by Force, Marie
“I’ll confess to not knowing much about Cuban history, beyond what we hear in the news about people trying to escape to the US by boat.”
“We only hear about that when it goes badly and people die. The history of the revolution is fascinating. We studied it in school.”
“Whereas we studied the Cuban Missile Crisis in high school, but otherwise, I don’t remember learning much else. You said your Nona is from New York?”
“Right. Her family moved to Miami from Brooklyn when she was a teenager, so she’s a New Yorker at heart. She gets back there as often as she can, especially now that two of my cousins live there. We joke that she gives them twenty-four-hour notice that she’s coming to town, and they have to spend the entire time cleaning their apartment to make it ready for her.”
I laugh at the image she paints of two young New Yorkers scrambling to prepare for their beloved but exacting grandmother’s arrival. “Thank you for sharing them with me. That was the most enjoyable and delicious meal I’ve had in a long time.” I glance at the restaurant. “Are they talking about us in there?”
“Oh hell yes,” she says, laughing. “I made a critical error when I called you Jason in front of them.”
“How so?”
“You must’ve missed the calculating look that Abuela gave me. I swear that woman can see inside me sometimes. Me calling you by your first name indicates familiarity, and she homed right in on that.”
“Our generation is far less formal than theirs.”
“True, but she sees far more than I want her to. She always has. My mother is the same way.”
I turn toward her, more intrigued by her with every minute I spend with her. “What do you suppose they saw today?”
Carmen rolls her lip between her teeth as she studies me intently.
I begin to worry that I have sauce on my face or spinach in my teeth, but I can’t look away from her to check.
“They saw that I’m interested in a man for the first time since I lost Tony.”
Her confession touches the deepest part of me, and I lean toward her, needing to kiss those sweet lips.
She casts a wary glance at the restaurant. “Not here.”
I bite back a groan. “Where do you want to go?”
“Let’s take a ride out to the beach.”
I pull into traffic while she directs me to the southbound freeway toward Miami Beach. While I drive, she fiddles with the radio until she lands on a station playing classic rock.
She turns up the volume on “Hot Blooded,” and when she catches me watching her, she smiles. “I grew up on classic rock. It was all my dad wanted to listen to at home and in the car.”
“I’m a classic-rock kinda guy myself. What’s your favorite band?” If we talk about music, I won’t think about how I almost kissed her, right? Will she let me kiss her when we get to the beach? God, I hope so. I’m dying to kiss her.
“It’s a toss-up between Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles.”
“Two of my top three.”
“What’s the third?” she asks.
“The Stones. I saw them last year in New York. It was a dream come true.”
“I can’t believe the way Mick prances around the stage in his seventies.”
“I know, and even after having heart surgery, he’s still at it. Have you seen them?”
“Not yet, but I’d love to.”
I file away that information for future reference. “Who else have you seen?”
“The Eagles came to Miami last year. They were so good. Glenn Frey’s son Deacon is touring with them now, and he was awesome.”
“I heard about that. Who else are you dying to see?”
We talk about music and bands and shows we’ve seen as we navigate heavy traffic on the way to the beach. It’s a welcome distraction after what she confessed to me. I want to kiss her and hold her and spend more time with her. If you’d have told me I’d be having those thoughts so soon after the disaster with Ginger, I would’ve laughed. But that was before I knew Carmen Giordino existed in this world.
While I drive, she works on her phone, posting the photos she took of me at the restaurant, enjoying authentic Cuban and Italian food at Giordino’s. Traffic is slow, which is how I manage to catch her frowning as her fingers fly over the screen. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Her tense posture and expression say otherwise. “Tell me.”
“Just some asshole comments on the photos from earlier.”
My heart sinks. “What kind of comments?”
“Bringing up the shit from New York, but don’t worry about it. I deleted the comments and blocked the accounts.”
I’m disheartened to hear that the bullshit followed me south, but what did I expect? “In the digital age, you can run, but you cannot hide.”
“Don’t sweat it. We’ll keep adding to the narrative, and over time we’ll make them forget all about what happened in New York.”
I wish I was as convinced as she is that people will forget such a juicy scandal.
Carmen takes a call from her cousin Maria that she puts on speaker. “Hey, what’s up?”
“I had a thought about your project,” Maria says.
I assume that means me.
“What’s that?”
“Remember my friend Desiree from high school?”
“Oh, she works for NBC 6 now, right?”
“Yep. I could hit her up about doing a feature story on the pediatric neurosurgeon who offered to work pro bono at the clinic so he could get to know his new city.”
Carmen glances at me, and even though courting attention is contrary to my nature, I’m well aware it’s going to be necessary if I have any prayer of repairing my reputation. I nod, giving her my reluctant approval.
“That’d be awesome, Mari. Have her call me if she’s interested?”
“Will do.”
“Thank you for this.”
“Thank you for pimping out your doctor to us.”
We both laugh at her use of the word pimp to describe Carmen’s role.
“My pleasure,” Carmen says. “Let me know what Desiree says.”
“Will do. Later.”
“If we can pull off TV coverage,” Carmen says to me, “that’d be amazing.”
“Yeah.” I grip the wheel tighter, my gaze fixed on the road.
“You don’t think so?”
“I do. Of course I do. It’s just . . . In my normal life, courting that kind of attention for a volunteer gig would be unheard of.”
“I have no doubt your humility will come through in an interview, or I’d never agree to let you do it. People will love you for stepping up for the less fortunate in the community you hope to call home. It’s a great story.”
“It’s a better story when it’s someone else on the camera.”
“You’ll be a star.”
“Great,” he says, grimacing. “Will they dig up the crap in New York?”
“I’ll come clean about what happened, and do my best to keep the focus on what you’re doing here.”
“Is it always going to follow me? Will it be the opening line in my obit?”
“You’ve got a lot of years left to do amazing things that’ll push that further down on the list.”
She makes me feel optimistic when I’ve had no reason to for weeks.
“If you get to do the interview, you should talk about your tumor research and how close you are to a major breakthrough. That’s the kind of thing that’ll resonate with regular people. Everyone knows someone who’s battling a serious illness. Being reminded there’re dedicated doctors out there working on these challenges is comforting.”
I hang on her every word, soaking up her insight and wisdom. “You make me believe we might just pull this off.”
“Stick with me, kid.”
CHAPTER 12
JASON
I love the adorably cocky grin she flashes my way. I love that she’s fully embraced my situation and ma
de it hers. She makes me feel less alone with my problems than I was before I met her.
“Park over there.” She points to a public lot as she gets busy on her phone again.
After I pull into a space, I start to read the sign about how to pay through an app.
“What’s the deal with paying at this lot?”
“It’s all done on an app. I took care of it. I’ll set you up with the app on your phone. You’ll need it to park around here.”
“You’re very good to have around.”
“Why, thank you. Let’s walk.”
We stash her purse in the trunk before she leads the way to a boardwalk that runs the length of Miami Beach.
“My parents honeymooned here in the early eighties,” I tell her.
“Where did they stay? Do you know?”
“The Fontainebleau, I think.”
“Let’s go check it out. It’s changed a lot since they remodeled it. Personally, I don’t love it. I liked how it looked before when it was more in keeping with the art deco feel of Miami and Miami Beach. Now it just looks like every other modern, sophisticated hotel. But it’s still a cool spot to grab a drink and people-watch.”
To our left are dunes and lush vegetation that block our view of the beach on the other side. I catch sight of bits and pieces of the ocean as we make our way to the pool deck of the Fontainebleau, which is hopping with mostly young people. Skimpy bikinis are everywhere I look, not that I want to look at any woman other than the one I’m with.
She’s got me completely captivated, especially since she admitted to being as attracted to me as I am to her. The disaster with Ginger might’ve never happened for all it matters to me now that I’ve met Carmen and managed to catch her interest.
I understand it’s a big deal for her to admit that she’s attracted to me. I’m honored and humbled to be spending this time with her. We take seats at a bar called Glow, located in the middle of the action at the vast network of pools and bars. Dance music plays loudly—too loudly for my liking—over speakers positioned for maximum coverage.
One of six bartenders puts drink and food menus in front of us. I peruse the offerings, noting the prices are in line with what I’d expect to see in Manhattan. “I can’t picture my parents here.”
“It was nothing like this when they were here. When I was younger, my parents would take one Sunday a month off from work, and we’d play tourist in our hometown. We’d take turns picking what we were going to do, and my mother always wanted to come out to the beach. We’d have lunch here and play in the pool. They had this cool winding slide that was one of my favorite things to do. After a while, we’d end up at the beach, playing in the surf. Those were some of my favorite days.”
She catches herself and offers the shy smile I’m becoming addicted to. “Sorry. Don’t mean to ramble on.”
“You’re not rambling. I like hearing your stories.”
She orders a Miami Heat, which is Bacardí Limón, passion fruit puree, Tropical Red Bull and jalapeño, while I go with a Preacher Man, made with Four Roses bourbon, lime juice, simple syrup and ginger beer.
“Let me get a picture of you enjoying the local flavor.” She holds up her phone and takes several pictures of me mugging with the fancy drink and then taps away at her phone to post it.
“What did you say with that one?”
“Enjoying the local flavor at the Fontainebleau.”
“Any more snarky comments?”
She scans her screen for a minute, her brows furrowing as she taps away at her screen. “Nothing to worry about.”
That means yes, so I decide to change the subject. “If I drank Tropical Red Bull, I’d be up for two days.”
She laughs. “Nothing keeps me awake. When I’m done, I’m done. I fall over and crash. My cousins make fun of me because I can’t ‘hang’ with the rest of them at night. I make it until about eleven on a good night. I’ve always been that way. They call me Abuela.”
“That’s cute.”
“No, it isn’t! At my age, I’m supposed to be partying the night away, not acting like an old lady in a recliner falling asleep watching Golden Girls reruns.”
I lose it laughing at the indignant way she says that. She’s so damned adorable. Everything new I learn about her only makes me like her more. And the more I learn, the more I want to know. I stir my drink with the paper straw and take a sip of the tasty concoction. “I can’t stop thinking about the story you told me about your great-grandmother escaping Cuba with five children and nothing but the clothes on their backs.”
“I’ve heard that story all my life, and it still gives me goose bumps.”
“I can see why. Did she ever remarry?”
“She did, about ten years later. She married a man fifteen years older who’d never been married. He owned a chain of car dealerships in South Florida and adored her and her children. Treated them like his own.”
“That’s really great.” I’m incredibly moved by this story, for reasons I can’t begin to fathom.
“By all accounts, it was a good marriage, but Abuela would tell you her mother never got over the sudden, violent loss of her first husband.”
“How would you get over something like that?”
“You don’t. You learn to live with it, but you never get over it.”
I tip my head to study her more intently. “Are we still talking about your great-grandmother?”
Her small smile conveys a world of understanding. “Grief is a very strange journey, and no two people follow the same path. I’d heard the story of what happened to my great-grandfather all my life, but until I lost Tony, I didn’t really get it, you know?”
“No, I don’t know, but I hear what you’re saying. It gave you perspective.”
“Yes, exactly. Then compound the loss by having to leave your home and your country while consoling five grief-stricken children in a country where you don’t speak the language or have a source of income or a place to live, and you wonder how she survived. Her struggles make mine look simple by comparison.”
“And yet there was nothing simple about it.”
“No, there wasn’t. There still isn’t. It’s like this ache that just stays with you. Even on really good days, like this one has been, the ache is always there. It becomes a part of who you are now.”
I take her hand, link our fingers and look into her beautiful brown eyes. “I think who you are now is every bit as admirable as who your great-grandmother was.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but I’d never compare my loss to hers.”
“I have to believe she’d be proud of the way you’ve put your life back together and figured out a new path for yourself, the same way she did.”
“I’d like to think she would be.”
“How could she not be? You’re a very impressive young woman, Carmen.”
“That’s high praise coming from a brain surgeon.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t use my accomplishments to diminish yours. I’ve never been through anything remotely close to what happened to you, not to mention at such a young age. I’m allowed to think you’re impressive for the way you’ve survived it.”
“Thanks,” she says softly as amusement overtakes her expression. “It does mean a lot coming from a brain surgeon.”
I smile and roll my eyes at her. “This music is annoying me. Let’s go find somewhere quieter.” I hand my credit card to the bartender, who runs it through and returns it to me. After I sign the slip, we take a walk into the hotel. She shows me photos of how it looked when my parents were here.
“That seems more their speed than the jet-set vibe it has now. I saw a sign for luxury car rentals. Want to rent a Lambo?”
“Nah, my friend has a Porsche. What do I need with a Lambo?”
Laughing, I put my arm around her as we walk through the fancy, upscale, contemporary hotel to the exit that leads to the beach. We kick off our shoes and walk along the water’s edge. It’s a warm, sunny late after
noon, and I feel a sense of peace come over me that reminds me of before scandal exploded my life. Not that I had a lot of peace or quiet in that fast-paced life, but it suited me.
Carmen’s hand brushes against mine, and I take hold of it, wanting to touch her now that she’s let me know I’m welcome to. After a long walk down the beach, we find a place to sit and watch the sunset.
“Let me get a picture of you on the beach,” she says. “Give me pensive and contemplative.”
I make faces that have her laughing before I get serious and give her what she needs.
When she’s seated beside me on the sand, I can’t wait any longer to address what she shared with me outside her family’s restaurant. “What you said before . . . I want you to know, it means so much to me.”
“Ever since Tony died, I’ve wondered if that was it for me. If he was it, and after a couple of years, I decided if that was it, I was lucky, you know? Some people never get what I had with him.”
“I’ve never had it.”
“I thought I was being greedy to hope it might happen again. But the downside is that once you’ve experienced the real thing, it’s hard to settle for anything less.” She laughs and looks out at the vast ocean. “I don’t mean to be making this into some big heavy thing the day after we met. It’s just that there hasn’t been anyone else who truly interested me, so I’m glad to know I can still feel that. I don’t want you to think I’m turning this into something—”
I kiss her because I can’t wait another second to do what I’ve wanted to do almost since I first saw her. I take it slow and easy, holding back to give her time to catch up, fully aware that this may be the most important first kiss of my life. Raising my hand to her face, I wait for her to join the party, and when she does . . .
Holy shit.
The kiss goes from sweet to hot as hell in the span of a second when her hand curls around my neck and her tongue connects with mine. Dear God, she’s adorable and sexy and smart and . . . I can’t find the words I need to describe what it’s like to kiss her, to touch her, to breathe in the rich, fragrant scent of her hair as the warm breeze washes over us.
We kiss for a long time, our bodies straining to get closer. I pull back from her only when I begin to worry about us getting arrested—again. Kissing her is almost worth the risk, but I don’t think she’d agree.