Terror in Taffeta by Marla Cooper Page A

special tonight to try to cheer them up, so I know they’re in good hands. And I could use some downtime, too. It was nice of them to invite me to stay there with them, but it’s hard not to feel like I’m always on the clock.”
    â€œWell, then it’s a good thing you agreed to my demands,” he said, squeezing my hand playfully. “You hungry?”
    â€œI’m starving, actually. All I’ve eaten today is what I was able to scavenge off the brunch buffet.” We’d passed several restaurants that I’d been meaning to try, including a Thai place that I was more than a little curious about. Not that Mexico wasn’t allowed to deviate from Mexican food, but I was intrigued by the idea of slurping down pad thai and tom yum in a town known more for barbacoa and albóndigas . Besides, it was usually packed.
    â€œGood,” Evan said, taking my hand. “I’m having my chef prepare us something.”
    I looked at him in surprise. “Your chef? You have a chef?”
    â€œWell, a part-time chef. He’s amazing.”
    â€œThat must be nice. It’s also very crafty of you.”
    â€œHow do you mean?” Evan asked.
    â€œNone of that awkward ‘Do you want to come back to my place?’ business after dinner.”
    Evan blushed just a little. “When you put it that way, I am awfully clever. Besides, Raúl makes the best sautéed sea scallops in the whole state of Guanajuato.”
    â€œSold,” I said, my stomach growling in a way that made it impossible to feign disinterest. “You had me at ‘sautéed.’”
    I was excited to get to see Evan’s house. Throughout the historic center of town, the residences are all hidden behind tall adobe walls that come right up to the sidewalk, and it’s impossible to tell what’s behind them without an invitation. Behind the heavy wooden doors could be an opulent villa or a modest casita, a luscious garden or a tiled courtyard, each one a secret waiting to be revealed.
    As Evan turned the key in his front gate, I couldn’t wait to see what would be on the other side. It was no villa, but it was straight out of a design magazine, with beautiful antique furniture, colorful folk art, and a garden-like courtyard lit by tin luminarias . Sure, your money goes further in Mexico, even in pricey San Miguel, but he had to be making some serious cash as a private pilot.
    It felt good to be hidden away for an Abernathy-free evening. A table was already set for two in the courtyard, and as we sat down, a middle-aged man appeared with a pitcher of sangria and two chilled glasses, right on cue.
    â€œThank you, Raúl,” said Evan.
    House staff. Nice.
    Evan gently clinked his glass against mine. “Here’s to our fourth date, five years later.”
    â€œBetter late than never.” I smiled, taking a sip of my fruit-laden beverage.
    â€œMaybe you’ll stick around long enough for a fifth date,” Evan said.
    â€œNo offense, but God I hope not.”
    Evan looked a little hurt. “At least wait till you taste the ceviche before you make any hasty decisions.”
    No wonder I’m such a hit with the fellas.
    â€œI’m sorry. This is wonderful, and I’m glad I came. I’m just anxious to get back to San Francisco. Speaking of, sorry for canceling on you today.”
    â€œIt’s no problem. I ended up booking a charter to Mexico City at the last minute, so it’s all the same to me. Besides, it gives us a chance to catch up.”
    And catch up we did.
    Raúl brought us a seemingly never-ending parade of antojitos, leading up to the grand finale, his famous scallops, which were every bit as fabulous as I’d been led to believe. It would have been easy to lose track of time altogether, were it not for the church bells ringing in the distance.
    â€œSo, any word on when you’re flying back?”
    â€œNo, the police are still