In Safe Hands - 2. Chapter 2

In Safe Hands
by Riley Jericho

Chapter Two

Like most mediterranean cultures, the Spanish like to eat a main meal at lunchtime - which, for them, could be anything between 1pm to 4pm. Then, in the late evening, they would eat again. The restaurant was quite busy with couples and families, all eating their fill prior to the afternoon siesta. To try to accommodate the group, a couple of waiters arranged what spare tables there were into a group, and everyone began to sit down.

There was a space next to where Miguel had settled and Elliott made a beeline for it, but was cut off by Sam, who pushed past him and grabbed the seat, looking as pleased as punch. A little irritated, Elliott groaned inwardly, but wasn’t about to make a scene about it. Not just over a bloody chair!

He looked for another seat.

In fact, as he scanned the group, there was only one seat left now and the chairs were already heavily packed around the only three tables that had been available. Elliott could also see that both he and Señor Ortiz were still left standing.

“We need to make more room, somehow.” Rose Carter pushed her chair out again, trying to figure out how to fit everyone in place, wondering if she would need to sit Natty on her knee.

“Papa, why don’t you come and sit here?” Miguel rose smoothly. “Me and Elliott can find a table outside.”

“Thank you, Miguel.” His father nodded and seemed relieved at the offer. “Is that okay with you, Rose? We can order for them here easily enough, if you prefer, or just let the waiter know they're with us.”

“I don’t see why not - if you two really don’t mind?” She glanced at her eldest and could already see the answer on his face. MIND, thought Elliott. Good God, no! He didn’t the least mind escaping Sam to get some more time with the enigmatic Miguel Ortiz instead. Not one bit!!

“I wanna go outside too!” pouted Sam seeing that his new toy was on the move. He pushed his chair back, trying to get up,

“You’re fine where you are, Sam,” said Benedict.

“Aaaaawww – but…how come Elliott can go outside and I can’t!” he demanded. “You ALWAYS do what HE wants!”

Rose closed her eyes. This was why inflicting your kids on other families was a bad idea.

Manny Ortiz came and took the seat next to Sam that had just been vacated by his son. He put a two Euro coin on the table and inverted a glass over it. “Sam – if you can get the coin out without touching the glass, it’s yours.”

Sam looked greedily at the cash, the thought of eating in the sunshine already forgotten.

Escaping quickly. Elliott followed Miguel onto the partially shaded verandah, and they walked around, looking for a space. Even outside it was quite busy, but they finally settled, taking seats at a table for two, near the low wall to the side facing the sea. A bright orange parasol protected them from the burning sun, and a small breeze, blowing gently off the ocean, made it pleasant. Compared to England, it was idyllic.

He sat down awkwardly. It almost felt like a date, he thought stupidly to himself. Struggling again to know how to start a conversation, he stared meaningfully at the menu, and then out over the low wall.

The table had only just been vacated, and was still cluttered with plates and empty glasses. A waiter appeared, asked perfunctorily if they were eating, and then magiced the dirty dishes away. When he returned, and once they’d worked out with him that they were part of the big party inside and the bill would be sorted there, they settled down with cold cokes and the menu. He fidgetted awkwardly with it for several moments, looking with uncertainty at the array of dishes. Finally, he broke the silence.

"Nice place."

Nice place? Is that the best conversation you can make?

“Nice shorts,” returned Miguel; a reply that was so unexpected, that Elliott burst out laughing.

“Pardon?”

“Your shorts – they’re cool.”

He looked down in surprise at his trendy khaki shorts, which went down to halfway between his knees and his ankles. Nobody had ever commented on his clothes before - well, except his mother. Mothers were mothers – it was never complimentary! Then he caught Miguel’s eyes on his shirt.

“Yep – I know – the shirt’s hideous,” he agreed, picking at the flowered monstrosity. “My Mom…”

“…made you wear it?” Miguel finished, sniggering. “Don’t worry. I came out in yesterday’s tee shirt, but mine sent me back to wear this.” He was wearing a smart collared, short-sleeved shirt. “She said I had to be decent!”

“At least yours doesn’t make you look like some castaway from the Caribbean!”

“True,” replied Miguel mischievously. “You have a point! And yes, it's nice here. We often come to this place.”

“I like it.” Elliott took a few sips of his cold drink. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For thinking of this…” he replied, taking in the setting; the warm afternoon; gorgeous smells emanating from the kitchens; the view across the sea – and the friend that, even though they had just met, seemed somehow different from any others. “It’s nice,” he added, struggling again to find adequate words.

Miguel just smiled. “Come on – let’s order,” he said, picking up a menu now, too. “I’m starving!”

They ate and talked; talked and ate. About everything, and nothing. Just like friends do. Slowly, Elliott found his natural hesitancy and self-consciousness dissipating. Miguel was an endless source of lively topics, yet it seemed to Elliott that it was HE that ended up doing most of the talking, not the Spaniard.

"...so, let me get this straight,” Miguel probed. “It was then that you went to the UK...or did you go to America first?" They were nearly at the end of their main course.

"No, it was just a few weeks in the States. Dad had some conference to go to – so we just visited family. But what about you?"

"No, we've never really travelled much. France a bit...and Italy." Miguel shrugged. "I'd love to travel. See the world a bit more, like you do."

Elliott pushed at a lone french fry on his plate. "It's all mostly the same," he mumured, becoming a liitle morose. "Except England, of course." He made a concious effort not to dwell on his problems. "England's just cold. And wet. And the fries are thick and greasy, and they call them chips!" He stuffed the last one into his mouth. “But they know how to make tea,” he added as an afterthought.

Miguel grinned and, having already finished his plate, pushed it to one side and leaned back. "And Spain? What do you think of it here?"

Spain?

"Ask me in a couple of weeks," he laughed, brushing it off.

Just then, Sam made an appearance.

"Mom says you're to go in now, Elliott. She said we had to swap, so I could come out here!" He pulled at the back of Elliott's chair, ready to take his rightful place. Elliott turned his head with interest, examining both his brother and the spectacular lie that flowed shamelessly.

“She said that?”

“Of course she did!” Sam retorted, trying to push his backside onto the chair and oust his older brother. It was written all over him. It was HIS time for the toy now!

“Maybe we should just ask her, then?” he suggested, looking past Sam, who turned quickly to see their mom approaching, threading her way through the tables.

“Awe, come on….please,” he begged, completely unashamed he’d been caught in a flagrant lie. “It’s boring in there – all they do is talk!”

“That’s all we’re doing.”

“You know what I mean,” Sam whined.

“Is everything okay out here boys?” Rose sidestepped a waiter and approached their table.

“We’re good Mom, thanks,” replied Elliott.

“It look’s like everyone inside is having dessert, so feel free to choose something if you still have room. The same for you, Miguel. Sam, you’ll need to come in if you want some ice-cream.”

“Aaawwee Mom – can’t I eat out here, with the guys?”

He could see her beginning to shake her head, but, annoying little toad that Sam was, Elliott couldn’t help but have just a little pity for his brother.

“It’s fine, Mom. We can easily pull up another chair.” The restaurant was emptying and there was a lot more of those around now.

“YESSSSS!” cried Sam. His face burst into a grin and he pumped his fist, ecstatically.

Rose glanced at her eldest curiously. “Okay, but just make sure you behave, Sam, or you’re coming straight back inside.”

“Mom!” Sam pouted, rebellion beginning to rise - but it subsided quickly when she raised her eyebrows.

“What did you have, Miguel? I had pizza!” Elliott sat back as Sam plied Miguel with questions, hardly waiting for one to be answered, before throwing out a new one. He, on the other hand, was quite happy for now, just to listen to Miguel talk. It was a chance to study him and he was intrigued to see the way his head often tilted to one side when he talked. He followed a piece of ice as it moved around inside his cheek, until he finally crushed and swallowed it.

Huge bowls of fruit, cream and ice-cream arrived and, by the end of it, he at least, was stuffed! It took a while to figure out the bills and then the two families started to make their way back to the cars. Their mom had commandeered their car keys, as their dad had had rather too much to drink and hadn’t yet made it out the restaurant with Manny Ortiz.

“Fancy walking back?” suggested Miguel as he and Elliott leaned on the Ortiz car in the hot sun. “It’s not far, and we can cut through the outdoor market.”

“Walk?”

“Sure – it’s good for you! Stop you getting fat.”

Elliott grinned. Fat was the one thing he wasn’t!

“Mom – I think me and Miguel are gonna walk.”

She nodded. “Sure sweetheart – it’s not far. I’d walk myself, but Dad’s a bit over the limit.” She probably already realised that the Ortiz family knew their way around the town pretty well and he would be safe enough with Miguel. She looked briefly to Sam, but he was already falling asleep with the heat and the previous late night and seemed to have no inclination to tackle the hill himself.

"Take your hat, sweetheart. The sun is still quite hot."

Yes mother...

They set off down the hill towards the harbor.

“I like your mum. She’s nice” said Miguel. They were walking slowly along the harbor wall, before they would climb back up through the town and up towards the apartments. “I can tell where you get it.”

“Get what? Being nice, or being overbearingly motherly?” sniggered Elliott, now feeling remarkably at ease with Miguel.

“No, you idiot! Your skin colour.”

“My skin?” That took Elliott by surprise. What the heck do you …oh, I see…Mom’s family are from Argentina,” he said by way of explanation.

In fact Rose Carter used to be Rosa del Torro Valdez. She had met Benedict Carter at a DHL training conference in San Diego; she a delegate from a regional center, and he, one of DHL’s upcoming hotshots. He was running some training sessions and had noticed the dark haired, ravishing beauty sitting at the back.

As had everyone else!

However, none of them had made the grade and he’d dated Miss Valdez for nearly six months before making Elliott, one extremely sensual night, a few months into their marriage. All three of their children carried a shade of her sultry brown skin colour. The boys, unlike their sister, also inherited their father’s fair hair, making a stark contrast.

“That shirt isn’t really your colour, I’m afraid,” noted Miguel. He on the other hand, whilst he didn’t particularly like the soft, collared shirt he was wearing, at least it was the right colour for him and went with the sawn off jeans. In fact, it was high time to lose the shirt, he decided, and he pulled it over his head without bothering to undo the buttons.

“You want me to wear yours?” sniggered Elliott. ‘We could swap!”

“I’ll pass, if you don’t mind.” Miguel pulled a face and, throwing his shirt over his shoulder, they meandered on.

The town was still busy and they walked through holiday makers, many looking burnt and exhausted from staying overlong on the beach, dragging themselves back to their hotels. Much though he would have liked to have taken off his own shirt, Elliott sensibly guessed that it was still too hot. No point in frying himself the first day. He stayed covered up as they walked right along the beachfront, a bit jealous of those in the water, before turning to cross the road to walk up the hill and through the centre of the old part of the town.

They passed through the busy outdoor street market. An amazing concoction of vibrant colour and outlandish wares. Mooching around the different stalls, he tried on some hats that Miguel helpfully suggested might look better than the ‘impossibly ugly’ baseball cap he was wearing. He didn’t particularly ‘need’ a hat, but it seemed fun looking.

"Damn, I wish I had hair like yours." Elliott's hair was long and wavy, brushed back past his ears and down onto his shoulders, like a mane. Sam, Miguel recalled, was a smaller version of the same thing. "Mama would never let mine grow as long as that!" He picked up a nicely shaped straw hat and dropped it onto Elliott's head. “Here – try this."

"I always have it like this." Elliott picked up a hand mirror to look at the hat on his head. "Actually - that doesn't look at all bad!" The hat was nicely shaped, something between a Stetson and a straw boater, with a wide brim.

"But don't you have to cut it for school?"

"I don't go to school," said Elliott as he turned to the stall trader, who was watching them out of the corner of his eye. “How much?” he asked. Maybe he would buy a hat after all, he thought. With this straw one he suddenly appeared quite classy, rather than like an idiotic tourist!

"Six euros."

Before Elliott could get anywhere close to reaching for his wallet, quite prepared to fork out the six euros, Miguel rounded on the trader in rapid Spanish.

"Six! Oh, come on, you can do better than that!"

The trader shrugged. "Five," he offered. "No less..."

Miguel took Elliott's baseball cap. It was of good quality, brand new and featured a well-known US baseball team. "Three euros, and this in exchange."

The man fingered the cap with interest. It was clean and new, and it looked like they would possibly make a deal. Elliott just looked on, bemused.

"Four euros and the cap," the trader proposed. From the look on his face, both boys knew the deal had already been made…it was just a case of making the final step.

"Three-fifty, then," decided Miguel, bringing the foregone conclusion. The man nodded and Elliott parted with three euro fifty cents, and his baseball cap.

"What do you mean, you don't go to school?" demanded Miguel as, at last, they walked away; Elliott now sporting a cool straw head cover.

“Do you always barter stuff like that?” Elliott replied, tilting the hat to what he hoped was a rakish angle. “I would never do that!”

“At the market – why not? They can only say no." But it wasn't what Miguel was interested in. "School?"

“I’m home-schooled,” revealed Elliott, with a grin.

“Home-schooled? What the heck’s that?”

“Mom teaches us. Usually we don’t stay too long wherever we go, so rather than going to local schools, we have classes at home. She teaches us.”

Miguel looked aghast.

“It’s a proper curriculum – actually it’s quite common in the States.”

“But to have your mother be your school teacher? Crap!” muttered Miguel. “The thought of having mine do that gives me goose pimples. It would be a total disaster!”

Elliott grinned. “Honestly, it’s not as bad as you think. You get used to it. We have set hours during the day, but not as long as would have to be if we were in a normal school. We have school holidays too – just like you. Mom’s actually a good teacher.”

“But what about friends?”

That was the nub of it, thought Elliott, but he just shrugged. He couldn’t exactly say something lame like I don’t really have any, but that was how it was. Maybe Miguel suspected what he wasn’t able to say, but, either way, he let it pass.

"Well, as long as you don’t have to do any homework whilst you’re here…and do not tell my mother any of this! She might start getting ideas!”

Elliott grinned. “Sim Senhor,” he replied in Portuguese, doffing his straw cap with a flourish.

“My God – how many languages do you speak?”

Elliott grinned again. “You really wanna know?”

“No – not really, but tell me anyway!”

“As well as English – I’m fluent in Spanish and Portuguese. I can get by reasonably well in Bahasa Malay and swear in Arabic!”

“Oh God! I don’t even know what Bahasa Malay is!” Miguel groaned. “Definitely don’t tell my mother– she really will start getting ideas!”

Fifteen minutes later they got back to the apartment buildings.

“I’m gonna get changed," said Miguel as the lift halted at the second floor. "See you a bit later? Were right above you, on the next floor. Just come on up."

It was quiet in their apartment as Elliott came inside. It seemed everyone was sleeping. In their room, Sam was laid on his bed, out like a light. Tired after the food and walk, he slipped off his shoes and got rid of the offending shirt, before lying down on his own bed. Just lie under the cooling ceiling fan for a few minutes before popping up to see Miguel again, he said to himself…then perhaps we'll go for a swim? The regular soft wump…wump…wump of the fan was soporific….

It was nearly an hour before he surfaced. Sam was gone.

Stretching and yawning, it took a while to come round fully. He could easily have turned over and gone back to sleep. He looked at his watch.

CRAP! It couldn’t be that time? Too warm to put a shirt on, he walked out into the lounge to find his dad, shirtless too, sitting on the balcony and reading a book.

“Hey there, Sport,” he offered in greeting. “Nice sleep?”

Elliott nodded. “Where’s Mom?”

“Went out to the supermarket to stock us up with food. She took Natty and Sam with her. Miguel came calling for you, by the way.”

“Miguel?” Elliott was already hurrying towards the door.

The marble floor in the darkened hallway was cool on his hot bare feet as he tapped gently on the Ortiz front door.

“Hello Elliott!” Miguel’s mother opened the door and her face beamed in welcome. “Miguel’s just in his room. It’s the one on the left - just go straight in.”

The apartment's layout was, on first inspection, exactly like theirs. He could see through into the lounge and kitchen, and a corridor led down to the three bedrooms and bathroom. The master bedroom would also have it’s own en-suite he knew, and Miguel’s room would probably be the same as the one he and Sam were sharing.

However, whilst their apartment was quite sparse and set up just enough for the needs of holidaymakers renting for a week or so, the Ortiz place was a great deal more plush. It had a homely, lived-in feel. Pictures were spaced along the walls, and the furniture, while well used, looked comfortable.

Silently, Elliott stepped into Miguel’s room. He paused, taking in the arrangement of the décor and the rich, musky smell that had to be some kind of deodorant Miguel wore. Unlike his own bedroom one floor down, the colours were rich and spicy too. Even the bedding seemed warm and comfortable. The chocolatey shades that matched Miguel’s skin, were in sharp contrast to the cheap, plain sheets that fitted his own bed, several meters below. More pictures adorned the walls, and a bookshelf was stuffed with books of all kinds. He turned his eyes on Miguel, who was leaning by the open window watching the world go by.

At first glance, he would have said that the young Spaniard was wearing his black speedos. Probably getting ready to go out for a swim. But the speedos were hung off the back of a chair and a second glance confirmed that Miguel was leaning against the window sill, just in his underwear. A pair of simple, black, slip briefs. On a closer look, he could see they had the word ‘PARIS’ subtly printed in a dark grey, trendy font, right across his bum.

Elliott feared he'd barged into the middle of him getting changed. Perhaps he should step outside and knock? But, as he stood there, it didn’t seem like Miguel was planning on either adding or detracting from his attire, as he continued to gaze thoughtfully out of the open window.

Elliott studied the black briefs, as there wasn't anything else on Miguel to catch his eye! Surprised, he had to admit that they looked really good on him, fitting just right around his backside, without being too small or too big. REALLY good! That was okay - after all, what was the difference between this, and sitting by the pool wearing a pair of speedos, he reasoned?

Miguel sensed his presence and turned to greet him. “Don’t feel you have to dress up for me!” Elliott sniggered. He could also now see that Miguel held a mug in his right hand.

Miguel shrugged nonchalantly. “To be honest, I tend only to wear my underwear when I’m indoors in the apartment – especially in the summer. It’s too hot for much else, and these places don’t have air-con.”

“Tell me about it!” groaned Elliott, remembering how sultry it was the night before, when they’d arrived. “Even you find it hot? I thought it was just me…”

“So what happened to you?” Miguel interrupted. “I came to look for you.”

“I fell asleep – sorry.”

“I know – I could hear you snoring from here!” Miguel sniggered, nodding towards the window. He lifted the mug. “You want some tea?”

Elliott perked up. “Tea? You drink tea?” He’d picked up a fondness for the drink over the last year of so in the UK. “Sure - I’d love a cup!”

He followed the, mostly naked, Spaniard out of his bedroom, towards the kitchen. It was hard to stop watching the word 'PARIS', as it rolled slightly over Miguel’s sleek backside, turning in sync with his hips as he walked. He couldn’t quite put a finger on what he was thinking.

“Miguel, you have a guest!” Miguel's mother grumbled at him as they stepped into the kitchen. “You could at least be decent and put some clothes on,”.

“Yes Mama.” He replied formally, but his eyes twinkled. Elliott got the impression that Miguel would be unlikely to comply and Elliott gave Senora Ortiz a smile. He rolled his eyes with a ‘I guess this is just Miguel!’ look. She sighed, but smiled as she shook her head in defeat.

“Milk and sugar?” Miguel allowed the bag to brew in the hot water.

“Please,” Elliott nodded. “Two.” Hot and sweet – just how he liked it!

“Let’s go onto the balcony,” suggested Miguel, and Elliott followed that mesmerizing backside once more. They passed through the living room and towards the open balcony that was still bathed in the afternoon sun. But then his attention was drawn by something else.

“My gosh! It’s YOU!”

“Yep – it’s me,” agreed Miguel. A sly grin crossed his face.