Read Online Active Shooter by Eduardo Suastegui - Free Book Online
Authors: Eduardo Suastegui
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an oil painting that
hung above it. “This one's been here a little too long. I like to
feature samples of my artists' work in my space, and I know whose
piece will go here next.” She capped that remark with a wink.
I smiled back, then turned my attention to
the rest of that space Lucia seemed so proud of. A couple of
statues, one behind the sofa, the other next to her TV, stood like
sentinels. From their looks and styles, I deduced they came from
different artists, one more given to surrealism, the other more
pedestrian. I wondered which sold better, and I guessed the latter.
Two other paintings and one large black and white photograph hung
from three of four walls in the living room.
“Looks like you have plenty of space,” I said
pointing to one of the walls. “No need to displace anyone on my
account.”
“Nah-ah,” Lucia said. “I like to give art
pieces the space they need to breathe and project. Last thing we
want to do is give the impression of an over-crowded trinket
shop.”
She gestured for me to follow her into the
kitchen, a large space on its own right, and one apparently devoted
to the culinary arts at the exclusion of all others.
“No art pieces in here,” I noted.
“Grease and steam are poor art companions,”
Lucia replied with another wink.
“It smells great in here,” I said.
“Thanks,” Lucia replied with a sideways
glance as she approached the stove. “The Paella should be almost
done.” She crouched to peer through the oven's window. “You are a
little early, but I suppose that's the best way to ensure
punctuality.”
Lucia stood up and grinned at me. “I recall
reading a blog post on the importance of punctuality for a wedding
photographer, and all the things he does to ensure it. Personally,
I think it doubled as a thinly veiled suggestions to brides, grooms
and their entourages to be on time and not waste the talented
photographer's time.”
I could not help but laugh at Lucia's
quip.
The laughter subsided, and I said, “I take it
that's part of the research you did on Andre before you approached
him. I bet you do that with all your artists before you take them
on?”
Lucia's lips broke into a tight little grin.
“I'm sure I'm not the only one.”
"You lost me," I said.
"I mean I'm sure that gorgeous reporter of
yours researched the heck out of you."
I can only guess at why my mind visualized
Lucia and Bridget facing each other. I guess I had anticipated it
when Lucia invited us both over for dinner. Or maybe I was
fantacizing about the two of them sparring over me. Weird, I know,
but there they were, the two of them staring each other down, the
air between them tense in spite of the smiles. In this short
daydream of mine, Lucia, at around 5'4”, four to six inches
shorter, and maybe one to two inches wider than Bridget, stood with
one fisted hand propped into her hip and the other hand resting on
the kitchen's island counter. For a moment I visualized the unkind
image of a bulldog staring down a svelte racing hound. Lucia's
tanned, bronzed skin and dark brown hair played out the final
contrast against Bridget's fairer complexion.
Yet, once I got past the superficial, I
sensed they shared a drive to succeed, innate as well as learned
ability to strive toward achievement, and the well-measured
confidence that capped it all off.
“We can all be sure Ms. Suarez does
impeccable research,” I said, as much to break the awkward silence
as to awkwardly remind Lucia that she and the other gal shared a
Hispanic heritage.
When she didn't reply, I rushed to add, “I'm
impressed you cook Paella. Are you or any in your family from
Spain?”
A clock dinged, and Lucia went to work on
getting the Paella and a salad ready for serving.
With her back to me, Lucia said, “Nope. Not
unless you go back God knows how many generations.” She took out
the steaming metal pan containing the mix of rice, vegetables and
various meats. “I looked up the recipe on Google. No
hung above it. “This one's been here a little too long. I like to
feature samples of my artists' work in my space, and I know whose
piece will go here next.” She capped that remark with a wink.
I smiled back, then turned my attention to
the rest of that space Lucia seemed so proud of. A couple of
statues, one behind the sofa, the other next to her TV, stood like
sentinels. From their looks and styles, I deduced they came from
different artists, one more given to surrealism, the other more
pedestrian. I wondered which sold better, and I guessed the latter.
Two other paintings and one large black and white photograph hung
from three of four walls in the living room.
“Looks like you have plenty of space,” I said
pointing to one of the walls. “No need to displace anyone on my
account.”
“Nah-ah,” Lucia said. “I like to give art
pieces the space they need to breathe and project. Last thing we
want to do is give the impression of an over-crowded trinket
shop.”
She gestured for me to follow her into the
kitchen, a large space on its own right, and one apparently devoted
to the culinary arts at the exclusion of all others.
“No art pieces in here,” I noted.
“Grease and steam are poor art companions,”
Lucia replied with another wink.
“It smells great in here,” I said.
“Thanks,” Lucia replied with a sideways
glance as she approached the stove. “The Paella should be almost
done.” She crouched to peer through the oven's window. “You are a
little early, but I suppose that's the best way to ensure
punctuality.”
Lucia stood up and grinned at me. “I recall
reading a blog post on the importance of punctuality for a wedding
photographer, and all the things he does to ensure it. Personally,
I think it doubled as a thinly veiled suggestions to brides, grooms
and their entourages to be on time and not waste the talented
photographer's time.”
I could not help but laugh at Lucia's
quip.
The laughter subsided, and I said, “I take it
that's part of the research you did on Andre before you approached
him. I bet you do that with all your artists before you take them
on?”
Lucia's lips broke into a tight little grin.
“I'm sure I'm not the only one.”
"You lost me," I said.
"I mean I'm sure that gorgeous reporter of
yours researched the heck out of you."
I can only guess at why my mind visualized
Lucia and Bridget facing each other. I guess I had anticipated it
when Lucia invited us both over for dinner. Or maybe I was
fantacizing about the two of them sparring over me. Weird, I know,
but there they were, the two of them staring each other down, the
air between them tense in spite of the smiles. In this short
daydream of mine, Lucia, at around 5'4”, four to six inches
shorter, and maybe one to two inches wider than Bridget, stood with
one fisted hand propped into her hip and the other hand resting on
the kitchen's island counter. For a moment I visualized the unkind
image of a bulldog staring down a svelte racing hound. Lucia's
tanned, bronzed skin and dark brown hair played out the final
contrast against Bridget's fairer complexion.
Yet, once I got past the superficial, I
sensed they shared a drive to succeed, innate as well as learned
ability to strive toward achievement, and the well-measured
confidence that capped it all off.
“We can all be sure Ms. Suarez does
impeccable research,” I said, as much to break the awkward silence
as to awkwardly remind Lucia that she and the other gal shared a
Hispanic heritage.
When she didn't reply, I rushed to add, “I'm
impressed you cook Paella. Are you or any in your family from
Spain?”
A clock dinged, and Lucia went to work on
getting the Paella and a salad ready for serving.
With her back to me, Lucia said, “Nope. Not
unless you go back God knows how many generations.” She took out
the steaming metal pan containing the mix of rice, vegetables and
various meats. “I looked up the recipe on Google. No
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