ONE WEEK LATER
EIGHT ROW FLINT, HOUSTON, TEXAS—OCTOBER 14, 2020—18:30 / 6:30 P.M. CDT
The first flavor coming through was the freshness of the corn tortilla. Then the toastiness of the masa was followed by the char of the onions, the brightness of the crema, and the “pow” of the cilantro. Listed on the menu as a brussels sprout taco, the eponymous vegetable took a back seat to the surrounding players. Nicole indulged in a second bite even before she’d completely swallowed the first.
“This is remarkable,” she said, her mouth half full, returning what was left of the small taco to her plate.
“Isn’t it, though?” Alicia Marcos covered her full mouth as she responded with a laugh. The remnants of the taco she held revealed shrimp, carrots, some kind of white root vegetable, and little black specks that looked like peppercorns or sesame seeds. “I’m so glad you encouraged me to try someplace different. I get into such a routine when I’m in work mode.”
Alicia’s ancestors had migrated north from San Luis Potosí three generations back, and she carried their coloring in her bronze skin and jet-black hair, which she kept shoulder-length, probably to keep it out of her paints. On the shorter side yet thin and wiry from all the exertion required by her artistic medium, she would be considered everyday beautiful. Her face might never grace the cover of a magazine, but the joy of her wide smile and the brightness in her rich brown eyes would cause any man to thank the Lord for blessing him with such a gorgeous wife.
“Speaking of work mode, you’ve got a little…” Nicole reached her hand across the small bar table and indicated the left side of her friend’s jawline.
Alicia laughed. “What colors? I’m assuming some blue.”
“And a little bit of red.”
The artist shrugged. “That’s my life. I’ve found paint splatters in places that seem contrary to the laws of physics. I used to go over myself in a full-length mirror after cleaning up, but now I just do a quick glance and figure that whatever I miss is an occupational hazard.”
“I love it! I wish I could do the same. So much of my life is having to sit perfectly or walk perfectly or just be perfect. Perfection is as obnoxious as it is unattainable.”
Alicia took a sip of her drink. The women had ordered the same one because the name was so intriguing. A house specialty, it was called There’s Always Money in the Banana Stand, and it was a mixture of two kinds of rum, lime juice, pineapple juice, banana syrup, and egg white. Nicole had no idea what egg white was doing in a cocktail, but she couldn’t argue the result. If this was what the banana stand was serving, it’s no wonder they were flush with cash.
“I had to get to that point with my art, too—you know, giving up on perfection. There was always one more brush stroke or one more texture. I could add another highlight to the hair or a shadow on the dress. Finally, I had to start giving myself permission to walk away. To just say, It’s done!”
“I’m a little envious. I want to be at that place, too, but I guess the industry I’m in just doesn’t allow it. Although I’m better now than I used to be.” Breaking off a piece of a corn chip from a basket, Nicole dipped it in a bowl of green salsa. But before putting it into her mouth, she continued.
“I still pursue perfection to gain other people’s approval in a professional context. I have to. God has given me a job, and I want to do it well. But my true affirmation, what makes me content with who I really am, no longer comes from others. It comes only from God.” She dropped the chip into her mouth, then broke off another corner.
“Exactly! One hundred percent. Critics will always be around to tell you you’re terrible. You’re a terrible artist. A terrible person.” Leaning forward, Alicia lowered her voice. “A lady in my church—in my church—came up to me one Sunday morning and said she’d seen a photo of my art online and couldn’t believe a Christian would paint a picture of Marilyn Monroe. Why? Because she was a hussy. Then she said since I thought Marilyn Monroe was so wonderful, I must be a hussy too.”
Nicole almost spit out the remnants of her chip. “She actually used the word hussy?”
“She did, right there by the coffee bar in the foyer.”
“I thought I’d been called every name in the book for some of the photo shoots I’ve done, but I’ve never been called a hussy.”
“Well, if you want that square on your bingo card stamped, come to my church. I’ve got a lady I can introduce you to.”
Nicole sipped her drink, trying to loosen some of the sprouts lodged in her back teeth. “There’s just such a peace knowing I don’t have to prove myself to God. He already knows how messed up I can be, and He still loves me. All my doubts, all my fears, all my bad decisions—despite all that stuff, He stays with me.”
“Amen. Now, speaking of staying with you, you haven’t said a thing about your Belgian jeweler friend. Is he still staying with you?”
Nicole felt heat come to her cheeks as she looked down with a smile.
Alicia laughed. “Apparently the answer is yes. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you blush before, girl.”
“Stop,” Nicole said, laughing too. “If by staying you mean does he stay with me when he’s in Milan, then the answer is no. But if you’re asking if we’re still a thing, then that answer is yeah. In fact, Nir’s one reason I wanted to get together with you today.”
Alicia’s already big eyes grew even wider. “What? Do I need to start looking for a sky-blue chiffon bridesmaid’s dress I’ll never wear again?”
“No! It’s nothing like that,” she said with another smile, but it quickly disappeared from her face. “It can’t be anything like that, at least not yet. I’ve told you before. He doesn’t want anything to do with Jesus. He’s fine with my being a Christian, but he says it’s not for him. I can’t marry a guy if the number one thing in his life isn’t the same as the number one thing in mine.”
“You’re right, although I know it can’t be easy. Just be patient. There’s no telling what God will do. So if it’s not the ‘Wedding March,’ what is it?”
Nicole sipped her drink again, using it as an excuse to prepare herself. These next minutes would determine whether the plot she and Nir were hatching would ever get off the ground. A no from Alicia, and they were dead in the water.
At first, as Nicole listened to Nir lay out his idea for an operation, she was resistant. Alicia was a friend. Nicole didn’t want to use her or lie to her or put her in any danger. But as they talked some more, she realized she wouldn’t have to actually lie to Alicia, at least not any more than she usually did as someone who lived a secret life as a computer hacker and analyst for the world’s premier intelligence agency.
Nicole would be able to tell the truth, just not the whole truth. She’d have to keep some minor details from Alicia—like the fact they’d be secretly hiding explosives in her artwork in order to assassinate terrorists.
Ultimately, it would be a positive for Alicia. Through the connections Nir would make for her, many more paintings with the Alicia Marcos signature would find their way into expensive beach homes and luxury yachts. Currently, she wasn’t exactly a starving artist, but Nicole knew she wasn’t rolling in money either. The early 2000s-era Nissan she drove up in made that clear.
Quit trying to justify yourself, Nicole. Remember, the Hebrew midwives lied to save those babies, and God blessed them. Sometimes a wrong word uttered for the right reason can be a good thing.
That thought brought to mind the conversation about motives she’d had with Nir a couple of weeks ago, but she couldn’t think about that now. She had a mission—and she had to be cool about it.
Leaning forward, then taking on a conspiratorial tone, Nicole said, “My jeweler guy, as you call him, and I were walking down the Via Monte Napoleone in Milan when we saw one of your pieces—the Marilyn, the one with the Oakley sunglasses. It was displayed in a gallery window.”
“Oh, that was Gallo Milano. My friend Matteo Franco showed it for me there. It sold five days ago.”
“Nir will be disappointed, because he loved the piece. He was blown away, not just by its beauty but by the creativity of materials.” Nicole reached across the table and touched her friend’s hand. “When Nir saw your painting, the wheels in his brain started turning. That’s just the way he is. He’s like a business ninja. Long story short, for a ten percent finder’s fee from each piece you sell, he thinks he can make you a millionaire by this time next year. And that’s just the beginning.”