Anchored Hearts

by Priscilla Oliveras

  Little Ramón sent Anamaría a commiserating raised-brow, big-eyed, uh-oh look as he shoveled congrí into his mouth. Even at the age of six he could sense something serious going down and was probably relieved to not be the focus of his abuela’s attention. Smart kid.

  Anamaría shot him a playful wink, though the truth in her mami’s words stung. Forgive and let the past go. Anamaría’s desire to simultaneously hug Alejandro and punch him in the gut proved she hadn’t succeeded in achieving either of her mom’s suggestions. But she would.

  Until then, admitting even the tiniest bit of attraction would be like waving a red flag in front of a bull, encouraging her mami’s insistence on pushing Anamaría and Alejandro together.

  No gracias. It had taken her long enough to recognize her own self-sabotage when it came to her love life. The last thing she needed was her mother’s interference.

  “I have moved on, Mami. You have to accept that. My only focus now is my business.”

  Sara placed a comforting hand on Anamaría’s forearm, and she glanced up in time to catch Gina’s thumbs-up. Their supportive gestures calmed Anamaría’s bubbling anxiety. She had to give it up for her brothers. They might drive her crazy sometimes with their bonehead antics, but they sure knew how to pick fantastic sisters for her!

  Being surrounded by her loving familia and reminding herself that her mami only wanted what was best for all her children tempered Anamaría’s aggravation with the whole conversation. She didn’t want to squabble over this . . . over him . . . anymore.

  “Look, I wish Alejandro well, but that’s all. Por favor, Mami, you need to let it be. Now, thanks to Sara’s help”—Anamaría smiled her gratitude—“my dream of expanding AM Fitness, helping others develop healthier eating habits and get in better shape on a wider scale, is becoming a reality. That’s enough for me right now. Estoy bien. Really, I’m good,” she repeated when her mother’s brows arched high with doubt.

  Damn that Cuban mami radar that seemed to pick up on even the smallest of blips.

  Anamaría reached for her glass of water, swallowing the truth. Good was not the same as great. Which she would be, soon. Especially when things really kicked off with AM Fitness and she was too busy to think about anything else. Like how messed up her personal life was.

  But that personal life could not involve or be influenced by Alejandro anymore.

  For his own sake, and the rest of his familia’s, she hoped his return signaled a chance for him and his father to reach an understanding.

  Alejandro being back in Key West for this short time had absolutely nothing to do with her. She planned to keep it that way. Her sights set on business, not her heart.

  She hoped her mami understood and the matchmaking had come to an end. The problem was, experience told her that convincing her mother wouldn’t be that easy.

  * * *

  “We’ll see you at eleven on Thursday, Señora Gómez.” Anamaría waved good-bye to the older woman who was on her way out of St. Mary’s Fellowship Hall after Monday’s seniors Zumba class.

  “¡Sí! I will keep you in my prayers while you’re on duty!” Señora Gómez made a sign of the cross, pressing a kiss to her fingertips at the end. Then, in a blur of aqua leggings and a bright yellow short-sleeved tee, the older lady headed out into the humid, late-April midday sun.

  Several other regular attendees called out adios or good-bye or blessings after gathering their belongings from the tables pushed off to the side to create a makeshift workout floor in the center. One first-timer, a widow who had mentioned her recent move to Key West to live with her son’s family after her husband’s death, approached Anamaría.

  “Are you sure there’s no fee involved?” the older woman asked, pulling a light blue hand towel from the brightly patterned Lilly Pulitzer bag slung over her shoulder.

  “Positive,” Anamaría answered. “Father Miguel and I have agreed upon a flat rate for my teaching the class twice a week. I’ve been a parishioner here my whole life. Many of the ladies who attend have known me since I was in diapers. We’re like family, and this gives me a chance to use my training to help others.”

  Over the woman’s shoulder, Anamaría watched Señora Miranda stroll toward the kitchen and office area, the opposite direction of the door to the parking lot. Usually she hurried out after class, on her way to the restaurant where she helped her husband with Miranda’s busy lunch shift.

  “Perhaps a donation to the church then?” the newcomer suggested. She dabbed the sheen of perspiration on her pale forehead and cheeks, then pressed the hand towel to the area above her navy scoop-necked tee. “I must share, this past hour, meeting the other ladies and witnessing your positive energy, it’s the most uplifting I’ve felt since . . .” Her voice faltered. A shadow fell over her face, deepening the lines tracing across her forehead. “Since my dear Harry passed.”

  Moved by the admission, Anamaría gave the woman’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m happy you’ve joined us then. Getting those endorphins flowing can improve your psyche; I promise. And most of the ladies who come are always looking for volunteers for one church committee or charity or another. There’s no shortage of friends to be made and good deeds to keep you busy here at St. Mary’s.”

  The woman’s light gray eyes crinkled with her appreciative smile, lifting the cloud of sorrow from her features. “Thank you, dear. I do look forward to coming back on Thursday. Now, did I hear you say the class days change from week to week?”

  Anamaría explained how the time always remained 11:00 A.M., but the days of the week varied depending on her shift at the fire station. She removed a blue folder from her backpack and handed a flyer with the AM Fitness April–June class calendar to the newcomer.

  “Feel free to contact me with any questions. And please share the info with anyone who might be interested,” she said. “I’m always looking for new clients who’d like some one-on-one diet and exercise assistance. Or who enjoy outdoor group workouts.”

  “I certainly will. My daughter-in-law’s an elementary school teacher at Poinciana. I’ll be sure to sing your praises to her and her friends.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  With a loose-fingered wave, the woman turned to leave, her white tennis shoes squeaking on the hall’s cream-and-brown vinyl flooring.

  As soon as the door closed, Anamaría began gathering her supplies from the six-foot folding picnic table pushed against the back wall. She slid the Bluetooth speaker that connected to the Zumba playlist on her phone into its protective Bubble Wrap sleeve, then placed the speaker inside her workout duffel along with a box of tissues and the stack of unused AM Fitness sweat towels she kept on hand for clients.

  A quick glance at her Apple watch confirmed she had a little over an hour before she and Sara were scheduled to meet at Starbucks. Plenty of time—

  “If our class keeps growing like this, we might have to ask about using the school gym.”

  Anamaría twisted around at Señora Miranda’s comment.

  Smiling her pleasure, Alejandro’s mom strolled closer. A black headband tucked the sides of her brown bob away from her face, and she had changed from exercise leggings and a T-shirt into a pair of black pants and a red polo with the Miranda’s logo stitched in black above her left breast.

  “A crowded class is a good problem to have, verdad?” Anamaría replied.

  “Yes, very true.” Señora Miranda set her purse on the folding table next to Anamaría’s duffel. “Gracias, again, for soothing an old woman’s worries yesterday.”

  “It was nothing.” Anamaría waved off the thanks, crossing to grab another tissue box from a table along the adjacent wall. “Anything to make you feel better.”

  “Por favor, I meant my mamá. I am not quite so old yet.”

  Relief ribboned its way through Anamaría at Alejandro’s mom’s exaggerated scandalized expression. On the drive from her home in Stock Island to Smathers Beach for her sunrise yoga class, she’d been running through h
er schedule for the day. Feeling guilty about refusing to check on Alejandro like her mother had suggested. Yet still certain the less time she spent with him, the better off she would be.

  If luck was with her, after her familia dinner last night, the Cuban mami grapevine had been activated. With her mom passing along the info to Alejandro’s that Anamaría had absolutely no interest in their matchmaking.

  Still, she’d been prepared to sidestep any prodding or pushing Señora Miranda had in mind before class. To Anamaría’s surprise, Alejandro’s mami had kept mum about her son. Until now.

  A girl had only so much luck, apparently.

  “Bueno, I only wanted to say thank you, and remind you not to be a stranger.” Alejandro’s mom took the box of tissues and dropped it into Anamaría’s duffel before zipping the bag closed and handing her the strap. “Stop by the restaurant soon. Victor has a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise?”

  “Sí. He finally added your healthy suggestions to the permanent menu.”

  “What?” Anamaría froze in pleased shock, her excuse for avoiding Miranda’s now that Alejandro had returned faltering at his mother’s unexpected news. “Are you . . . they’re no longer just an occasional addition to the daily special chalkboard?”

  Señora Miranda shook her head, sending the curled ends of her brown bob brushing her red shirt collar.

  Excitement flickered through Anamaría like Fourth of July sparklers. She’d been trying to convince Señor Miranda to consider permanently adding some of her healthy Cuban food recipes to the menu for a while now. A long while. To no avail.

  “When did this happen?” she asked.

  “Apparently yesterday, before dinner. Or else I would have told you when you stopped by to check on Alejandro. We believe in you, nena. We always have.” Señora Miranda’s round cheeks plumped even more as her grin broadened. “You know how set my Victor is in his ways. But I was sure he would come around to your ideas eventually. It is good for business. And it is a way for us to support you. He even added your website address to the new menus.”

  “¿De veras?” she asked, nearly asking for a pinch to make sure this wasn’t a dream.

  Miranda’s was on many must-try lists for Key West visitors. Having her website on the menu was fantastic free advertising.

  “Sí, really.”

  Overwhelmed by Señor Miranda’s gesture, Anamaría pressed a hand over her chest, where joy had her heart dancing a Zumba grapevine. She’d done it! She’d actually convinced one of the staunchest “tradition is tradition; there’s no need for change” men she knew to add her healthy options to his long-standing menu. Victor Miranda’s hardheadedness was legendary. Same as his elder son’s.

  But she also hadn’t stopped trying to change the older man’s mind. Unlike Alejandro.

  “Like I said, we believe in you, nena.” Señora Miranda spread her arms, inviting Anamaría in for a tight hug.

  As they embraced, the familiar scent of the older woman’s cinnamon and vanilla lotion wafted over Anamaría while her words echoed a hurtful memory.

  How could you be like him. I thought you believed in me. In us.

  Dios, how Alejandro’s unfair accusation had hurt. She had believed in his talent. The same with his mother, abuela, and brother.

  He was the one who had given up on all of them.

  The close ties she had maintained with his entire familia, despite her hurtful breakup with their son and brother, spoke of their strong connection. She had never understood how Alejandro could walk away from his loved ones so easily. Only seeing his mother, abuela, and brother if they visited him. Or how he could risk severing those ties for good. As he’d done with his father. And her.

  “I should be on my way now,” Señora Miranda said. “But I know Victor would love for you to come by and sample something on your special menu. ¿Sí?”

  “I will,” Anamaría promised as she slipped on her backpack and hefted her duffel over a shoulder. “I’ll try to go see him before I leave this weekend. If not, definitely early next week.”

  “¿Adónde vas?”

  “Sara and I are going to New York. She’s speaking at a social media influencer event on Saturday, and I’m planning to meet with her agent and do some networking.”

  “Good for you.” Señora Miranda looped an arm through one of Anamaria’s, giving it an encouraging squeeze. “But you are not thinking of moving up there, are you?”

  Anamaría shook her head with a vehement no that sent her long braid swaying across her shoulder blades. “Not at all. Not even Miami holds any appeal to me. My home is here. Siempre.”

  “Always. I like the sound of that. And I’m sure your parents do, too. Bueno, I know you like to visit with Padre Miguel on your way out, but I must go help with the lunch rush. Dios te bendiga, nena.” Alejandro’s mom leaned closer to exchange cheek kisses, and Anamaría returned the familiar “God bless you” farewell.

  She stayed in the doorway, waving good-bye as the woman who’d always been like a second mother to her pulled her gray sedan out of the parking lot onto Windsor Lane before turning onto Truman Avenue.

  After locking the Fellowship Hall door, Anamaría did a quick merengue step and fist pump in celebration. Señor Miranda had finally . . . fiiiiiiinally . . . changed his mind!

  The Miranda patriarch was not a man easily swayed. Victor’s unyielding temperament had benefitted him during his rise from a humble home catering business entrepreneur to a well-known and respected local business owner. Master chef of the restaurant created in the image of the one his father had built in Havana. Miranda’s was Victor’s homage to the memory of the father who, like many parents in Cuba when Castro took over, had given up much to provide his children with a better future. That same strong will that made him a success was in large part why the older man remained at odds with Alejandro. Both equally as proud and obstinate.

  And yet he had changed his mind. The fact that Miranda’s now listed her recipes on their rarely altered, traditional menu was a huge coup for her.

  Walking on a cloud nine of epic proportions, Anamaría made her way to the basilica.

  Fifteen minutes later, after stopping to chat with Father Miguel, Anamaría set her duffel inside the back of her Honda Pilot and closed the hatch. Squinting under the bright midday sun, she opened the driver’s side door and was greeted by the trill of a cell phone ringing.

  She slid behind the steering wheel and dug her hand in the side pocket of her backpack before it fully registered that the music wasn’t actually her ringtone. Strange. The high-pitched notes continued, and she twisted to give the empty back seat a quick glance. The music trilled on, coming from the open trunk area.

  Climbing out of her SUV, she made her way to the rear.

  By the time she lifted the hatch, the music had stopped. A light breeze cooled the sheen of perspiration on her brow as she perused the regular contents in her trunk. A basket of rolled yoga mats, another with aqua-colored foam yoga blocks, a battery-powered jump starter and air compressor for roadside emergencies. She grabbed her duffel to check underneath it, and the music started up again. As she slid the bag closer, the music volume increased.

  What the hell?

  Unzipping her duffel, she found a cell phone in a black protective case, its screen illuminated, wedged between a stack of towels. The words Victor Miranda—ICE flashed across the tiny screen.

  Her stomach nose-dived.

  The only person she knew who would have Victor Miranda as her “in case of emergency” contact would be . . .

  No freaking way.

  Anamaría slid her finger across the phone’s screen to answer, already suspecting the person on the other end. “Hello, Señora Miranda?”

  “Ay, nena, I am so happy to hear your voice.” Señora Miranda breathed a huge sigh through the speaker. “Gracias a Dios my phone is safe with you.”

  “Yes, I have it.” Ironically enough. Or maybe not.

  Anamaría pulled the cell
away from her ear, glancing from it to her unzipped duffel, wondering how the device could have gotten inside. Then she remembered Señora Miranda taking the tissue box from her and putting it inside Anamaría’s bag. Probably along with the cell phone.

  Bemused, she shook her head as she brought the phone back to her ear. “I’m about to leave the church. Do you want me to drop it off at Miranda’s for you?”

  “Actually, Victor needs me to run a few errands. Would you do me a favor and drop my phone by the house? I will swing by later.”

  “You don’t need it now? I can meet you—”

  “No, no, that’s okay. It would be better if you leave it there.”

  Where she would run into Alejandro.

  Surprised, and yet somehow not so surprised, by Señora Miranda’s blatant maneuvering, Anamaría plopped down on her SUV’s black bumper. She twisted the hair at the end of her long braid around a finger, contemplating whether or not the mamis would actually stoop this low. The meddling would never go to this bizarre extreme, would it?

  “¿Hola, Anamaría, estás ahí?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.” Unsure whether she wanted to tip her imaginary cap at the inventive idea or shake her fist at the brazenness.

  In the background she heard the usual cacophony of raised voices in the restaurant’s kitchen, Victor’s deep bass carrying over everyone else’s.

  “I have to go, nena,” Señora Miranda said. “Thank you for dropping off my phone. Te lo agradezco.”

  Oh, she might appreciate it all right, but what Anamaría would appreciate was the trickery coming to a stop.

  The call disconnected and Anamaría sat there, scratching her head in disbelief. Clearly telling her own mother that her and her best friend’s plan to rekindle a romance between their two children was a fruitless idea had not worked.

  Some way or another Anamaría had to make that message clear.