Damn, he wanted her so badly, he ached with it. But he couldn’t act on it. Doing so wouldn’t be fair to her. What he had witnessed today confirmed what he had slowly begun to figure out, based on clues from Enrique, and her.
Anamaría may have waited to blossom into her own, but she had bloomed into a beautiful orchid, the symbol of strength and perfection that grew on the trunks of the palms and native trees around the Keys. She was a complex mix of her familia’s deep roots, holding fast to the island’s soil, and her burgeoning self-confidence, drawing him in with her vibrant personality.
He could appreciate the flower, but she wasn’t his to pluck and take with him anymore. Thinking he could do so all those years ago had been his biggest mistake. Now he could help her flourish.
As if she read his thoughts, Anamaría surprised him by stepping closer and lifting up on her toes to press a kiss against his cheek. His eyes drifted closed as he savored the feel of her soft lips on his skin. When she started to ease away, his hands instinctively moved to her hips, loath to let her go.
Her palms splayed on his chest, she leaned in and gazed up at him. A warmth that reached the depths of his wounded soul shone in her expressive eyes.
“You might like everyone to think you’re a badass,” she said. “Climbing mountaintops, running with bulls, and all that craziness. But I know your secret.”
Her last words were a husky whisper that had him ducking his head to hear her. The move brought her lips excruciatingly close to his. Desire swirled through him, pushing him to taste her sweetness. He refused to cross the line with her.
“In here”—her fingers patted his chest over his heart, and he was certain she had to feel its pace increase—“you’re a softie. That’s how you manage to take such beautifully moving pictures. No matter where you go, who you meet, or what you explore, you have a knack for capturing emotion in the amazing situations. Sharing it with those of us who admire your work.”
No doubt about it, he knew he was a master behind his camera. His issues lay in an inability . . . more like an unwillingness . . . to connect with others once he set his Canon aside. Except for her. Yet even that small pleasure was destined to be short-lived because he would leave and she would stay.
“The thing is,” she went on, moving infinitesimally closer until only a small space separated them. Her voice tipped lower still, as if she shared a secret for his ears alone. “Sometimes, you might need to peek out from behind your camera. Try connecting with those who are important to you. Try showing them why you see the world the way you do. You have a gift, Ale; don’t use it as a buffer. Use it to unite, the way your stunning photographs do.”
Her intuition slayed him. What she suggested sounded so easy. But when it came to his father, easy had never been a word that described their relationship.
“I don’t—It’s not . . .” He stumbled to a stop, uncertain exactly how to answer without potentially disappointing her. Something he definitely didn’t want to do.
Her tempting mouth spread in a grin; then she surprised him again by cupping his cheek and stretching tall to press her lips against his in a kiss that was chaste and delicious but over before he had time to fully appreciate it. She winked impishly. “I think I’ve blown you away with my wisdom.”
Rather than admit the truth in her claim, he took the easier route and hid behind her humor. “Actually, I’m relieved the truth has finally come out. You are a big fan of my work.”
“Are you kidding me?” she cried, her forehead falling against his chest.
His heart swelled with affection, and he cupped the back of her head, thrilled to have her in his arms again. He tipped his head to press a kiss to her crown, but she smacked his chest with an open palm, none too gently, and pushed away from him.
“Un . . . believable!” she complained with an exasperated grimace. “After my thought-provoking advice, that’s what you’re going to focus on? ¡Ay, Dios, por favor, ayúdame! Men and their egos!”
Muttering another prayer for God’s help under her breath, she dragged his crutches from the back seat, then held them out for him.
“I was kidding,” he defended himself, covering her hands with his on the crutches. He tugged her closer, relieved when she willingly came. “I heard what you said, and I will admit that I’d like to try. But you know how hard it is with him.”
She nodded. He released her to tuck the crutches under his armpits, and they walked in companionable silence toward the restaurant’s back entrance. Anamaría grabbed the metal handle, pausing before she tugged it open.
“You sure you’re okay going inside?”
Not really. He nodded anyway.
She eyed him warily. “I mean, when I said reach out to your papi, I didn’t necessarily mean right this second.”
“The longer I put it off, the more awkward it becomes. Besides, he likes you better. If we’re together, maybe he’ll at least let me finish my meal before he throws me out.”
She smiled at his lame joke, but concern for him blanketed her beautiful face. Her reaction confirmed his decision to come inside with her. Despite the potential parental blowup.
“That is not going to happen,” she promised.
“We shall see. Come on, let’s get this over with.”
Yes, showing up at Miranda’s might invite the face-off with his father he’d been dreading. But this fragile new relationship he and Anamaría were forging, even with its faint undercurrent of unchecked need slowly simmering, deserved his attempt to face his dad, even knowing the man would never accept him. Never forgive him. But Anamaría might. That alone was worth it.
Chapter 13
Between the numerous hello hugs for her and welcome home hugs for him, along with the “¿Qué te pasó?” inquiries from a few of the old regulars that had Alejandro sharing his dive off the waterfall saga, Anamaría figured they’d eventually meet up with Sara and Brandon by dinnertime.
She smiled politely at Señora Gómez, a member of her mami and Señora Miranda’s prayer group at St. Mary’s, while Alejandro patiently thanked the older woman—again—for her continuing prayers. Concern pruned Señora Gómez’s wrinkly face even more as she gently reprimanded him for causing his mami and abuela such worry.
As they stood practically on top of each other in the tiny space between the packed tables, Alejandro nudged Anamaría with his elbow. He ducked his head to slide her a bug-eyed, help-me stare, but she knew better than to cut off the older woman when she was mid-lecture.
“Papito, you need to visit your familia more often,” Señora Gómez scolded, grasping one of Alejandro’s hands between hers, the deep brown sunspots freckling her skin evidence of her years and time in the island sun. “We viejitas are not getting any younger.”
“Who’s a viejita?” he teased, drawing back slightly as if he were assessing her. “When I look at you, I don’t see an old woman, I see one in her prime. A picture titled Young Cubanita.” Fingers crooked, he swiped a hand through the air with a flourish, marking the label under the imaginary photograph.
The older woman’s cackle rang out as she patted her tightly slicked-back hair and the little gray moño high on the back of her head. “Always a smooth talker, this one, ha, nena? No wonder he stole your heart again.”
Anamaría winced. Alejandro’s teasing grin faltered but rallied.
Before either one could clarify that they were not back together, the swinging door leading in and out of the kitchen pushed open. Ernesto strode out, arms swinging like a man on a pissed-off mission, based on his dark scowl. A black apron with the Miranda’s name embroidered across the chest hung from his neck, the waist strings untied.
He jerked to a jaw-dropping stop when he spotted Alejandro.
The two brothers stared at each other in silence until the kitchen door pushed open behind Ernesto. Anamaría held her breath, anticipating the eruption if Victor Miranda joined them next.
Instead, Iona, the middle-aged single mom who’d been part of the Miran
da’s familia for decades, came barreling out, a tray laden with multiple plates balanced in her slender arms.
“Salte del medio,” she grumbled.
Ernesto, visibly shell-shocked by his brother’s presence here, dumbly stepped out of the way as she had asked.
The door swung in, then out, bumping into Ernesto’s butt. The tap snapped Alejandro’s younger brother out of his stupor. His quizzical glance slid from Alejandro to Anamaría, then back again.
“Hey, Ernesto,” she jumped in, plastering a smile on her face. “Good to see you. Cómo está Cece?”
Ernesto wiped his hands on the apron as he strode over, giving her a hug and kiss on the cheek. The smell of cumin, peppers, and onion clung to him. It reminded her of the years she’d worked as a hostess and waitress at Miranda’s because it meant she and Alejandro could spend more time together.
“I heard your New York trip went pretty awesome,” Ernesto said, though his attention was already on his brother, who stood stiffly at her side. “Ale, this is a nice surprise.”
Alejandro dipped his head in greeting. He pulled his hand out of Señora Gómez’s but grabbed hold of his crutches, his fingers tightening around the rubberized grips, instead of shaking his brother’s hand. Strange, because the two brothers usually got along as far as she knew.
Anamaría placed her palm on Alejandro’s lower back in a show of support.
He flinched, then slowly relaxed. “I did a shoot for Anamaría at Higgs this morning. The guy who’s working with her wanted Cuban food, and I couldn’t really let him eat anything but the best, right?”
“Damn straight,” Ernesto said, quickly ducking his head in apology for his language to Señora Gómez and her friends. “Perdóname.”
“Está bien, hijo, we feel the same way.” The older woman’s smile squinted her eyes with pleasure.
“The place is packed,” Alejandro said. “Business still going well, ha?”
“Yeah. New places pop up around town, but you can’t beat the traditional good stuff.” Ernesto clasped his older brother on the shoulder in a show of kinship Anamaría was happy to see. “It means a lot to have you stop in. Peak lunchtime might not be ideal. . . .” He eyed the kitchen door behind him, more than likely thinking about the looming unexpected father-son reunion and how badly that could go. Especially with the place packed.
Victor Miranda’s unyielding personality when it came to carrying on his father’s tradition and name through the restaurant and Alejandro’s unwillingness to follow his father’s old-school edicts had been fodder for post-mass Fellowship Hall whispering at St. Mary’s, countless community gatherings, and private parties among friends since even before Ale had cut ties and run. Many local Cubans currently dining in Miranda’s were aware of the Miranda patriarch’s fraught history with his older son. Including Señora Gómez and her lunch companions, two elderly women equally as active in their church. Meaning, also equally active in the chisme sharing, even if the gossip might be well intentioned. Now all three ladies watched the interplay between the two brothers with keen curiosity.
Anamaría bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from asking if they wanted some popcorn for the show. Snark rarely went over well with the elders in their comunidad. Experience, and enough whacks from her mami’s fan, had drummed that lesson in her well.
“You know what? I’m sure our table’s ready by now.” Anamaría craned her neck to scan the dining area, relieved when Sara waved to her from a table in front of the big window facing Bertha Street. “We shouldn’t keep Sara and Brandon waiting.”
The usual round of cheek kisses ensued, Alejandro’s a bit awkward as he tried maneuvering with his crutches amid a litany of “pobrecito” murmurs from the elderly women. Poor thing wasn’t quite the phrase that came to mind when Anamaría thought about Alejandro’s idiot move in El Yunque, but whatever.
“Dios los bendiga,” the women chorused the typical good-bye blessing they had all grown up hearing.
Right now, Anamaría was hoping God’s blessing would get them through lunch without Victor Miranda venturing out of the kitchen. With this crowd, the odds might be in their favor, since he typically stayed in the back ensuring everything ran smoothly during their busier hours. If he did step out for some reason, she hoped he came ready to break bread peacefully with his son.
Ernesto followed her and Alejandro through the sea of filled tables with their matte red laminate tops and aluminum edging. At the front, under the wide window that ran nearly half the length of the wall, Brandon and Sara sat at a table for six.
Her back to the dining room, Sara angled sideways to face Señora Miranda, who sat two seats over. Based on Sara’s amused grin as she sucked on a paper straw in a glass of her usual lemon water, and Brandon’s deer-in-the-headlights expression as he spoke to Alejandro’s mom, Anamaría was guessing the infamous Cuban mami inquisition had commenced.
Coño, poor guy. No telling how long Señora Miranda had been grilling him.
A gray-haired gentleman in a peach guayabera and tan slacks reached for a copy of the Key West Citizen and his bill as he scooted away from a table on Anamaría’s right. She paused for him to step ahead of her.
Alejandro bumped into her from behind, his chest colliding with her shoulder blades. She felt him wobbling on his crutches; then one of his hands gripped her waist to steady himself. Warmth spread across her belly at his touch.
“I hope you warned Brandon about my mother on your drive over.” His low whisper tickled her ear, and a brushing of goosebumps shimmied across her shoulders.
“Honestly, it didn’t even cross my mind. I was more worried about you and your dad and avoiding World War Three.”
“Yeah, well, that’s probably unavoidable,” he grumbled. “Thanks, though.”
She arched her neck to look up at him, only to find his angular jaw closer than she realized.
His earthy patchouli scent blended with the smell of spices and sautéed onions and peppers redolent in the restaurant’s contained space, and somehow she knew she would always seek this special blend whenever she was here. Seek but wind up disappointed when she didn’t encounter it because he was gone.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then slowly slid up to meet hers again. Longing arced through her at the heat slow boiling in his eyes. Unfortunately, her rash kiss in the parking lot had done little to satiate her appetite for him as much as she had hoped it would.
Alejandro cupped her elbow. A move to draw her closer? Remind her of their whereabouts and the nosy audience watching? Señora Gómez’s flip comment about him stealing Anamaría’s heart again taunted her with the unavoidable truth. Whatever this was between them, Miranda’s was not the place to delve into it. If she even should.
Turning back toward their table, she made a promise that history would not repeat itself. He would leave again, but this time she expected it and would be fine. More than fine. Staying busy chasing her own dream.
“Oye, hermano, that friend of yours looks like he’s sweating through his workout clothes,” Ernesto chimed in from the back of their caravan of three. “Mami must be in rare form. You better get over there and save him.”
Anamaría squinted at the bright noon sun streaming through the wide window. It turned Brandon’s blond hair a burnished gold and glinted off the silverware neatly laid out on the red laminate tabletop. Brandon swiped a hand over his forehead in a nervous gesture.
Knowing how intrusive the mamis’ questioning could be, Anamaría hurried past the last few tables, intent on rescuing Brandon.
“—growing up near LA, I speak some Spanish, but—Hey, there you are!” Brandon’s cheeks puffed out on a heavy breath when Anamaría reached their table.
He pushed back his chair to stand, gesturing to the open seats.
Poor guy. Even an elite athlete touted for his physical and mental stamina didn’t stand a chance when up against a meddling mami digging for information. Anamaría and her brothers often joked about their mom, but he
r info-digging tactics with both of the men Anamaría had dated seriously after Alejandro had been relentless, CSI-worthy. Unfortunately for Brandon, Señora Miranda had similar powers of intimidation.
Señora Miranda’s metal chair legs scraped across the gray linoleum as she scooted her black vinyl padded chair to the side so she could swivel and face them.
“¡Ay Dios mío, que sorpresa!” Her cry of surprise turned several heads their way. “Sara said you were coming, but I did not believe it. Ay, look at mis hijos. My boys. Together for a meal. Aquí.” She clasped her hands at her chest. “A mami’s prayers answered.”
“Mami, por favor, don’t make this into a thing, okay?” Alejandro warned, kissing her cheek. “It’s lunch with friends. Eso es todo.”
“There is no that is all. You are here. Finally.” She stretched out her arms to clasp hands with her two boys.
“Not quite. I’m running to the ba—” Ernesto broke off and cleared a scratch from his throat. “Papi needs me to run an errand.”
“Por favor, siéntate un ratito with us.”
“You know I don’t have a little time to sit down, Mami. We’re slammed here, and I shouldn’t even be leaving now, only they need, ugh . . . never mind. Sara, sorry I have to run. Hope you’re doing good.” The two of them exchanged a cheek press hello; then he held his hand out to shake Brandon’s across the table. “Welcome to Miranda’s. I’m Ernesto, Alejandro’s younger, better-looking, obviously smarter brother. Seeing as how I’m not the one cascading off waterfalls in the rainforest.”
“Get out of here, with this better-looking crap.” Alejandro nudged his brother’s shoulder.
“Ha, pero I don’t see you arguing who’s smarter!” Ernesto joked back.
The brothers’ old camaraderie brought a breezy sense of peace to what Anamaría had worried would be a stressful meeting. Especially since Miranda’s had in essence become Ernesto’s turf, seeing as how he now stood in line to run the familia business. She hoped the forgiveness and understanding would eventually come from their father as well.
Anchored Hearts Page 20