Anchored Hearts

by Priscilla Oliveras

  “Will do, gracias. Enjoy your meal.”

  “I always do when I eat here. It is almost like my mami’s cooking back home in the DR.” Marcelo stepped aside, allowing two women in beach attire to pass by on their way to the cashier.

  “Don’t let my Victor hear that ‘almost.’ He will take it as a challenge,” Señora Miranda warned with a wily smile.

  “¡Sí, señora, I will keep that in mind! I hope to see all of you at Bellísima for Alejandro’s local debut in July.” With a sharp two-finger salute, Marcelo started winding his way through the crowded seating area.

  About midway through the main dining room he stopped at a table for two. A blond man around Marcelo’s same age, casually dressed in skinny jeans and a distressed red tee with “I’m a dealer... of art!” emblazoned across the chest, half-rose to greet Marcelo with a kiss on the cheek. Once the couple sat, their clasped hands resting between them on the tabletop had Anamaría guessing the other man was Marcelo’s husband, Logan, whom she had yet to meet.

  Her baby brother was a big fan of the two gallery owners and the way the they highlighted local artists alongside more well-known names. By giving Alejandro a place to shine, they’d made a fan of her as well.

  Logan waved their way, and Anamaría smiled in return, wiggling her fingers in a hello. She turned back to their table in time to catch Alejandro returning the greeting, too.

  “Dime, de qué hablaba Marcelo?” Señora Miranda asked. She dipped her head at Brandon before repeating herself in English. “My apologies. What was Marcelo talking about, hijo? What is happening in July?”

  Anamaría picked up her glass and took a healthy sip. A classic question avoidance move that often worked during Navarro familia dinner. She choked on her water when Alejandro did the same.

  Sara nudged her with an elbow, a what’s-up frown wrinkling her brow. The girl was learning how to pick up on SOS signals fast. A key skill as a Navarro sibling, especially when Mami was on a roll meddling or lecturing, or doing both at the same time.

  Alejandro set his drink back on the table, taking great care to place it precisely over the sweat circle it had left. Another delay tactic if Anamaría had ever seen one.

  “Well, querida Mami, I was thinking I’d share the news at home with you and Abuela, but I know you, and your inquisitive ways, and your propensity to keep needling until I divulge all my secrets—”

  “Ay, here he goes again, que exagerado,” his mother complained. She tugged a brown paper napkin from the dispenser and gave a moody swipe at the table.

  “I love you, Mami, but I am not exaggerating. Am I?”

  Alejandro turned to Anamaría, who was smart enough to mime zipping her lips shut.

  “Chicken,” he taunted.

  She shrugged. No way was she jumping into this fray.

  Sara hid her laugh behind a napkin pressed to her mouth. Brandon coughed into his fist.

  Señora Miranda humphed, but her son’s smart-aleck response didn’t stop her prodding. “You still have not answered my question. ¿Por qué?”

  “Because I think the answer will make you happy but maybe not . . . everyone.” His last word, hesitantly spoken, grabbed his mom’s attention.

  Her hands stilled their table wiping. Lips pursed, eyes squinted with intent, face confession-time serious, she stared at her son. Anamaría knew that look well. It meant, no more hedging or joking. Game over. Señora Miranda expected the truth and nothing less from her son.

  “Meaning,” the older women firmly prodded.

  “Meaning, on Friday, July third, Bellísima will be hosting an Alejandro Miranda exhibit.”

  Señora Miranda gasped. The balled-up napkin dropped from her hands as she reached across to cover Alejandro’s with both of hers. “¡No! ¿De veras?”

  He nodded. “Sí, it’s true. Enrique introduced me to Marcelo and Logan, who are connecting me with an art consultant Marcelo knows from Chicago. She’s going to help me select the pieces and display design and all the rest. And you—”

  “Me?” His mom sat back, her arms falling limply on the table in her obvious surprise. “I can help?”

  “I know this is something you’ve wanted for a long time, Mami. I was thinking you and Abuela might like to handle hiring and working with a caterer.”

  “Caterer, estás loco, nene. Miranda’s will provide all of the food, por su puesto.”

  Alejandro’s worried gaze cut to Anamaría’s. Unlike his mami claimed, there was no “of course” when it came to Miranda’s catering an event his papi would not approve of. But Anamaría also understood why Alejandro didn’t want to discuss his father in front of Sara and Brandon.

  “You can go over those details with Marcelo and Logan,” Anamaría suggested. “No need to worry about it right now.”

  “I will take care of the food. And your father.” The flat palm Señora Miranda slapped on the tabletop punctuated her sentence like an exclamation point demanding no argument.

  “Mami, I don’t want any stress for you or anyone else in the familia. That’s not why I agreed to do this.”

  “That evening will be about how proud we are to celebrate your beautiful talent, hijo. Te lo prometo.”

  Anamaría wrapped her arms around Señora Miranda in a loose hug, silently vowing to help her keep that promise.

  “Gracias, Mami.” Alejandro reached for his crutches where they leaned against the wide window behind him. “If everyone will excuse me, I’d like to say hello to Logan on my way to the restroom. Then, my leg is telling me it’s time to get home and elevate it.”

  Brandon shuffled the remaining plates and glasses around, searching the table’s surface for something. “I don’t think Iona brought the bill yet, did she?”

  “Your lunch is on Miranda’s. Bienvenido, welcome,” Señora Miranda told him. “Maybe you will mention us on your social media, no? Like Sara and Anamaría?”

  “You got it.” Brandon grinned. “And I will definitely be back the next time I’m in town.”

  A few minutes later Anamaría saw Alejandro head down to the back hallway where the restrooms and office were located. As soon as he disappeared into the men’s room, Ernesto strode through the front entrance. The same annoyed scowl he had left with earlier remained in place.

  Anamaría swiveled in her chair, tracking his determined footsteps toward the back. Victor Miranda pushed the swinging kitchen door out of his way with a beefy hand and stormed out. He followed his younger son into the back office without bothering to greet the locals like he normally would.

  Tension seized Anamaría’s in its grip. Whatever was going down between those two did not look good. Señora Miranda hadn’t noticed her younger son’s entrance, but if Victor ran into their elder son right now—

  As if on cue, Alejandro exited the restroom. Rather than heading back to their table, he step-swung on his crutches, moving closer to the office. Blatantly eavesdropping on whatever was happening behind the closed office door.

  In the strange way life’s lessons filter through your brain at random moments, the advice one of their middle school catechism teachers gave their class when she and Alejandro had been preparing for confirmation whispered in her head, Eavesdroppers rarely hear anything good about themselves.

  Down the darkened hallway, Alejandro hunched against the wall, his head lolling to the side. Apparently, he was learning firsthand the veracity behind those old words of caution.

  “Hey, guys, I’m thinking I should go ahead and take Alejandro home.” Her chair scraped against the gray linoleum as she pushed it back to stand. “Do a quick check of his vitals and pin sites. Make sure he didn’t overdo it today. Brandon, would you mind if Sara dropped you off at your hotel instead?”

  “No problem,” Brandon said.

  “I need to head downtown anyway,” Sara chimed in

  “Mami is home watching Lulu while Cece goes to the doctor. If you want me—”

  Señora Miranda broke off when the hostess motioned for her attention,
then jabbed a finger at the old school cash register with a confused expression. The older woman mumbled something about Gen Z and millennials and technology, then hugged them all good-bye, asking Anamaría to please text her an update once Alejandro was settled at home.

  “Here, give me your keys and we’ll transfer his camera bag and wheelchair to the back of your car,” Brandon offered.

  “Thank you.” Anamaría followed them to the back entrance, where she waited for Brandon to return her keys, the whole time praying all hell didn’t break loose before she could get Alejandro out of there.

  * * *

  “I do not want your mother to know about this, me entiendes?”

  Standing outside the Miranda’s office door, Alejandro shook his head as if his papi had asked him if he understood his edict. It didn’t make any sense at all.

  “Papi, she’s not going to like being kept out of this.” Ernesto’s worried plea had Alejandro straining to hear better through the thin walls. “The insurance adjuster said there’s nothing they can do. It’s up to the bank, and we don’t have enough equity in this property. Let me talk with CeCe about a second mortgage on our place.”

  “You will not jeopardize your familia’s home because of my error in judgment.”

  Alejandro drew back in surprise at his father’s revelation.

  “Fine,” Ernesto shot back. “Then let’s ask Ale. He may be able to give us a loan to help—”

  A loud slam reverberated from inside the office, cutting off whatever Ernesto meant to say next.

  “Your brother has nothing to do with our restaurant. He and his money are not welcome here.”

  Alejandro jolted at the bitterness in his father’s voice. The words, while not unexpected, stung worse than the time he’d swum through a swarm of jellyfish. Feeling as burned and raw as he had back then, Alejandro sagged against the wall.

  He could hear his brother and father arguing, but his will to listen evaporated.

  Suddenly the office door flung open and his father stormed out. Alejandro straightened away from the wall. Shoulders stiff, head high, he braced himself to face the inevitable firing squad of his father’s verbal onslaught.

  Victor drew to a halt when he spotted his son. Body rigid with anger, a low growl burst from his papi’s throat before he demanded, “Qué haces aquí.”

  Alejandro squinted into the dappled sunlight streaming through the glass door to the outside patio seating area at the end of the hall behind his father. The gloomy darkness matched the thunderous scowl stamped on his papi’s jowled face.

  “Anamaría has a business contact in town. We brought him for lunch.”

  The disbelieving humph his father answered with grated. Why the hell the man would doubt even a simple explanation spoke of his irrational mind-set. Underscored why Alejandro never bothered trying to reason with him. Because in Victor Miranda’s mind, there was only his way, or the wrong way.

  “Why are you listening where you should not be? What did you hear?” his old man demanded.

  “Nothing. Or not enough to make any sense of it. But Ernesto is right. If it’s financial help you need, I can provide it.”

  “Ha!” his father scoffed. “Why would Miranda’s, why would I, depend on you for assistance? Te fuiste, y nunca miraste pa’ tras.”

  His father spit out the unfair accusation that Ale had left and never looked back as if it had been of his own accord, and the injustice unleashed the rebuttal Alejandro had uttered in every argument he had held in his head with his old man over the years. “I never came back because that’s what you told me to do. It is not the choice I wanted to make. But the one you forced on me.”

  “No, no lo acepto. Uh-uh. I will not accept your blame.” His father’s scowl deepened when Alejandro shook his head. “You are the one who spit on your abuelo’s legacy. ¿Qué fue lo que dijiste? Tell me again. What was it you said?”

  No matter how much Alejandro wanted to defend himself, nothing would make right the hateful insult he had yelled that night. He couldn’t take it back. No matter how badly he wished.

  “Do you not remember? Porque I do. This is not enough for you.” His father flung his arm out toward the Miranda’s dining area, barely missing one of Alejandro’s crutches with his wild gesture as he brought his open palm back to pound against his chest with a heavy thud. “Everything I have built is not good enough for you.”

  “That’s not true. It never was. Papi, I only wanted—”

  “Eh!” His father held up a hand to silence him. The nicks and calluses and scars on his palm and fingers were testaments to the hours and years he had labored as the head chef in their beloved neighborhood restaurant. Underneath his black apron with Miranda’s embroidered across the front, his father’s burly chest rose and fell with each labored breath.

  “You made yourself very clear, Alejandro. Miranda’s is of no importance to you.” His father bent toward him, his eyes dark pools of anger. “Our familia is of no importance to you. So, vete.”

  Alejandro flinched, the slap of his father’s words a sharp sting across his face.

  Despite telling him to leave, his father narrowed his eyes in a steely glare, then stomped away with another feral growl.

  The fight drained out of Alejandro, and he sagged against the wall again, head tipped to lean on the doorjamb. One of his crutches clattered to the linoleum floor. He ignored it.

  Regret and anguish burned in his throat. His father’s contempt confirmed what Alejandro had known all these years. Even if he wanted to, there was no way he could come back to Key West, make it his home base in between jobs as Atlanta was now.

  His father would never forgive him. His familia would forever be fractured.

  * * *

  “Alejandro, you okay?”

  His eyes closed, he heard Anamaría’s concerned voice call to Alejandro from the dark place his papi’s harsh dismissal had sent him.

  Damn that man for still being able to hit where it hurt. Wounding him with contempt and disdain. Even when Alejandro knew the shots were coming.

  Our familia is of no importance to you. So, vete.

  If he could easily leave like his father had ordered, he would.

  But his injury physically prevented that.

  His professionalism required he honor the contract with Marcelo, Logan, and Bellísima.

  More important, he wasn’t ready to say good-bye to Anamaría. Not when they were just starting to find footing in this new . . . friendship of sorts they were forging.

  At least until after the exhibit’s opening weekend, he was anchored here, intent on withstanding the buffeting storm winds his father blew.

  Ernesto stepped out of the office at the same time Anamaría reached Alejandro’s side.

  “Hey, here you go.” She bent to grab his crutch, the tail of her long braid nearly sweeping the floor until she pushed it back over her shoulder. “I guess dropping it is better than throttling your dad with it. So, yay you for self-restraint.”

  He lifted his left arm when she moved to tuck his crutch under his pit. His lips quirked at her lame joke. “Small blessings.”

  Her empathetic smile, the hand she kept on his waist after he had adjusted the crutches and stood fine on his own, they seared his heart with a yearning for the comfort he knew he would find with her alone.

  “Papi shouldn’t have said what he did,” Ernesto offered. “He’s wrong, Ale. We all know it.”

  “I don’t. Maybe I should have hired a home health provider back in Atlanta instead of poking the bear by letting Mami guilt me into coming ho—” He rubbed his nape, massaging the muscles bunching in protest. “Into coming back.”

  “No, you were right the first time. Coming home,” Anamaría stressed. “That’s what this island is.”

  Ernesto cupped Alejandro’s shoulder. “He’ll change his mind. Right now, he’s stressed about the insurance mix-up and the bank giving fits about a loan. Pero we’ll figure it out. We always have in the past. And he’ll
back off. I’ll work on him.”

  Unlike his little brother, skepticism colored Alejandro’s perspective. “Sounded to me like you’ve been hitting a wall trying to talk sense into him. He never listens to anyone.”

  “Like I said, we’ll handle the bank. Just don’t let him push you away again. I like having you back.” Ernesto squeezed his shoulder in a reassuring grip.

  The hopeful expression on his brother’s face reminded Alejandro of when they were kids and Ernesto begged to be included with the older boys’ fun. Now his baby brother dealt with solving their familia’s problems, while Alejandro fled them.

  “I gotta run to the kitchen, wrap up the lunch rush, and start prep for dinner so I can get home to Cece and Lulu. But I’ll see you at Mami and Papi’s later. Okay?”

  Anamaría’s advice out in the parking lot before lunch played through Alejandro’s mind. Peek out from behind your camera. Try connecting with those who are important to you.

  Like his little brother.

  “Yeah, sure, where the hell else would I be with this bum leg.” Ernesto’s grin had Alejandro answering with a smirk of his own. He nudged his head toward the kitchen on the other side of the wall where they stood. “Go on. Besides Mami, you might be the only one to keep him from biting off someone’s head in there. Save the staff. I’m fine.”

  Ernesto dropped a peck good-bye on Anamaría’s cheek, then disappeared around the hall corner.

  Once she and Alejandro were alone, instead of backing away, Anamaría stepped closer and put her other hand on his waist. The warmth of her palm spread across his stomach, and damn if his crotch didn’t perk up. Craving a much more intimate touch from her.

  “What do you say the two of us get out of here together?” she whispered.

  Damn, he didn’t know what she had in mind by her offer, but he sure as hell knew what his body wanted. It ached to be with hers. There was no use denying it, at least not to himself. But that need had led him to selfishly hurt her in the past. He couldn’t let that happen again.

  Lust urged him to drag her body against his, taste the sweetness of her lips and tongue. Instead, he forced himself to rein in his lust, reaching up to softly trace her jawline with his fingertips. The light streaming in from the patio door danced across her beautiful face creating a mix of shadow and light. Her eyes fluttered closed and he let himself explore the face he saw in his dreams. High cheekbones, straight nose, arched black brows, and lush lips. Details emblazoned on his mind. And in his heart.