The photograph was one of his favorites of her. One of countless images he’d never been able to delete from his computer. Or his memory.
Her love of life, the positivity she saw in almost everything, her desire to share that positivity making a real difference for others . . . they shone like an aura around her, drawing you inexorably to her.
His ego bruised, his heart battered by her admission that she didn’t know when she’d be ready to follow him to Europe once her papi was better, he’d purposefully left the photograph behind the morning he’d headed to the airport. Convinced he didn’t need her with him. Assuring himself he’d be fine on his own.
A month later, he’d printed himself a new copy. Wallet sized this time, so he could carry her with him wherever he went.
Once, he’d thrown it away in a drunken rage.
Then found himself digging in the trash for her photograph hours later.
Through his closed bedroom door, a familiar deep, rumbling voice carried down the hall from the living room.
Papi was home.
In a Pavlovian reaction, his stomach automatically twisted with years’ old dread and misgivings. His hands fisted at his sides, anticipating their inevitable confrontation.
The last memories with his papi involved pointed barbs exchanged in anger. Emotion-fueled words thrown out, unable to be reeled back in. Worse, others left unsaid.
Guilt over his disgraceful part in their rift had kept Alejandro away. At first anyway.
Later, as the impasse widened, the thought of more rejection and recrimination from his father had silenced him.
A light tap sounded on the door.
The breath stalled in his chest, his apprehension rising. He didn’t know what to expect from the man he’d only seen in the background of video chats with his mom. Their exchanges limited to inane platitudes like, Doing okay, and you? Never sharing anything meaningful.
Alejandro had giving up trying before he’d even left.
Now the man who had never understood him, and made it clear he didn’t care to, waited on the other side of his bedroom door.
“Come in!” Alejandro called, clearing the scratch from his throat when his voice caught on the last word.
“¿Estás despierto, hijo?” His mami poked her head inside.
Relief melted the steely resolve keeping him upright and he sagged back against his pillows at this small reprieve from the anticipated disagreement. “Sí, I’m awake.”
A benevolent smile curved her lips, deepening the crow’s-feet around her eyes, as she pushed the door open and entered.
She had changed out of the rust-colored slacks and tan cotton blouse she’d worn when she and Ernesto had picked him up at the Miami port for the three-hour drive home. Now the sight of her plumping figure draped in a familiar bata lulled the nervous energy jittering up and down his torso.
God, he’d missed seeing her like this. Shuffling around in fluffy slippers and a short-sleeved housedress that hung to mid-shin. Its maroon material decorated with white lilies and greenery in one of the floral patterns she tended to prefer. A thin black headband held the sides of her chin-length brown bob away from her face, leaving the pearl stud earrings he’d sent for her birthday a couple years ago to wink a welcoming hola at him.
“Your papi arrived a few minutes ago,” she told him. Her overly perky voice signaled her worry over the father-son reunion. Much like him. “He brought dinner home from the restaurant. ¿Tienes hambre?”
As if on cue, Alejandro’s stomach growled loudly, answering her question. He pressed a hand to his belly and checked the time on his sport watch. Seven P.M. Of course. For as long as he could remember, Miranda’s closed at 4:00 PM on Sundays, allowing employees the evening with their families before the week started again.
Papi usually brought food from the restaurant, so they could avoid going from the restaurant’s kitchen to the one at home.
“Anamaría said you should eat with every pain pill. Even a little. Your papi brought your favorite, ropa vieja y congrí.”
Just the mention of the shredded flank steak sautéed to perfection with onions, peppers, garlic, spices, and tomato sauce, with sliced green olives and capers sprinkled in for extra flavor, had Alejandro’s mouth watering. Ropa vieja paired with congrí, the savory black beans and rice concoction cooked together in the same pot, had been, hands down, his go-to meal growing up.
He’d sampled the dish in five-star restaurants across the globe, but no one, not even a Michelin chef, could serve him a plate that made his taste buds sing like his papi’s dish. Which was the same with pretty much anything Victor Miranda whipped up.
The man was a freaking whiz in the kitchen.
Like Alejandro when he held a camera in his hands.
Too bad his papi hadn’t considered the two professions the same caliber back when Alejandro was starting out. Apparently still couldn’t, based on his absence at Alejandro’s last exhibit a couple years ago in Atlanta. Mami, Abuela, and Ernesto had made the trip. Papi had remained noticeably absent.
“The restaurant needs him,” Alejandro’s mother had explained.
Alejandro had shrugged off the excuse. They both knew the real reason his papi refused to acknowledge Alejandro’s success.
“I appreciate the food, Mami, pero I’m tired from the trip,” he told her. Truth, but also the coward’s way of avoiding his dad. “Would you mind if I ate here instead of joining you in the dining room?”
His mami’s hopeful smile dipped, the corners trembling before she rallied. “Of course, hijo. Anamaría said you should rest.”
One of the litany of orders his ex had rattled off before racing out the door as if the hounds of hell, or more like two harpies resembling their matchmaking mothers, nipped at her heels.
He would have fled, too, given the opportunity.
“Gracias, Mami. Maybe I’ll feel better enough to join you soon.”
Shuffling quickly toward his bed, she sat on the edge and tightly grasped both of his hands with her smaller ones. “I know coming here is not what you wanted, hijo. And I wish your return home would not have been because of this.” She tilted her head, indicating the RoboCop contraption encircling his injured leg. “But I have prayed for you to be here with us again.”
“Mami, por favor,” he warned.
The weight of her expectations. Hers, his abuela’s . . . everyone’s desire for him to relegate his passion to mere hobby status and prepare to take the reins of Miranda’s. It was all like a heavy shroud hovering over him. Threatening to smother his dreams.
It had been like this since the first time he begged off a shift at the restaurant to take pictures during the annual powerboat races. Papi had scoffed, relegating Alejandro’s photography to nothing more than a waste of time. Child’s play when there were responsibilities to uphold.
“Talk to him, mijo. This is where you belong,” his mom insisted now.
The sorrow etched on her slightly lined face brought the bitter taste of guilt to his tongue. The knowledge that the animosity between father and son hurt her as much as him made the situation even worse.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t belong here.” Tugging his hands free of hers, he clasped them on his lap and leaned back against the pillow behind him. Distancing himself from her disappointment. “I love you, Mami, but I can’t be who you want me to be.”
“Ay, Ale, I simply want you to be happy. It’s what I pray for every day.” Cupping his face with her hands, his mami leaned forward to place a kiss on his forehead. The tender gesture sent a pang of nostalgia through his chest.
“I am happy. I have a good life. I’m proud of the work I do,” he assured her.
“We are, too.”
Yeah, if by we she meant her and his abuela. Maybe Ernesto and Cece. Because his papi sure wasn’t.
As if she could read his thoughts, his mami’s shoulders rose and fell on a sad sigh he felt in his soul. She gave Alejandro’s cheeks a gentle pat, then rose to leave.
Her slow, defeated steps reminded him why he should not have come. Part of why he had stayed away for so long. There was no mending the rift between him and his father. Being here only made things uncomfortable for the rest of his familia.
“Bueno,” she said, pausing in the doorway without turning to look at him. “I will bring a tray with your food after I serve your father.”
The door closed behind her and Alejandro jammed a fist into his mattress. Damn it, he’d known coming here would be a mistake.
There had to be another option. His gaze trailed around the room while his mind raced through different ideas. All of which he’d considered before boarding the cruise ship. None of which were plausible.
His attention caught on the empty shelf above his desk. His baseball trophies had once been proudly displayed there. Until the summer his dad had laid down his first ultimatum: baseball camp or photography. There was no time for both when Alejandro was needed at the restaurant. Aware of how much his father enjoyed sharing their love of the game together, hurt by the blatant disregard for Alejandro’s burgeoning creative interest, he’d tossed his first barrage of artillery in their battle by quitting the high school varsity team.
Anamaría’s younger brother, Enrique, who together with Alejandro had created the varsity’s best double-play duo . . . Enrique at second and him at first base . . . had been dumbstruck by Alejandro’s rash decision. She’d reacted with the same level of shock.
Alejandro had figured his papi would give in. Allow his son to choose his own path, learn to juggle his responsibilities while exploring photography more. But Victor Miranda wasn’t one to back down. Neither was his firstborn son.
Scrubbing his hands over his face, Alejandro groaned with frustration as he tried to wipe away the hurtful memory. It’d been years since he thought about that summer. Or the slew of head-to-head battles against his old man that had come after, with collateral damage to those around them.
Like his mami and his abuela, who worried and prayed for the rift to mend. Even Ernesto, who hadn’t understood Alejandro’s need to get out from under their dad’s archaic rule, had been caught in the crossfire, torn between staying close with his only brother and respecting their father. Eventually, with Alejandro out of the picture, Ernesto had stepped into the role of Miranda’s successor. A role that didn’t have Ernesto feeling like he’d been strapped into a straitjacket. Unlike Alejandro.
A sigh weighty with recrimination blew through his lips and he turned away from the unwanted memories this house, this room, evoked.
Outside his bedroom window, Mother Nature continued her nightly artwork. Peach and orange and purple streaks slowly melted away, leaving an inky blue sky. The end of his first day back on the Rock.
He’d made it through the gut-clenching reunion with Anamaría relatively unscathed. Without revealing how she still made his pulse race, his body perk up with need. Foolish as that may be. Her obvious closeness with his familia bugged the hell out of him. Reminded him with sharp clarity of her ultimate choice . . . familia over him.
One difficult first meeting down, one more to go. Tipping his head back, Alejandro stared up at the swirls of eggshell white paint on the ceiling. At least, he’d put off dealing with his dad until tomorrow.
The thought set a mental clock in motion ticking down the hours, minutes, seconds until the next unavoidable detonation between them.
Another soft knock rapped on his door.
“Come in.” He schooled his features, trying to summon what he hoped resembled a welcoming smile, to greet his mother. Only, when the door pushed open, it wasn’t his mami on the other side.
Victor Miranda, his rotund figure stiff and unyielding, stood in the doorway carrying the same metal and wicker serving tray from lunch. A somber expression blanketed his round face and full jowls, deepening the grooves bracketing his mouth on either side of his thick mustache.
“Oh, hi, I wasn’t ex-expecting you,” Alejandro stammered.
Shit, this was not how he’d wanted his first confrontation—damn it, conversation—with his dad to go down. Him sitting like a lame duck in his childhood bed. His papi serving him the food he’d cooked at the restaurant Alejandro had turned his back on.
No, the restaurant he had denigrated and then turned his back on.
“Your mamá says you should eat something and take your medicine,” his dad announced.
No Hola, hijo, it’s good to see you.
No It’s been too long.
No I fucked up all those years ago.
Of course, those same statements could be uttered by Alejandro himself. He could attempt to make amends. Only why bother when a negative response was a guarantee.
“Gracias.” Alejandro reached to take the serving tray from his father, keeping his tone neutral and eye contact minimal. “I appreciate dinner.”
His favorite meal no less. Was it a peace offering? Or merely the easiest leftovers to pack up after the kitchen closed?
“I was bringing something for your mom and abuela.” His dad hitched a beefy shoulder in an it’s-no-big-deal shrug. His black mustache drooped over the sober slant of his mouth, his craggy face telegraphing the indifference Alejandro had come to expect during the smattering of times they’d seen each other on video chat.
Alejandro dug into the ropa vieja, his eyes closing on an inner sigh of blissful satisfaction when the tangy taste of the shredded flank steak, its sauce teeming with the perfect combination of tomato, spices, and garlic, exploded on his tongue. A bite of congrí had the black beans and rice mixture adding to the taste buds party in his mouth.
His papi cleared his throat, and Alejandro’s eyes opened to find his old man watching him, a suspicious scowl angling his brows. His mustache twitched, as if his mouth itched to say something but refrained.
“It’s delicious,” Alejandro offered.
“You need to eat more. You’re too skinny.”
The gruff command was more insult than caring observation. But it was spot-on. In the weeks since his accident, Alejandro’s appetite had nose-dived. Thanks in large part to a combination of pain-induced nausea and a semi-depressive, feeling-sorry-for-himself state of mind. The result was the loss of ten pounds on an already-lanky frame.
He tapped his fork against the edge of the ceramic plate. “With food like this and a bum leg, I’ll wind up gaining too much weight. Being out of shape is a liability in my line of work.”
Arms crossed in front of his burly chest, Alejandro’s papi’s scowl deepened, his dark brows threatening to become a unibrow. “It seems to me that there are worse liabilities in this thing you insist on doing. Especially when you are not careful.”
Subtext, you are never careful.
Why was it that every word his papi said about Alejandro’s career held an undercurrent of disdain? Making it clear that nothing his older son did met with the man’s approval.
Truth was, his papi would never be satisfied with him until Alejandro set aside his “silly” aspirations and worked a respectable, steady job. One his abuelo, who had risked much to send Alejandro’s dad and his older brother to the United States in search of a better life during the Peter Pan Operation in the early 1960s, would be proud of.
Setting down his fork, Alejandro reached for his bottle of water to wash down the sour taste of reality coating his mouth. “Look, I don’t want to fi—”
“Your mamá told me that Anamaría was here today.” His dad dipped his head toward the external fixator rings encircling Alejandro’s left shin. “To check your injury.”
Alejandro nodded slowly, unsure where his father might be going with this unexpected turn in their awkward conversation. Leery of bringing Anamaría into their discord, Alejandro stayed quiet.
“Ella es una nena buena,” his dad said, repeating himself when Alejandro stared back at him blankly. “She is a nice girl. Do not—”
“Actually, she’s a woman now. A firefighter paramedic and small-business owner.”
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br /> His father’s eyes narrowed at the interruption.
Alejandro gave himself a mental smack on the back of his head. Why did he feel the need to bait the man by correcting him?
The question whispered through his brain as if his mom or Ernesto sat on the bed beside him, muttering the words in his ear.
“She is familia. She always will be. It does not matter that you—” His papi’s words cut off abruptly, as if he couldn’t even be bothered to spit them out.
“That I what?” Alejandro pressed, picking at the scab over a wound that had never, probably would never, healed. “Accepted a paid internship, then worked my ass off to earn a dream job? That I chose to be true to myself and what fulfills me?”
His papi lurched forward a step, hands fisted at his sides. “No, that you refused to fulfill your responsibility to your familia. Our name. To the legacy your abuelo gave his life for!”
The familiar accusations pelted Alejandro like stones thrown at a sinner. His father’s dark eyes flashed with hostility and resentment. His nostrils flared with his chest-heaving breaths.
Tension sizzled in the air of the small bedroom.
“I don’t want to have this argument with you again,” Alejandro said, both his urge to fight and his appetite evaporating. “It does neither one of us any good. And it will only hurt them.” He jabbed his fork toward the front of the house, indicating the rest of their familia.
His father huffed his disdain.
Several seconds ticked by, the gulf between them widening.
Finally, Alejandro’s old man gave a curt, tight-jawed nod. The most he would acquiesce.
With a bone-weary sigh, Alejandro laid his fork across his half-eaten meal. He wiped his mouth with the neatly folded paper towel, then reached for the bottle of pain pills on the nightstand.
“Gracias por la comida.” He nudged the tray, emphasizing his thanks for the meal. “I’m going to try and wash up, then get more sleep.”
It was as close to a dismissal as he could make without disrespecting his father in his own home. Again.
“I agreed to you coming here because your mamá and abuela were sick with worry,” his papi admitted, head high, shoulders stiff with pride. “But you will not cause them, or Anamaría, any more trouble while you are here. And you will not toy with her feelings again. ¿Entiendes?”
Anchored Hearts Page 5