Case in point. His current position. Holed up in his childhood bedroom. Avoiding his father. Surrounded by memories of the one woman he’d spent his entire adult life trying—and failing—to forget.
Yeah, he was a lucky bastard all right.
“Three weeks post-surgery, I’d say you’re healing well. When are you following up with Dr. Peterson?” Enrique tossed the gloves in the circular office-sized trash bin near the computer desk.
“Friday morning after . . .”
Alejandro trailed off, his attention caught on the five-by-seven framed photograph Enrique had lifted from one of the desk shelves.
“Damn, we look like freakin’ babies here.” Enrique held out the picture of their Little League baseball team back when they were in middle school. Enrique going into seventh, Alejandro and Anamaría rising eighth graders.
“That’s ’cuz we were,” Alejandro answered. “I picked up a camera for the first time that summer. And you. Shit, you’d already picked up your first girl and hadn’t even hit puberty yet.”
Enrique laughed and waggled his eyebrows. But didn’t bother negating the truth.
A knock sounded on the bedroom door; then Alejandro’s mom poked her head inside. “I am going over to the restaurant for lunch. Quieren venir conmigo?”
Her expectant gaze slid from Alejandro to Enrique, then back again.
Alejandro knew she wanted him to say yes, they would join her. But that was an answer he couldn’t give.
The night he and his father had argued was the last time Alejandro had set foot in Miranda’s. He wasn’t sure when or if he’d be able to go back again. Not with the electrically charged fence standing between his papi and him.
Alejandro gave a single shake of his head. As if the small movement might hurt her feelings less.
The expectant hope in his mami’s eyes faded. Guilt stampeded over his chest like a herd of wildebeests he’d photographed once.
Highly experienced with Cuban mami guilt and dashed expectations, Enrique replaced the old photograph and flashed the cheesy grin that had gotten him into and out of more trouble for as far back as Alejandro could remember.
“Actually, Señora Miranda,” Enrique said, crossing the few steps to drape an arm around her shoulders. He tucked her plump body against his side, looping his other arm across her chest to wrap her in a bear hug. Schmoozer. “I was hoping to kidnap Ale. Introduce him to a friend of mine who owns an art gallery downtown. Then run a quick errand. We’ll grab a sandwich from Sandy’s on the way.”
Just like when they’d been kids and he had to cover for whatever tall tale Enrique spun, Alejandro worked to keep the surprise off his face. This was the first he’d heard about an errand. Or meeting some friend of Enrique’s. But if playing along got him out of an uncomfortable meal at Miranda’s, where his papi would not welcome him, he’d gladly run every errand on Enrique’s To Do list.
“You don’t mind, do you, Señora M? I promise to have him back in one piece,” Enrique teased, apparently still a pro at buttering someone up to get his way. “No jumping off the bridge at Bahia Honda like he convinced me to do that one time.”
Alejandro’s mami gasped, her eyes going as wide as Lulu’s when his niece had first seen the baby elephant photograph yesterday.
“Hey! That was all you, man! Mami, I never jumped. ¡Te lo juro!” Alejandro pointed a finger at Enrique while holding up a placating palm to his mother, repeating his promise. “I swear! I didn’t.”
Enrique, the fool, grinned wider. “I’m kidding. It was a joke.”
Alejandro’s mom shot his buddy the pursed-mouth, eyebrow-slanted frown of aggrieved mamis the world over.
Believing that E had actually made that jump wasn’t too farfetched. There’d been a time in high school when Enrique had teetered on the line between prankster and troublemaker. One incident in particular nearly earned him a stint of community service. Until their art teacher, of all people, stepped in with a compromise that wound up changing Anamaría’s baby brother’s trajectory. For a while anyway. Alejandro had never gotten the full story behind why his friend had given up pursuing art and joined the familia business, becoming a firefighter instead.
“Ay, nene, me vas a matar,” Alejandro’s mom admonished. He was pretty sure E’s mom had uttered a similar you’re-killing complaint too many times to count.
“Mami blames me for most of her gray hair. I tell her she looks like the goddess she is.” Enrique gave an impudent wink that had Alejandro’s mami tsking and shaking her head, all while smiling indulgently.
Alejandro bit back a disbelieving grin. Some things never changed.
“In all seriousness, though,” E said, crossing to the duffel he’d set on top of the dresser. “It’ll do Ale good to get out of the house, move around a little, and get his blood flowing.”
A tiny worry V added to the fine wrinkles in the space between his mami’s brows.
Alejandro knew her lunch invitation stemmed from her desire for her husband and son to make amends. Unfortunately, not even Mother Teresa herself could have brokered a peace treaty between the two of them.
“It’s too soon,” Alejandro told his mom softly. “Por favor, don’t push this.”
Her lids fluttered closed on a soft sigh. “Está bien. Pero pórtense bien!”
“Aw, Señora M, we always behave!” Enrique complained.
“Ha!” Alejandro and his mom barked disbelieving laughs in unison. She wagged a finger at Enrique’s bogus claim, her narrow-eyed glower reminding both men that no matter their age, they would always answer to their mamis.
She gave each of them a good-bye kiss on the cheek, adding a love pat on Alejandro’s, then left for the restaurant.
Fifteen minutes later, Alejandro sat in the back of Enrique’s black SUV, his left leg stretched out across the seat.
“Drive, Enrique, and be mindful of potholes.” With a flick of his wrist, Alejandro motioned for his chauffeur to proceed.
“Yeah, that’s not how this is gonna work, smartass.” Enrique pushed the ignition button to start his Pilot, then glanced over his shoulder at Alejandro. “Now that we’re out of the house, away from your mom’s supersonic hearing, I’ve got two questions for you. Any chance of you and your dad burying the hatchet so you can quit visiting every other damn place on the planet except here? And what the hell are you doing to help my sister put an end to whatever schemes our moms keep inventing?”
Ignoring the first question, Alejandro leaned back against the passenger door and grinned at his buddy, feeling relaxed for the first time in weeks. “Funny you should ask. Anamaría wanted me to remind you about the number of times she’s saved your sorry butt over the years.”
* * *
By the time Enrique managed to find a parking spot on Eaton Street, a couple blocks from the Duval Street art gallery his friends owned, Alejandro had updated his buddy on the slim to none odds Alejandro and his dad would resolve their issues anytime soon. They’d spent the past two days giving each other a wide berth when they were both in the house. Speaking in brusque monosyllables and making minimal eye contact.
As for the meddling mothers, Enrique and Alejandro were still tossing around ideas. Testament to the Navarro siblings’ bond, E hadn’t even balked at the idea of him throwing his mom off Anamaría’s and Alejandro’s scent.
“I don’t mind taking one for the team,” Enrique reiterated, pushing Alejandro’s wheelchair across the intersection at Simonton as they headed down Eaton toward Duval.
“If your mom’s in a matchmaking mood, why not introduce her to your new girlfriend?” Alejandro suggested.
Enrique jerked the wheelchair to a stop. “Girlfriend? What the hell are you talking about?”
“C’mon. I’m sure you’ve got a line of women willing to volunteer to play make-believe with you. Just long enough to distract your mom. Cece’s about ready to pop out the next grandkid. That’s a definite distraction for my mom. Problem solved.”
“Wrong.
When did you get so dumb?” Enrique smacked the back of Alejandro’s head.
“¿Qué carajo?” Alejandro cursed, rubbing the sting from his nape.
“Yeah, what the hell?” Enrique threw him a dirty look, then nearly gave Alejandro whiplash when he pushed the chair into motion again. “First of all, I am not gonna use a girl like that. And secondly, Luis and Sara tried pulling some fake relationship nonsense last year. That tangled mess did not fool our mom, and look how Luis wound up?”
“I thought they were engaged?”
“Exactly!” Enrique leaned over Alejandro’s shoulder, eyeing him over the top of his sunglasses. “A state I do not plan on entering anytime soon. If at all.”
“What? Don’t be an idiot.” Alejandro pushed Enrique’s forehead to get him to back off. “We’re not saying get engaged. Just let it slip to your mom that you’re exclusive with someone. She’ll glom on that like—”
“Like one of Carlos’s boys with a bag of cotton candy at Children’s Day in the park. Also equally as messy. No thanks.”
They reached Duval, and Enrique wheeled Alejandro around the corner in front of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church.
Alejandro gazed up at the towering concrete and steel building that stood like a beacon on the popular corner. Its wood-beam ceiling and stained-glass windows were a popular draw for worshiping locals and tourists alike. People also sought out the haunted graveyard tours through the cemetery tucked behind the building itself. Some believed the ghost of John Fleming, whose widow donated the land for the church in the 1830s, walked the grounds along with other spirits.
For a young aspiring adventure photographer, the church with its angles and tall spires and the grounds with their haunting history and looming shadows had been a familiar subject during Alejandro’s adolescence. He’d even convinced Anamaría to join him for a few late-night photo ops here, despite her aversion to spooky places. Of course, that meant she stuck close to his side. Not that either one of them had minded.
“You got a better idea?” he complained to Enrique.
“Maybe. Whatever we do, it’s gotta be legit. My mom’ll smell a con before I even put it in motion. Somehow her all-knowing radar is even stronger since becoming an abuela. Carlos and Gina’s boys don’t stand a chance of getting away with half the shit we did as kids. Sneaking out, skipping class to go out on the boat? She even makes us all share our location on our cell phones.”
Alejandro chuckled at his buddy’s beleaguered grimace. If there was one Navarro kid who had truly tested his Cuban mami and knew what might work, it was Anamaría’s younger brother. Too bad Alejandro’s own doubt about the flawed fake girlfriend idea echoed Enrique’s.
Damn it! He had to come up with something. No way could he spend the next three or four or—Shit, the idea of an interminable stay on the Rock, being confined to a mere three-by-five-mile area when there were so many interesting spots far away to explore, made his skin crawl as if a line of bullet ants marched up his arm. He’d rather deal with the mind-numbing pain of the Costa Rican insect bites than be stuck in Key West, living with his parents again, dealing with the sense of betrayal that festered in his gut.
“Here we are.” Enrique stopped in front of a one-story building on the same block as the historic church. “My ‘better idea’ to occupy your mom. And remind mine that your life isn’t here anymore. The last thing either of my parents want is one of us moving away. Especially their only daughter, la Princesa.”
Confused by E’s vague description of what he had in mind, Alejandro took in the storefronts searching for some type of clue.
In a row of stores and businesses, the building’s butter yellow siding and white-trimmed windows invited passersby to peek inside and check out the various wares. The façade of the business they stood in front of was taken up by an expansive window and a glass door. The name Bellísima was etched in the window’s right corner and emblazoned in a flourishing black script on a rectangular ceramic tile hanging near the door. The eye-catching window display featured two vibrant watercolor paintings of well-known Key West landmarks. The first a teeming Mallory Square during the nightly sunset festival with its orange sherbet sky and wispy deepening purple sky. The second canvas captured Ernest Hemingway’s house with a smattering of tourists perusing the lush grounds. Propped on a doll-sized easel in between the framed paintings, a sign written in blood orange brushstrokes read: Local Artist.
“Before we go in, we gotta set something straight between us.” Enrique stepped out from behind the chair, then backpedaled to make room for a middle-aged woman power walking with a baby stroller. As soon as she passed by, he moved to Alejandro’s left. His back to the art gallery, Enrique lifted his black Ray-Bans to rest on top of his head. The bright noonday sun glinted off the dark lenses.
E’s pretty-boy face—the likes of which Alejandro knew could sell bottles of men’s cologne as easily as cold drinks on a hot day at Smathers Beach if Enrique wanted to go that route—turned sober. All signs of joking erased from his expression as Enrique crossed his arms and stared down at Alejandro.
“Here’s the deal,” Alejandro’s once partner in crime said. “We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. You’ve gotten me out of plenty of jams, and into a few.”
“Ah-ah-ah!” Alejandro held up a finger, compelled to point out the truth. “You have to admit, anything I instigated is now a comical remember-when story. And most of those were at least partly your idea first.”
Enrique clamped his mouth closed, neither agreeing with nor denying his ringleader status in their past antics. “Whatever. You know how this goes. My sister comes first. You’re familia, but she’s—”
“La Princesa.”
A corner of Enrique’s mouth quirked. “Word to the wise, she still hates it when we call her that. It’s grounds for a gut punch that, believe me, does not tickle. Our dad’s the only one who gets away with it.”
Of course he did. That fact spoke of the bond Anamaría and Señor Navarro shared. Still. Always. Alejandro’s mistake had been not realizing how that bond would keep her tethered here for good. Or rather, that she didn’t consider herself tethered by the tiny island like he did.
“I get it,” he told Enrique.
At least, the rational side of him now did. The emotional side that he channeled into his craft still hadn’t come to grips with her rejection.
“I’m glad busting your leg made you drag your sorry ass back here. It’s been too long,” Enrique went on. “But Anamaría’s in a good groove. Finally doing something about growing AM Fitness since she broke up with that loser who moved back to Miami. So, I’m saying this as fair warning—” Enrique hooked his thumbs in his front jeans pockets, his body language casual to anyone walking by, while his gaze hardened with a serious intensity. “Don’t do anything to hurt her or mess with her head. ’Cuz this time, it won’t matter where you fly off to. I will hunt you down. We clear?”
The assumption that Alejandro was the only one who’d done the hurting had frustration bubbling hot and frothy in his stomach, like milk for café con leche left in a pot on the stove to overflow.
No way would he admit that the sister his friend defended had done her own number on him. Doing so wouldn’t change anything.
And yet that dedication to your familia, the Navarros, all kept sacred, having each other’s back no matter what, accepting them for who and what they were . . . it was all Alejandro had ever wanted from his own dad. The one thing the old man couldn’t give the son whose dreams differed.
Despite his disappointment, Alejandro couldn’t begrudge Enrique looking out for his sister.
“Yeah, we’re clear.” Alejandro signaled his agreement with a chin jut. “Look, man, I’m here to heal and appease my mami and abuela’s desire to fatten me up. I plan on getting to know my niece and meet this new little one Cece’s about to have. Then, I am out of here. Chasing the next great photograph. Climbing the next waterfall.”
“Without doing anoth
er piss-poor cliff-diving imitation. Please,” Enrique wisecracked.
Their shared smirks broke the tension. Enrique leaned forward to clap him on the shoulder, and for the first time since he’d arrived back home Alejandro felt like his old self. When taking pictures had been about the joy of capturing the beauty around him, not the need to lose himself in his work to forget.
“You should join me on a shoot sometime. Maybe it would inspire you to paint something they’d let you show here.” Alejandro peered through the gallery’s front window, catching sight of a short man with shaggy black hair and a trendy vibrant blue suit peering at them from inside. The guy smiled and lifted a hand in greeting.
Enrique shook his head. “Naw. I don’t show my work any-more.”
“Sometime you’re going to have to explain to me why the hell not.”
“Doubtful. All that’s behind me. But you . . . big-shot National Geographic cover photographer . . . you are another story. Which is why we’re here.” Stepping behind the wheelchair again, Enrique pushed Alejandro toward the door. “I connected with Logan Summers while I was in art school. He and his husband, Marcelo López, co-own Bellísima. And, you’ll be pleased to know, Marcelo’s a huge fan of your work. Naturally, I told him you’re not a big deal. You put your pants on the same damn way we do. One leg at a time. And right now, even that’s not happening ’cuz your decision-making skills when it comes to cliff-diving landing spots need improvement. Marcelo’s opinion of you didn’t budge though.”
“I like him already,” Alejandro joked.
“Remember, I know your childhood secrets and most embarrassing highlights.” Enrique ducked down, whispering his idle threat in Alejandro’s left ear.
“Back atcha, hermano.”
“True. But I’m not the big shot with a rep to protect. You are.” Enrique grinned like the sly dog he was. “Anyway, when I mentioned that you were in town for a while, Marcelo and Logan thought you might be interested in having a show. Here.”
Alejandro craned his neck to gape up at Enrique, surprised by the unexpected offer.
Anchored Hearts Page 11