“It’ll keep you busy,” Enrique said. “Out of the house. Away from meddling moms and abuelas.”
Alejandro settled back in his chair, considering. Enrique’s rationale made sense.
But a showing? On the island? It was something he’d dreamed of as a budding photographer. Wouldn’t that be like thumbing his nose at his papi’s expectations? Drawing attention to the work Alejandro had chosen over his abuelo’s legacy?
The questions ran circles inside his brain, so it took him a few seconds to note that the guy in the suit now stood at the gallery’s entrance, holding the door ajar. His pale blue eyes sparkled with excitement, their contrast with his deeply bronze skin creating a striking combination. Fingers splayed, he pressed a hand to his chest over his thin black tie and tipped forward in a slight bow.
“Marcelo López. Such a pleasure to meet you,” he said, his words lilting with his heavier Spanish accent. “I am a huge fan of your work. Todos son una maravilla. Truly, all marvelous images.”
“Ay, por favor, Marcelo, don’t go stroking his ego so much or the rest of us won’t hear the end of it,” Enrique complained.
“Cállate,” Marcelo chided, pressing a finger to his lips to shush Enrique. “It would be an absolute honor to feature Mr. Miranda’s work here at Bellísima.”
Alejandro laughed when Enrique answered with a loud groan.
“Please, call me Alejandro. Any friend of Enrique’s is a friend of mine.”
After exchanging handshakes, the three of them moved farther into the gallery. Alejandro’s gaze roamed over the soft cream walls, admiring the watercolor paintings and still-life photographs in white frames expertly mounted and displayed. The dark-stained wood floor gave the space a warm feel, and the strategically placed cream-upholstered love seats and ottomans with wood accents invited visitors to relax and appreciate the artwork, as they would when they took home a piece.
Exactly the type of space he envisioned for his photographs. Allowing viewers to linger, taking their time connecting with the people and places, cultures and way of life. To connect with the emotions the images evoked and the moments often unnoticed. Or worse, taken for granted.
There’d been a time when he’d dreamed of showing his work at one of the numerous galleries on the island. He and Anamaría had talked about it while spinning their plans for the future. But he had crossed that idea off his bucket list years ago. Respecting his papi’s directive that he never return.
Instead, his mami and abuela had flown to New York for his first show. He’d been so fucking excited that night. Yet also disappointed, missing two of the people he most wanted to impress.
He had expected his father to be a no-show. As he’d been for Alejandro’s second exhibition a few years later in Atlanta. Ernesto and Cece had made that one.
Like his dad, Anamaría had been noticeably absent. There’d been no reason for her to attend since they’d broken up. No reason other than Alejandro secretly wanting her to be there.
But to finally have a show here . . . where their entire comunidad could attend. Where maybe, if Alejandro handled it respectfully, his father might finally see the value of Alejandro’s talent and work. It was worth a shot.
Excitement coursed through him.
Not to mention, Enrique was right. Planning and preparing for an event like this would fill the time while Alejandro was stuck here. He’d be combing through his personal photographs. Considering themes and collections. Carefully selecting the perfect images. Deciding how best to display them. Publicity, promotion, invitations . . .
The list of tasks helping to keep his mind off the problems and people he couldn’t change lengthened.
He’d be so busy, he might finally be able to shut off that reel of highlights, memories of him and Anamaría, playing on repeat in his mind. Being near her but not with her, not having his work to distract him, had him climbing the freaking walls. And it’d only been two days.
Shit, he needed this. More than Marcelo or Enrique realized.
And his mom. Damn, his mami would relish a chance to finally fulfill her wish to celebrate her elder son’s success. Asking for her help might be enough to get her off matchmaking and on to party planning.
It was worth a try.
“So, Marcelo.” Alejandro met the gallery owner’s inquisitive gaze. “What did you have in mind? And how soon can we get started?”
Chapter 8
“I think everything went amazingly well. Don’t you?”
Anamaría avoided Sara’s inquisitive gaze by ducking her head to secure her airplane safety belt.
“Mm-hmm,” she hummed, taking her time pulling the strap tight around her hips. Ignoring the matching tight band of worry squeezing her chest.
“The people from AllFit loved you! I knew they would.” Sara bumped her shoulder against Anamaría’s playfully. “Still, Arnold admitted he was surprised they sent your contract over so fast. I mean, we probably hadn’t even washed the makeup off our faces and climbed into bed after dinner on Friday and he was already reading over their terms!”
It was pretty unreal.
Anamaría checked her arm for bruises again. Having pinched herself so many times the past couple of days thinking this all might be a dream.
Friday afternoon, she had signed with Sara’s agent, Arnold Baker. A formality since they’d exchanged multiple emails and shared several phone calls. Sara trusted him; that meant Anamaría could, too.
That evening they’d met the reps from AllFit athletic wear for dinner and drinks at a trendy rooftop bar off New York’s High Line. The bar was a backyard oasis in the middle of the bustling city. Greenery and potted flowers were strategically placed around the two bars that bookended the rooftop. A smattering of high-top tables, and pods of seating areas with low tables and comfy sofas and love seats. Muted mood lighting from burnished-metal open-bulb fixtures. The iconic skyline a mix of shadows and lights as the fading sun peeked out from behind tall buildings, casting its watercolor display of smoky orange and reds across the darkening sky as it whispered farewell to the evening.
Dios mío, the whole affair had been like a dream . . . the picturesque views, the energized yet relaxed atmosphere, the diverse mix of people networking or blowing off the week’s steam. Or out on a date. Like the young couple who had snuggled in a loveseat nearby, oblivious to everyone else. Hands loosely clasped. Fingers lingering over a caress along a jaw or forearm, lips curved in secret, shared smiles. Their eyes only interested in each other’s.
Like she and Alejandro had been once.
Now, same as on Friday evening, Anamaría shoved him out of her head. He had no business invading her thoughts like that anymore. She had more important matters to contend with and it did no good adding Alejandro to the tumultuous mix. The entire weekend had been a total whirlwind.
Early Saturday morning, Arnold had met Sara and her at their hotel, the historic Wyndham New Yorker, where the Social Media Summit was being held. The rest of the day, Anamaría barely had time to catch her breath. They’d immediately gone into Sara’s panel and autograph session, followed by her two-hour presentation on working with an influencer. Both were great learning opportunities for Anamaría, who’d also taken on the role of bodyguard when mobs swarmed Sara with questions or requests for selfies around the hotel meeting room areas. Arnold stuck around, finding pockets of time to go over AllFit’s contract, explaining lingo Anamaría found confusing, redlining specific terms and areas he and Sara recommended they negotiate with AllFit to change.
And the networking. Arnold and Sara seemed to know practically everyone at the conference. Anamaría hadn’t shaken that many hands or delivered her AM Fitness elevator pitch to so many people in . . . bueno, ever.
After their hectic day, she and Sara had a hot second to change and give their cheeks a break from all the smiling, then they headed out for more networking over drinks and appetizers at a different rooftop spot. This one with a breathtaking view of the Empire State Building, t
he moon bathing it in silvery light from an inky, starless sky.
“Teaming with Brandon will be a huge boost for you,” Sara went on, thankfully oblivious to the nervous jitters ricocheting in Anamaría’s belly. “I was surprised he showed up at the mixer last night. I mean, when we spoke before our morning panel, he mentioned having other plans. I bet meeting you at lunch with AllFit changed his mind about skipping the mixer.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“Girl, he is smitten,” Sara said, waggling her artfully threaded brows.
“Ha! Doubtful, though ego boosting,” Anamaría said with a laugh.
A sandy blond–haired, blue-eyed swimmer, runner, and all-around fitness buff with a body most men would kill for and a boy-next-door personality women swooned over, Brandon Lawson was a social media influencer phenom. He floated around the same stratosphere as Sara. One Anamaría hadn’t attained. Yet.
“I can’t believe he offered to do an AllFit photo shoot together,” Anamaría mused. His idea, shared over drinks the night before, had caught her off guard. In a holy-shit-I’m-game kind of way.
“I can. You, little sister, are what Arnold calls the complete package.” Sara looped her right arm through Anamaría’s left, giving her a squeeze. “Smart and willing to work hard, passionate about helping others, natural in front of the camera. With a body made for AllFit’s workout gear. What I wouldn’t give for your toned arms.”
“Oye, it’s more important to love the skin you’re in and the body the good Lord gave you.” The familiar refrain Anamaría shared with her clients tumbled easily off her tongue. Because she believed it. Something she and Sara had discussed during one of their early heart-to-heart chats about Sara’s daily efforts to stay in recovery with her disease.
Now Sara’s glossy lips spread in a pleased smile. “See? That’s the perfect response for the perfect spokesperson of a line of athletic wear that prides itself on accommodating all sizes, all ages, and all levels of fitness.”
A giddy, slightly hysterical giggle tickled Anamaría’s throat, bursting out before she could stop it.
“I just might be.”
The shock in her voice must have telegraphed itself on her face because Sara shook her head.
“Not might be, girl. You are!”
They shared matching grins as passengers filed past their first-class seats—Sara having insisted on upgrading them in celebration. Anamaría, unwilling to rain on her almost-sister’s party mood by arguing over the wasted expense, wiggled her butt and settled into her wide, comfy seat. A little splurge now and again never hurt.
“So, what did your parents say when you told them that you’re AllFit’s newest spokesperson? And that Brandon Lawson might fly to Key West for a photo shoot?” Sara smoothed the skirt of her fuchsia sundress over her thighs.
“Um, I haven’t. Actually.” Anamaría flicked the seat-belt clasp up with her thumb, letting it fall closed with a tinny clank. “It’s . . . it happened so fast. And we were . . . you know, in go mode so much. Plus, I’m not . . .”
Sara straightened in her aisle seat, head cocked in confusion so the tips of her blond hair brushed her collarbone. “Not what?”
“Nothing.” Anamaría flicked the seat-belt clasp again, grappling with the inexplicable doubts she’d been trying to silence. “I just, um, I was thinking maybe I should wait and share the news in a few days. Not jinx it, or anything.”
Could she sound more absurd?
Sara’s confused expression slid into yeah-right territory. Anamaría couldn’t blame her; she was in the same disbelieving boat as her friend. Stymied by her own reaction to a development she’d been working her butt off to achieve.
“Talk to me, girl,” Sara coaxed, the candor in her blue-green eyes showing how easily she had stepped into the role of protective big sis, even though she and Luis weren’t married yet.
Anamaría let her eyes drift shut, giving her a small reprieve from Sara’s probing gaze. Sucking in a deep breath, she filled her chest, upper abdomen, then belly; then slowly released the air in reverse order, relieved to find the breathing exercise soothing the anxiety gnawing at her insides.
When she opened her eyes, she found Sara watching her intently.
“I’m fine,” Anamaría assured her. “It’s still sinking in. That’s all. It doesn’t seem real. Y’know?”
Sara nodded. “I get it. When I made the decision to move to New York, after signing with my first few sponsors, I had doubts. My mom had just been diagnosed with cancer, and I was dealing with my own health issue. But I was determined and focused. Like you.” Sara pointed at her emphatically. “Girl, you are ready for this!”
Outside the window across the aisle, a team of Newark Airport employees transferred a hodgepodge of suitcases, duffel bags, and a set of golf clubs from a cart onto a belt moving toward the belly of their nonstop flight home to Key West.
Many of their fellow passengers were heading down for vacation. Excited for snorkeling, bike riding, sunset viewing, and relaxing on the beach. In need of an island getaway.
Anamaría was one of the lucky ones who lived in the Keys full-time. A local. A true Conch. Born and raised on her beloved island. Where she belonged.
AllFit had mentioned her traveling to trade shows. Mostly in the United States, occasionally in Europe if she could swing the time off from the fire department. The job was a dream. Especially since, after her aborted plans with Alejandro, she had never made it overseas. For lots of reasons.
Time. Money. Work. Fear.
Acknowledging that last reason drop-kicked her in the gut.
Common sense and her professional training told her a therapist could help her delve into the root cause of her fear. Regular therapy or counseling was an important part of self-care for many. She should stop dragging her feet and follow up with the therapist her familia’s long-time general practitioner had recommended.
But she also knew that she gained strength and a sense of purpose from her familia. The security and comfort they provided. The unconditional love they offered. The certainty that they would never leave her by choice. And she in turn would never leave them. Not for good.
Sharing this news with them would make it more . . . real. As if signing a legal document with AllFit and Arnold hadn’t.
For several years now Enrique had been harping on her to spread her wings. Stop keeping her feet rooted to the island like the gnarled mangroves growing in the marshes and the smattering of tiny islands dotting the area waters.
That was finally happening, which should have her jittery with excitement. Not nerves.
“What has you second-guessing yourself?” Sara prodded softly.
Anamaría leaned her head against the airplane wall, considering Sara’s question. This new development wouldn’t change anything she didn’t already want to change. She remained in control. Only now she was taking the advice she gave her clients about moving out of their comfort zone to experience growth.
She was ashamed to think about how long she’d fallen into the trap so many women got caught up in. Holding themselves back because of someone else. Settling when they didn’t have to. Sabotaging themselves and their opportunities. Often, as with her, without even realizing.
“It’s okay to want this, isn’t it?” she murmured. When Sara didn’t respond, Anamaría swiveled her head away from the thin wall to face her friend. “Because I do want it. So badly it scares me.”
The words were a scratchy whisper, weighty with dreams too long deferred. Goals she didn’t want to hold back anymore. No longer willing to wait. Not for anyone.
Sara placed her hand over Anamaría’s on the armrest between them and gave a gentle squeeze. “It’s more than okay. You deserve this. Anyone who loves you, who knows and respects you. Anyone who’s worthy of those from you in return will tell you the same.”
Unbidden, Alejandro’s last words to her tiptoed through Anamaría’s mind, meandering lower to leave warm, mini footprints on her heart.
Would he be as excited for her as Sara was? As the rest of her familia undoubtedly would be?
She didn’t know. And it shouldn’t matter either way.
Still, a tiny voice she’d been unable to completely silence whispered from a dark corner of her heart . . . it did matter. He mattered.
After their tentative truce the other day, she could no longer deny it.
* * *
“Why all the secrecy about your exhibition? I thought the idea was to give your mom a distraction?” Enrique tossed the question at Alejandro like a grenade over his shoulder as he maneuvered his SUV out of a tight downtown parking spot Monday afternoon.
At least, E hadn’t asked in the middle of their meeting at Bellísima with Marcelo and Logan. Alejandro didn’t want to discuss his dysfunctional familia drama in front of the other two men.
Who the hell was he kidding? He preferred to avoid the topic altogether.
Scooping up the verbal explosive, Alejandro lobbed it back toward the front seat. “Better question, why won’t you consider an exhibition of your own? It’s clear Marcelo’s interested.”
The stony silence that greeted his observation told Alejandro he’d hit a nerve.
No flip remark from E. No casual shrug of the shoulders in his devil-may-care way. His response was a telling white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. His profile flinty angles of tight jaw, steely cheekbone, and a thin line of lips.
There had to be a juicy story behind Enrique’s surprising decision to suddenly stop pursuing his passion after graduating from art school in Miami. Relegating his skills to painting geometric-shaped wood pieces with the beachy Key West themes tourists plunked down their money for, mementos they carted home, then often forgot about. Pieces Enrique could create blindfolded. One-handed.
But, as someone with his own secrets he preferred not to examine, Alejandro respected his friend’s privacy. A concept neither one of their mothers seemed to understand.
Anchored Hearts Page 12