Especially when it came to Alejandro and Anamaría.
Heaving a disgruntled sigh, he adjusted the seat-belt strap crossing his chest.
He hadn’t seen or heard from his ex since she’d been coerced into delivering his mami’s cell phone last week. That didn’t mean she’d been far from his thoughts. Or that he hadn’t been treated to a regular update about her comings and goings. His mami had been glued to Instagram, waiting for each new post about Anamaría’s trip to New York so she could like or comment. Whether he wanted to see the pictures or not, his mami had shared them.
If he wasn’t hearing about her trip, then his mom was regaling him with stories of AM Fitness expanding and the people whose lives Anamaría was changing for the better. From free Zumba classes at Saint Mary’s to health and fitness presentations at the high school and fun runs around the city raising money for one charity or another. While he’d been off capturing images around the globe, Anamaría was busy making a difference here at home. Expanding her reach as she took on clients vacationing in Key West who hired her for virtual training sessions after they left.
Hell, even his staunchly traditional father had succumbed to the pressures of meeting his customers’ changing preferences by adding some of Anamaría’s healthier Cuban food options to the Miranda’s menu. The man made a huge concession like adapting his beloved father’s recipes but couldn’t understand that his son wanted to honor their familia legacy in his own way.
Another sign of how Anamaría belonged here. While he did not.
As he sat sideways in the back of Enrique’s SUV, Alejandro’s gloomy thoughts blurred along with the sights of Key West’s Old Town neighborhood through the passenger window opposite him. Refurbished old Conch houses with their wide verandahs, white picket railings, and gingerbread details invited visitors to pull up a rocking chair and find respite. Flamboyán trees with their fiery red miniature petals and vibrant fern-like leaves offered shade and eye-catching adornment for the small lawns. Their colorful petals dotted the cracked gray sidewalks as if pointillism artists had used the concrete as their canvas.
He itched to be out there again. Lazily strolling the streets of his childhood. His Canon cradled in his hands. His eyes absorbing the contrast of light and shadow, the intricate play of colors. The movement and emotion of the world around him a palpable force. Discovering an interesting mark and stopping to observe. Patience more a necessity than a virtue. His heart slowing to a dull thud as he waited, anticipated. Trusting the innate sensation that guided him. Certain it led him toward what every photographer sought—the decisive moment.
The millisecond when your breathing stilled, the camera shutter whirred, and you were gifted with the perfect image.
One in a stream of images many unpracticed eyes might say were all perfect. He knew better. There could be only one. And that only if he was lucky.
Trusting his instincts had resulted in some of his most prized photographs. Like the one taken along the Malecón in Havana. A wave crashing against a seawall pockmarked from years of serving sentinel confronting the ocean’s caustic brine. Wispy arcs and drops of salt water shimmering in the air, hovering over a lone fisherman who braved the elements, a slender fishing rod clutched in his weathered grip. His threadbare clothes and worn sandals as much a part of him as the unrestrained, life-affirming grin slashing across his dark complexion.
And yet even that spectacular photograph was rivaled by another. Several others. All taken in the stolen moments he’d carved out for himself during the week he’d spent on his familia’s native island of Cuba for a magazine shoot.
He’d spent an afternoon slowly strolling the dusty streets in Centro Habana, a residential area dilapidated and crumbling though still teeming with life, juxtaposed in stark contrast with the tourist-filled posh hotels and museums of Parque Central and El Paseo del Prado. There, in Centro Habana, he’d eventually found the old establishment he’d heard tales of but had only seen in a faded, creased photograph framed in a place of honor beside a cash register that dinged each time a satisfied customer settled their bill in the restaurant built for its namesake.
This discovery had come after a morning excursion to Santiago de Las Vegas where his paternal grandparents had met, courted, and married before moving to Havana, where they opened the original Miranda’s. Alejandro’s father and uncle had been born in Havana, spending their early years watching their father hard at work building his dream. Until, desperate to give their sons a better life, one they could choose for themselves, Alejandro’s abuelos had packed a small suitcase for each child and put them on a plane to the United States. Prayers and hope for the future whispered as the young boys headed toward uncertainty.
No one in his immediate familia knew Alejandro had spent that too-brief time in Cuba several years ago. Nor of his search for their roots. The beginning of their legacy. The one his papi was convinced he had rejected.
But there, on the streets of Centro Habana, Alejandro had stood before the old restaurant. Long closed and left to withstand the harsh elements—but never forgotten. The single-story building lay in forlorn shambles. Windows hazy, most jagged and broken, like the dreams of many who once ate, drank, and celebrated within. The proud name scrawled over the arched door in a painted flourish mostly scraped away by Mother Nature’s brittle nails. A photograph with stories to tell.
Another prized image featured an aging park in Santiago de Las Vegas with its circular fountain—derelict and long dried up. The shadows of his grandparents and countless others, meeting up with their friends at the park to promenade alongside each other, lingered. Another photograph with its own stories to tell.
And yet another, this one of his abuela’s childhood home, still inhabited by a cousin Alejandro had never met but who had welcomed him like a long-lost son. Something his own father couldn’t, wouldn’t, do. The home’s structure may have been a little dilapidated, but the heart and soul of those inside beat strong and proud.
Those photographs . . . moments of perfection gifted him through his camera lens . . . pieces of his familia that couldn’t be snatched away from him . . . had remained on his laptop and saved in the cloud, for his eyes only. His personal treasures. Never shown to anyone. Until now.
Perhaps.
Was he brave enough to share them? Offer them up to the prying eyes of others who had no knowledge of their significance to him? More important, to a man who would more than likely think Alejandro unworthy of the connection they represented.
That uncertainty kept him from letting his mami in on his secret project. From one moment to the next he found himself either exhilarated by the reality of his first showing in his hometown and anxious about how his papi might take the news. Worried he would view it as another affront to everything Alejandro’s abuelo had sacrificed for them.
Enrique slowed his vehicle to make a turn off Simonton into a parking area alongside a light tan–colored stucco two-story building Alejandro didn’t recognize.
“I gotta grab something from my locker,” Enrique said.
“Is this the new station?”
“Not so new anymore. We opened in 2015. Pretty sweet, huh?” The pride of two generations of firefighters rang in Enrique’s voice.
Alejandro had seen pictures of the remodeled station. The Old Town Fire House’s grand opening had been prominently covered by the Key West Citizen, and he occasionally checked the local newspaper’s website for updates. Catching sight of familiar names and places gave him a taste of home when cravings hit.
Enrique pulled into a spot at the end of the building where the sidewalks along the perimeter and parking lot met in an L shape, leaving a large open area in the back corner behind the station. An outside stairway with a metal railing zigged, then zagged up to a red door on the second level. A firefighter in full gear and lugging a sandbag over one shoulder climbed the last step to the top landing, then immediately pivoted and headed back down. Several others milled about on the sidewalk near Enrique
’s SUV. Their helmets, jackets, and air tanks lay in discarded piles at their feet. Sweat streamed down the men’s faces and plastered their gray KWFD T-shirts to their chests. Two greedily chugged bottles of water. The other sloshed his drink on top of his bald head, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.
Off to the right, on the edge of the sidewalk, lay a monster-sized tire. At the far end, about fifty feet away, sat two five-gallon buckets.
“Looks like we caught the shift wrapping up their exercise drills,” Enrique said as he put the vehicle in park. “I’ll be right back.”
Outside, he high-fived his hellos to the three firefighters who had finished the drill. They gathered around him, and the bald dude whose ripped arms and barrel chest stretched the material of his wet tee clasped Enrique’s shoulder with a beefy hand. The older guy’s deep mahogany skin glistened with sweat and the water he’d just dumped over his head as he motioned toward the building.
The welcoming smile on Enrique’s lips melted into a grimace at whatever the big guy was saying. Alejandro followed their gaze to the firefighter descending the steps. Based on the guy’s smaller size, he was probably a young rookie.
At the bottom of the stairs, the firefighter slung the bag of sand over the railing, then tugged at his chin strap. A second later he dropped to the sidewalk, his elbows bending and straightening in a quick series of push-ups. Enrique and the others approached the smaller firefighter, who paused, arms extended, his body in a straight plank position. The sun glinted off his helmet as he shook his head, then continued his workout.
The others waited a beat, the bald guy shaking Enrique’s hand before they returned to gather their gear, then mosey up the stairs, clearly worn out by their drill.
Enrique stayed behind. He crouched beside the lone firefighter still racking up push-ups. Perhaps working off some kind of punishment or well-intentioned hazing. All with an idea of making him better, stronger. Safer. For his own good and the good of his fellow firefighters.
From his haunches, Enrique shot a glance back at his SUV. A frustrated scowl tugged at his brows. Alejandro leaned forward, straining to get a better look at the young firefighter, but it was impossible to tell who he was or why Enrique might be annoyed.
Several beats passed; then Enrique shook his head and rose to take the concrete stairs up by twos. By the time he reached the top, the other firefighter had hopped to his feet, his booted steps taking him toward the monster truck tire to the right of the SUV.
As the kid drew near, the name written on a wide piece of tape across the front of the bright yellow helmet became clear. Navarro.
Alejandro muttered a curse. This wasn’t a kid or a rookie, and whatever kept Anamaría out here in this intense heat, she wasn’t thrilled about it. Whereas the other firefighters had looked beaten up and ready for the showers, she strode toward the huge tire with determination. Underneath the shadow of the helmet’s black-lined brim, Anamaría’s tight jaw and stoic expression screamed back-the-hell-off.
As she drew even with the SUV, her boot toe caught on a crack in the sidewalk and she stumbled a step. Her mutinous expression faltered. In the last second before she turned her back to the SUV to continue the circuit of exercises, Alejandro could have sworn he caught grief on her face.
Anamaría squatted behind the supersize tire, her growl carrying on the humid breeze as she rose and hefted the black rubber, pushing and tossing it end over end until she reached the far edge of the sidewalk at least fifty feet away, where the five-gallon buckets awaited. There, she squatted to clasp the aluminum handles, then she lifted the buckets. Water sloshed over the sides as she took a jerky step, then another back toward Enrique’s SUV. Dark splotches of water marked her path along the wide sidewalk like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs.
Alejandro stared at her, riveted.
Not by her display of strength as she lugged the heavy buckets weighing down her arms or tossed the monster truck tire, nor the sun glinting off the reflective stripes on her uniform reminding him of the danger she willingly placed herself in each shift.
It was the anguish in her hazel eyes as she stumbled to a finish that stole his breath. The sight of her beautiful face, creased with devastation and flushed with exertion. Her pinched lips and trembling chin. All sure signs that she neared her tipping point.
But he knew she wouldn’t cry. Especially not when it would make her appear weak in front of the others. He remembered her grumbled curses at the machismo and sexism common in the two cultures that were so much a part of her familia’s life—Cuban and firefighting. Though much less evident in their actual home.
This couldn’t be hazing either. He’d bet his favorite lens she was too good at her job to warrant any kind of punishment. Something else had to be driving her to push herself to this extreme.
Stumbling to the end of the sidewalk, Anamaría dropped the buckets with a resounding thunk.
“Whyyyy?!” The word burst from her on a guttural groan as she staggered toward Enrique’s SUV. She tore off her yellow helmet, dropping it carelessly to the ground before collapsing onto the hood.
Arms crossed to cushion her forehead, she lay there, the air tank strapped to her back rising and falling with each fatigued breath she heaved. Her head shook in denial of whatever hounded her.
All the while, he remained stuck in the back seat. Unable to go to her and offer comfort. As if he had the right to anyway.
Hating the impotence of his situation, Alejandro hunched down to look through the front windshield at the red door on the second-floor landing. Where the hell was Enrique? Why hadn’t her brother stuck around long enough to dig out what was bothering her?
Any fool could see that something was obviously wrong.
Screw it! He jabbed the button to lower his back passenger window. “Hey!” he called out.
Anamaría didn’t move.
“¿Oye, Princesa, estás bien?”
Her head shot up at the dreaded nickname. Bingo! She scanned the area, her rosy-cheeked face scrunched with fatigue and irritation.
“In here!” he called, waving his arm in between the front bucket seats to get her attention.
Her frown deepened, and she peered intently through the windshield. Surprised recognition widened her eyes when she spotted him.
Alejandro tipped his head toward his side of the SUV, beckoning her over.
Skepticism narrowed her eyes as she glared at him.
He motioned a more insistent come here with a hand and shot her an encouraging smile, hoping she’d give in. Also calling himself all kinds of stupid for wanting to be someone she counted on like he used to be.
With an audible huff, she pushed herself off the hood. Biting the fingertip of one protective glove, she tugged it off with her teeth, then spat it to the ground. The other glove got the same feral treatment. And damn if that wasn’t hot.
Alejandro’s blood pulsed, his gaze never wavering from hers. Unwilling to break their tenuous connection as she unbuckled her belt with deft fingers. She made short work of sliding the air tank and her heavy jacket off her shoulders, dropping the jacket at her feet to cushion the metal tank when she lowered it to the ground. Then she straightened, shoulders thrown back, chin high.
Hands on her hips, her baggy uniform pants pooling over her dusty boots, she faced him. All confident and proud . . . and shadowy pain.
Deep, gulping breaths made her chest rise and fall under her faded gray KWFD tee, the sweat-stained cotton material clinging to her sexy curves. Her lips trembled and she rolled them in, as if struggling to keep whatever she fought inside herself.
More than fatigue or over-exhaustion consumed her. He knew it as well as he knew the proper settings for a low-light photo session. Something was wrong.
He didn’t beckon her again, though. He waited. Prayed she wouldn’t shut him out. Hated the knowledge that, in her mind, he might deserve it. In spite of their tentative truce.
She took a step toward him . . . then another . . . her l
ong braid no longer tucked under her jacket, swinging gently behind her. The breath he’d been holding released on a gush of air as she strode toward his open window. And him.
Chapter 9
“What are you doing here?” The question burst from Anamaría before she’d even reached Alejandro’s side of her brother’s vehicle.
Angling his torso toward the lowered SUV window, Alejandro dragged his gaze down her body, to the tips of her well-worn boots, and back up again. The lazy perusal might as well have been a physical brush of his fingertips the way her body reacted, awareness tingling in secret spots that had missed his touch.
“I’m watching you kick your own ass in this unbearable heat,” he answered. “The smart ones escaped inside to the AC. What gives?”
What gives?
A two-word question with a million-word answer. Most of them too personal to share, even with him. Or, more like, especially with him.
“They’ll be the ones sucking wind, bitchin’ after running up a few flights of stairs when the time comes. Wimps.”
Forget the fact she’d been the one to put them through four rounds of the stations, fifty push-ups between each, sticking around for two more on her own. The muscle-straining, stamina-testing exercises hadn’t been enough to dilute the bitter mix of sadness and disappointment gurgling up her throat and knotting her gut.
Losing a victim on a call tended to bring the general mood down for everyone in the station.
Losing an otherwise healthy, middle-aged man to a massive cardiac infarction brought old ghosts swooping over her. The stark reminder of her papi’s heart attack and the resulting aftermath raised goose bumps down her arms. Set her thoughts spinning with what-ifs and second guesses that had her rethinking decisions and dreams. The fear of losing a loved one always made her want to cling tighter to them, almost convincing herself that there was no need for change when she already lived a charmed life.
Why rock the boat by wanting more? By changing things unnecessarily?
Because settling was for suckers, damn it! And she’d been one of those long enough.
Anchored Hearts Page 13