cousin Donna’s kids, and under an oak tree Molly’s husband, Stan, was stringing up a big blue piñata shaped like a dog. On the patio sat an inflatable Spiderman-themed jump house filled with shouting kids and my teenage cousin Johnny, who recently started wearing his hair in a green mohawk. My grandmother sat straight backed in a deck chair, sipping lemonade and plugging her ears. I spied Mom and Faux Dad standing next to the jump house, glasses of merlot in hand.
Alcohol. Just what was needed to make it through a family gathering unscathed.
“Let’s find the booze, ” I mumbled to Ramirez as Molly’s oldest came running toward us, swinging a toddler-sized wooden baseball bat and yelling for candy.
Ramirez jumped back just in time to avoid being piñata practice, mumbling something in Spanish. (I’m guessing it was something along the lines of, “Gotta remember to buy condoms.”) “Good idea.”
Near the back fence, Molly had set up two folding tables, both covered in bright red-and-blue tablecloths. Trays of cookies, cupcakes, candies, and a jumbo-sized birthday cake shaped like a blue dog sat on the first table next to a big bowl of red punch. The second table held clear plastic cups, a beer cooler, and boxes of wine.
Ramirez grabbed a beer and moved over to the corner of the yard as Molly’s kid came in for another swing. I opted for wine box number one, an indistinguishable pink wine, and filled my glass to the brim.
“Hi.”
I spun around.
Then I let out a little eek as I encountered a man in thick white makeup with a bright red nose, standing close enough that I could smell the breakfast burritos on his breath. His hair puffed out in red curls all around his ears, and he had a big goofy smile painted over his lips. The effect was supposed to be cute, but with him standing so close, it was kind of creepy. I took a step back.
“How’s it goin’?” the clown asked.
“Uh, fine.”
“Got any more of that?” He pointed to my glass of pink stuff.
“Excuse me?”
The clown stepped around me and flipped the tab on box number two, filling his plastic cup with cheap merlot. He tilted his head back and downed it in one gulp. “Wow, that hits the spot.”
I blinked. “Uh, hello?”
“What?”
“You’re a clown!”
He stared at me. “Yeah. So?”
I gestured around at the backyard full of little people. “Don’t you think you should be setting a good example?”
Drunkie the Clown refilled his glass, taking a long swig. “Cut me some slack, doll face. I’m only doing the clown gig ’cause they fired me from Days of Our Lives.” He downed the second glass, then walked away, his oversize shoes squeaking with each step.