“Thanks again.” I toss a wave back over my shoulder at the tourist so that Adrian won’t think I’m rude, then hop over to the wall, making little grunting noises like it’s a big effort.
“Ahhhh,” I exhale a sigh of relief once I’ve lowered myself down onto the wall. “This feels so much better. I appreciate the help, _____?” I trail off so that he’ll supply his name. (Of course, I already know it, but I’ve got to play the game here.)
“Adrian,” he says, taking a seat next to me. “And it was my pleasure.”
Huh? Did I damage my hearing somehow when I fell? Because there is no way that the high-pitched, bordering on squeaky, voice that just emanated from this gorgeous man’s mouth can be right. My prepubescent nephews have voices with more masculine bass notes in them!
Maybe his voice is only high-pitched temporarily because he just inhaled some helium, or, or his cojones are being squeezed too tightly by the built-in underwear that comes in those running shorts. Yeah, that’s it. That’s a totally reasonable explanation for this strange phenomenon. He’ll sit here in a relaxed position for a few minutes, give his boys a chance to breathe, and his voice will drop back down to a normal register. I just have to give him a chance.
“Izzy,” I offer him my name and a hand to shake. “I apologize that you had to bear witness to that embarrassing display of klutziness. I walk on runways for a living for heaven’s sake! You’d think I would know better than to trip over my own feet.” So, now he’s aware that I’m a model and I have a good sense of humor about myself—two things most men find irresistible.
“It can happen to even the most experienced runners. All it takes is catching your toe on something, or having an uneven distribution of weight on your feet. That’s why it’s so important to wear shoes that provide the right amount of support and cushioning when you’re running. You’re wincing. Can I take a look? You might have a sprain or tear.”
I’m wincing because after hearing Adrian string several sentences together, it’s now official. He’s got a bad case of Beckham-itis, a tragic condition that there is no known cure for. It affects only super hot guys, like the British soccer stud I named the affliction after. By all appearances these men have high levels of testosterone coursing through their sinewy bodies, but unfortunately their vocal cords never got the memo.
“Sure.” I start to lift my right foot, then remember it’s the left one I rolled. Duh, Izzy, you’ve got that scrape on your “bad” leg to help you keep your story straight! I cover by pretending I was just adjusting the position of my body on the wall so that there’s enough distance between us for me to stretch out my leg and place my foot in his hands, which are resting on his thigh, palms up.
“No swelling,” he quickly determines, “which means no sprain. So, that’s good news. Does this hurt?” He carefully pokes around my ankle area.
I grimace, but not because of my ankle. The only discomfort I’m feeling is in my ears because his voice is still firmly in the falsetto range. “It’s a little sore.”
“That’s to be expected considering what happened, but as long as you’re not in screaming pain, I don’t think any serious damage has been done. Can you point your foot for me?”
I do as he asks.
“Great. Now, try rotating it. Mmmmm hmmmm, looks like your motility is fine.” He starts feeling around the top of my sneaker, pressing down on my big toe, which makes me feel like I’m in a shoe store. Lifting his pale blue eyes to mine, he queries, “How long have you been running in these shoes?” while his forehead creases with concern.
“Uh, well, I’m kind of new to all this running stuff, so not long. Maybe a couple of weeks.”
“I don’t know who sold you these sneakers, but they put you in the wrong size. Your toes are being compressed, which can cause numbness. It’s no wonder you fell! Wearing ill-fitting shoes can really throw off your gait.”
“Problem solved then! I’ll just have to buy a new pair of sneakers, which definitely won’t be a hardship since I love shoe-shopping.” I toss him a cute, flirtatious smile, and he lowers both of his hands to my bare shin. The skin-to-skin contact feels delicious, the warmth of his palms seeping into my flesh and the slight pressure of his fingertips causing a tingly sensation.
Okay, so maybe this guy doesn’t have one of those deep, sexy voices that revs my motor. He’s got other things going for him, doesn’t he? He’s nice to look at, he seems kind, he has a really cool job, and let’s not forget his high tax bracket. I could get used to the unfortunate octave of his voice over time, or I could learn to tune it out. Victoria Beckham has been with David for like twenty years, hasn’t she? So, she must have found some way to cope.
“Maybe I could take you shopping for those sneakers,” Adrian suggests. “I know a great place over on Biscayne Boulevard that has a wide variety and they’ll do a gait analysis to make sure you find the perfect shoe for your foot.”
A first date at a sneaker store? Surely a man with a wallet the size of Adrian’s can do better than that.
“I’d like that very much,” I say as I lightly trace an imaginary line along the back of his hand, which is still perched on my leg, “and maybe afterwards we could grab some dinner at Il Gabbiano?” That’s one of the poshest, most romantic restaurants in town, and it just so happens to be located on Biscayne. I’m already picturing us feeding each other spoonfuls of luscious, cocoa-dusted tiramisu.
His eyes light up with anticipation, and a grin spreads across his face, which gives him an attractively roguish look. “That can definitely be arranged.”
“Perfect.”
Well, not exactly. There’s still his cringe-inducing voice to deal with. I wonder if he’d consider taking a vow of silence . . .
CHAPTER 8
Let the record show that I tried. I really did. I went on three dates with Adrian, who was interesting and attentive, took me to wonderful places, and could wear the hell out of an Armani suit. At the end of the third date he invited me back to his condo at The Setai, one of the most exclusive high-rise residences in South Beach. His sea view was spectacular and he mixed a mean pitcher of margaritas, so I was primed to seal the deal when he pulled me down onto his soft-as-butter white leather couch and started kissing me with lustful intent. If he had just kept quiet!
But no, Adrian is one of those guys who likes to talk during the act, telling you how much you turn him on and all the naughty things he’s going to do to you. Normally, I’m not opposed to a little dirty talk, but when every word the man on top of you utters makes you feel like you’re getting busy with Mickey Mouse, it’s a huge ladyboner killer. That’s when I knew there was no future for us and I bailed.
So, now I’m back at square one. Still broke, still single, and possibly losing a little bit more of my sexual allure with every day that I come closer to my thirtieth. But I’ve never been a quitter, which is why I’m about to crack open Nate’s binder once again. Hopefully, Bachelor Number Two will be a keeper.
I begin by perusing the stats of a Kip Thornton, who’s a big deal in commodities (his firm focuses on the energy market). Since I don’t know what commodities are and I’m equally clueless about the energy market (are we talking about all those drinks that promise to give you a five-hour boost because they’ve got so much caffeine and sugar in them?), I pull out my phone to do a Google search. I’m in the middle of that when Joe Jonas informs me I’ve got an incoming call.
Pilar. Oh, geez. I hope she doesn’t need me to babysit again, because I’m still recovering from my last foray into childcare. I had another nightmare about Gabi spewing chunks when I was taking a nap earlier this afternoon!
Tapping the “Accept” button on the phone screen, I say, “¿Que bolá?” which is “What’s up?” in Cuban-speak.
“Hey, Izzy. I’m here at Ana’s, and we’ve got Mamá on the phone.”
Dammit! This is an ambush! I never would have answered the phone if I’d known our mother was on the other end of the line. I’ve been doin
g my best to avoid her calls lately because I haven’t been in the mood for her histrionics, or one of her critiques on my career (Modeling bathing suits is not something a respectable girl does!), my clothes (I should leave something to the imagination. Men don’t like women who dress like putas!), or my love life (When am I going to find a nice man, preferably a Latino, and settle down like my sisters? If I don’t do it soon, I won’t have any eggs left, then I won’t be able to give my husband children. He’ll have to hire a surrogate to carry our baby, and she’ll probably be a psycho who’ll seduce my man, then frame me for murdering our gardener, a crime she committed because he’s the real father of her child—And yes, my mother does watch too many telenovelas!)
“Sí, this is the only way I get to have any contact with my daughters—on the phone, because none of you can spare a moment to come and see me.”
Straight to the guilt trip then. I roll my eyes, but say nothing because I don’t have to. My sisters are going to fall all over themselves trying to placate her like they always do.
“That’s not true, Mamá. We all got together to celebrate your wedding anniversary recently, remember?”
“And we gave you a professionally-shot picture of all your grandkids in that gorgeous Baccarat Red Eye frame, which was my idea.”
“The frame was Pilar’s idea,” I interject because I can’t stand the way Ana always tries to take credit for everything.
“It was a joint effort,” Ana retorts in a waspish tone. “Emphasis on the word ‘effort’ because Pilar and I actually put some time and thought into what we got Mamá and Papá unlike you who picked up a cheap bottle of red wine at a gas station on the way to the party.”
“It wasn’t cheap!” If a wine costs more than ten bucks, it qualifies for fancy status as far as I’m concerned. “And that Merlot was totally on-theme since it was their fortieth anniversary, which calls for a ruby gift. Ha! See, I did put some thought into it.”
“Why are we even talking about our anniversary?” Mamá wonders. “That was three weeks ago! Three weeks since I’ve set eyes on any of you. Three weeks I’ve been forgotten and neglected.”
“You were on a cruise for one of those weeks,” I remind her.
“And did I return to a ‘Welcome Home’ party from mis niñas? No,” she pouts. “It was as though none of you even cared that I was back.”
Well . . .
“Of course, we care, Mamá,” Pilar says in her soothing therapist voice. “It’s just that we all have such busy lives—”
“I understand. I am low on everyone’s priority list, but you’ll regret not spending more time with your mamá when I’m gone.”
“Gone? Where exactly are you going? Is Papá finally going to retire so that the two of you can travel the world like you’re always talking about?” Please, please, please.
“I meant ‘gone’ as in muerta. I won’t be around forever, you know, especially with my heart condition.”
“You have not been diagnosed with a heart condition,” Pilar corrects Mamá.
“But I will be when I see the cardiologist later this week. Dr. Bakshi is the best. He saved Mayor Regalado’s life last year when he performed that emergency triple bypass on him after his heart attack, and I’m sure he’ll take my palpitations—the ones you all keep dismissing—seriously.”
Bakshi? That name sounds familiar. Wasn’t there a heart doctor in Nate’s binder? I quickly flip through the profiles until I find the one I’m thinking of. Okay. Not bad. Kind of reminds me of the actor from those Harold & Kumar movies.
“What’s this Dr. Bakshi’s first name, Mamá?”
“Arjun.”
Ding ding ding. We have a winner! Arjun Bakshi is the doctor in my binder. For once in my life, my mother’s hypochondria is going to work to my advantage.
“As I said, he’s one of the top cardiologists in Miami,” Mamá continues, “which is why it’s taken me three months to get in to see him. I’m going to need one of you to drive me and act as my patient advocate at this appointment on Thursday. My friend, Lola, always takes her daughter with her to doctors’ appointments. She says it’s important that you have a family member with you, someone who can keep a level head and ask the right questions when you’re too stressed to do it.”
“Sorry, Mamá, but I can’t. Theo’s class is taking a field trip to the Seaquarium on Thursday and I’m room mother, so I have to be there.”
“And I’ve got patients all day. I guess I could try and reschedule a couple of them, although I hate to do that at the last minute. What time did you say your appointment was?”
“You don’t have to reschedule anything. I’ll take Mamá to see the cardiologist.” I’m already standing in front of my closet, trying to decide what I can wear that will be appropriate. I can’t go full vixen in a doctor’s office, especially with my mother there, but I still need to get Dr. Heart Fixer’s attention.
“You will?” Both of my sisters sound incredulous, which is a little offensive. It’s not like I don’t ever volunteer to help our mother. Oh, wait, yes, it is.
“Sure. I don’t have anything else going on Thursday.”
“You’re not working? What a surprise!” Ana’s words drip sarcasm.
“Modeling’s not a nine-to-five job.”
“It’s not really a job at all if you ask me,” she snipes.
“No one did! So, keep your narrow-minded opinions to yourself. You can weigh in if the conversation turns to subjects you actually know something about like mom jeans or the best way to get rid of a female ‘stache.”
She gasps in outrage. “You are such a bitch!”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Okay, let’s just hit the pause button for a minute here,” Pilar, ever the voice of reason in our family, suggests, “and take a deep, cleansing breath before things devolve any—”
“She started it!” Ana and I both yell petulantly.
“Ay, I can’t take all this fighting. I’m having palpitations!” Mamá claims.
“Good thing we’re going to see Dr. Bakshi day after tomorrow then. What time do you want me to pick you up?”
* * *
“Yuck.” I make a face at the anatomical plastic heart that’s sitting on the counter next to the sink in the doctor’s exam room. “You don’t think this is the actual size of what’s in our chests, do you?” I pick up the heart and hold it up above my left breast. “And what are these big purple and red things?” I point to the fat, cylinder-shaped protrusions at the top of the heart.
“Probably valves of some kind,” my mother murmurs distractedly as she picks up another pamphlet from the pile of medical literature she collected while we were out in the waiting room. This one is entitled The Heart Truth for Latinas. “Did you know that heart disease is the number one killer of Latinas in this country?” is the first factoid she gleans from the pamphlet.
I shrug. “That’s not what I’d call shocking news. The Cuban diet isn’t exactly low-fat.” Returning the heart to its stand, I wander over to a heart healthy foods poster on the wall, which I study for a few minutes. “Case in point, I only eat eight of the thirty foods on this list. Pretty cool that popcorn’s considered to be good for your heart. Of course, if you top it with as much butter and salt as I do, that probably negates its benefits.”
“I eat Honey Sriracha Cheddar popcorn by the gallon-sized tin, so I’m in no position to judge,” says an amiable, male voice (in the baritone range—¡Gracias a Dios!) coming from the doorway of the exam room and I turn to see a white lab coat-wearing man, with a stethoscope draped around his neck.
He’s not my usual beefed up alpha male type, but he’s cute! In a charmingly rumpled way. His black hair is tousled as though he’s been running his fingers through it and his green button-down is wrinkled, with a bit of his white undershirt peeking out at the top where he’s got two buttons undone. He has kind eyes, and I like his smile, which he’s now directing at Mamá.
“Mrs. Alvarez.” Extend
ing his hand, he takes several steps toward the exam table, where she’s perched. “I’m Dr. Bakshi.”
She shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you. That,” she waves at me, “is my daughter, Isidora.”
“Izzy,” I give him my nickname, which my mother knows I prefer.
“Izzy.” He nods at me. “It’s always nice to see a patient’s family taking an interest in their healthcare. Why don’t you have a seat while I examine your mother?” He gestures at the chair against the wall, a few feet away.
I would be very happy to take a seat, because that means I’ll be giving the good doctor an enticing eyeful of my bare back. This multi-colored, deco diamond-print maxi dress I decided to wear today is relatively demure in the front, but it dips way down low in the back where it’s laced up like a corset. Every guy who’s ever seen me in this dress has declared it “hot,” and I’m hoping it will elicit the same response from Dr. Bakshi.
When I turn back toward him so that I can lower my body to the chair, I see that he’s staring at me, his eyes glazed and his mouth hanging open. So, I’m pretty sure I’ve got him right where I want him. Good thing I had that big cross tattoo on my shoulder blade lasered off a while back because that would have probably repelled a Hindu like Dr. Bakshi, or is it Buddhism that people of Indian descent practice? Whatever. He’s definitely not Catholic like my family, which suits me just fine since I’ve never been religious. My mother would pull out her rosary and start praying if she knew I’d just thought that! And if I marry a man outside our religion, she’ll probably call in a priest to exorcise the demon that she’ll be convinced has possessed me.
I cross my legs and smile at Dr. Bakshi, and he gives his head a little jiggle as if he’s trying to shake off the effects of a spell—the desire-stoking naked flesh spell, a specialty of mine!
“So, doctor, do you think these palpitations my mother’s been experiencing are anything serious? We’re all very concerned about her.”
“Uh, yes, well . . .” He looks down at her chart and flips through a few pages. “The labs her GP ran all came back normal, her cholesterol and blood pressure are right where they need to be, her weight is good—”
Izzy As Is Page 7