“My weight is five pounds less than the average for a woman of my age and height,” Mamá interrupts him to toot her own horn.
“Which is commendable. I’m sure you work very hard to maintain your trim figure, Mrs. Alvarez, and you look terrific for a woman of—”
“Ay!” She holds up a hand to stop him from revealing her age. “There’s no need to say that number out loud.”
“She might spontaneously combust if you do,” I snark under my breath.
When a frowning Dr. Bakshi looks back over his shoulder at me, I say in a syrupy sweet voice, “I’m blessed to have come from such a great gene pool. Hopefully, I’ll age as gracefully as my mother.” I hold my hand up in the air and cross my fingers.
P.S. Mamá’s “trim figure” has nothing to do with diet or exercise; she’s addicted to CoolSculpting, which freezes off any fat that dares to appear on her body.
“Now, I’m just going to listen to your heart and lungs,” Dr. Bakshi tells my mother as he puts the black plastic tips of the stethoscope in his ears.
I zone out thinking about how I read on the Internet that the bride usually wears red at an Indian wedding. I would rock a red wedding sari so hard! Especially if it exposed some of my flat, tanned belly. I’ll need to get myself one of those jewel-encrusted headpieces, too. I think I’ll take a pass on the henna body art since it can stain the skin for up to three weeks, which is something a model can’t afford—Oops, I forgot! If I’m marrying one of Miami’s premier cardiologists, I won’t have to worry about being fit for modeling jobs anymore. I’ll just be Mrs. Dr. Bakshi, a wealthy woman of leisure who’s either hanging out with Miami’s first couple (because Arjun must be besties with the mayor after yanking him out of the Grim Reaper’s clutches!) or hosting charity fundraisers for the hospital (my future husband is on staff at South Miami where he’s one of the only doctors who can perform some complicated, new surgery on patients with a congenital heart defect, which I forget the name of because medical stuff bores me).
“All of the data, as well as my findings today, suggest that your palpitations are stress and/or anxiety-related, Mrs. Alvarez, but I’ll order an electrocardiogram just to be on the safe side.”
“Is that the test where you have to run on a treadmill?” I ask, because the thought of my mother, the woman who would sooner die than shed a single drop of sweat, having to huff and puff her way through a strenuous test like that, really tickles me.
“No, that would be a cardiac stress test, which I don’t think is called for at this juncture. We’ll start with the ECG, then go from there if any abnormalities are detected. Let me walk you up to the front desk and we’ll get that test scheduled for you, Mrs. Alvarez.” He offers my mother his hand to help her off the exam table.
“Please, call me Luisa.” Her red-glossed lips curl up at the corners, and she bats her lash extensions at him before taking his hand and stepping down from the table. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your thoroughness in investigating these episodes of mine. I’ve been complaining about them for years, but Dr. García just kept brushing my concerns aside. I’m so glad I finally insisted on a referral to a specialist.”
And I’m sure Dr. García is thrilled that Mamá is someone else’s problem for the time being. The poor man has been dealing with my mother and her claims that she’s suffering from some life-threatening malady or other for years. He usually humors her and runs tests, which always contradict her predictions of an untimely demise. There is never anything wrong with her; she’s just a big drama queen who’s only happy when she’s standing squarely in the spotlight and everyone’s fussing over her.
She continues to cling to Dr. Bakshi’s arm as he leads us to his office’s checkout area while I trail behind wondering how I’m going to parlay this initial meeting into a date. I only have this one shot with him because he won’t be present at Mamá’s ECG and I’d be willing to bet good money (if I had any) that a follow-up visit won’t be required.
We reach the front desk and Dr. Bakshi hands my mother’s file over to a blonde wearing nurse’s scrubs in a kicky tropical print (turquoise background with black palm trees and yellow sunglasses—I like this girl’s style!).
“Leeanne will take care of you. And we’ll speak again soon, Luisa. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
“Gracias.”
“Yes, thank you so much for your time and your very comforting bedside manner, Dr. Bakshi.” I take his hand as if to shake it, but instead I pull him away from my mother who doesn’t notice because she’s now conversing with Leeanne about setting up her test.
Leaning into him, I murmur, “I was wondering if there was any way for me to contact you outside of office hours in case there are any new developments in my mother’s condition, or if I have a question about something . . . heart-related?”
Hard to tell because he’s dark-complected, but I think I see his cheeks pinken a bit.
“Of course,” he says, trying to sound professional, but unable to keep the lilt of excitement out of his voice. “I’m available to my patients, and their lovely family members,” he dips his head at me, “twenty-four/seven.” Reaching a hand out to the side, he plucks a business card out of a holder, then pulls an ink pen from the pocket of his lab coat and quickly scribbles something on the back of it. “That’s my private number.” He offers me the card. “Feel free to call or text as the need arises.”
“I will definitely do that.” My fingertips brush against his as I take the card, and I smile, feeling very confident about where this is going.
CHAPTER 9
Arjun and I have been texting back and forth for over a week now, mostly about our jobs (I pretended to be interested in his even though I’m really not and I made it sound like I’m very successful and in demand as a model—a girl’s got to sell herself!) and cricket. (Not the chirping insect; the game, which Arjun is obsessed with. He’s on a team called the “Miami Batsmen” that plays twice a week in Lauderhill, and he’s dying for me to come and watch him in action on the pitch—apparently, that’s a grass field—but not coincidentally, I’ve had a schedule conflict every time he’s asked.)
I did happen to be free when he suggested we go out to dinner. He said he’d love to learn more about the Cuban cuisine that’s such an important part of my life and asked where he should make a rez. YUCA, which stands for Young Urban Cuban Americans, was the obvious answer since it’s one of the trendiest restaurants in town (and the food’s delish, too). I almost died of shock when Arjun told me he’d drive out to my place and pick me up for the date. This is not how dates usually work in my world, but Arjun is old-school. He thinks a gentleman should collect a lady at her door and drive her wherever they’re going. It didn’t make sense logistically, though, as his house is closer to YUCA’s location in South Beach than mine is, so I told him I’d meet him there at 8:00.
It’s actually 8:10 when I pull up to the valet stand outside the restaurant, but arriving fashionably late is my style and Arjun might as well learn this about me now. Besides, I’m worth waiting for and he’ll know that once he gets a load of me in this killer dress, which I borrowed from a designer friend, and my hottest pair of screw-me stilettos.
I breeze through the glass doors of YUCA, which are located under an awning dripping with fairy lights, and immediately spot Arjun whose face brightens happily when he sees me. As he makes his way through the crowd toward me, his expression morphs into a look of trepidation and I can’t imagine why. You’d think his excitement about this evening would increase the closer he got to me. Maybe he’s just nervous about impressing me, or trying the restaurant’s Nuevo Latino cuisine despite my assurances that if he could handle curry, the spice in the dishes here probably wouldn’t even register on his heat index.
“Good evening,” he greets me with a kiss on the cheek. “That . . .,” his eyes roam up and down my body, “is some dress.”
I smile, feeling very pleased with myself. “Isn’t this color amazing? It’s ca
lled ‘Island Paradise’ and it’s one of Pantone’s top colors for spring.” The bright blue-green provides a really striking contrast to my olive skin, which I’ve been tanning all week, as well as my black hair. I know I’ve never looked better and I’m glad Arjun appreciates how lucky he is to have me on his arm tonight.
“Did you bring a wrap of some kind?”
I can feel my face scrunch up with confusion. “Why would I do that? This dress is meant to be seen, not covered up.”
He shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. “It’s just that you’ve got a lot of skin exposed, and the air-conditioning is blasting away in here. I wouldn’t want you to get cold.”
He thinks I’ve got a lot of skin exposed? I mean, yeah, the plunging neckline of this form-fitting mini dress does reveal a fair amount of cleavage and the cut-outs on the sides bare even more flesh, but compared to the skimpy bikinis I spend half my life in, what I’m wearing right now is pretty modest.
“You’re sweet, but I’m very hot-natured. So, I’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” he says, his face looking pinched again. What is going on with him? “I requested a table by the windows since you said that was the best place to sit in here.”
“Perfect! It’s always fun to watch what’s going on outside.” There’s a real party atmosphere on Lincoln Road in the evenings, with people streaming in and out of all the hip restaurants, cafés, and clubs.
Taking me gently by the elbow, Arjun guides me into the dining section of the restaurant. On the way to our table, I turn a few heads (male ones, of course) and I have to resist the urge to toss a flirty smile at my admirers. Stay focused on your date, Izzy! The rich doctor who’s going to provide you with some stability and a nice, six- (or maybe even seven-) figure balance in your joint checking account.
“Here we are.” Arjun gestures at a four-top next to one of the restaurant’s floor-to-ceiling picture windows, except this one’s not empty. There’s a dark-haired, middle-aged woman decked out in full Indian garb (a pale green sari in a shimmery dotted design edged in gold) sitting in one of the chairs next to the window, staring down her aquiline nose at a menu.
“Who’s this?” I ask Arjun, although the answer to that question is crystal clear based on the age and ethnicity of the woman. I can’t believe he brought his mother on our first date!
This is not good. I don’t do well with mothers. My own doesn’t even like me very much. (I’m pretty sure she thinks I stole her youth and beauty.) And I’m not the type of woman most mothers envision for their sons. I’m too sexy, too confident, too outspoken, and most of all, I’m unwilling to kiss ass, which is essential when you’re trying to gain the approval of someone’s mom.
“Izzy, allow me to introduce you to my mother, Meera Bakshi.” Arjun beams with pride as he sweeps a hand toward the woman who brought him into this world. He’s obviously a big mama’s boy, so I’d better make this work if I want to have any chance of a long-term relationship with him.
“Meera,” I extend my hand across the table, “I’m so pleased you could join us for dinner this evening.”
I can see Arjun grimacing out of the corner of my eye, and his mother looks seriously displeased. Is offering this woman my hand some sort of insult in their culture? Maybe touching is reserved for immediate family only. No, wait, Arjun was shaking hands all over the place when I was at his office, so that can’t be it. Maybe she didn’t like me calling her by her first name. Too bad. We’re all adults here. I’m not going to bow and scrape and address her by her formal title.
With pursed lips, Meera gives the tips of my fingers a weak shake, then quickly retracts her hand as though mine is covered in pus-oozing sores. Arjun pulls out a chair for me, and I lower myself into it. I expect him to take the seat next to me as we are on a date and he should want to be close, but he sits on the opposite side of the table with his mother, which makes me feel like I’m facing the Indian Inquisition.
“That’s an interesting dress,” Meera says, her voice laced with disdain.
Pretending like I’m not keenly aware that she disapproves, I reply, “Thank you,” while placing my white napkin in my lap. “It’s an original by Raúl Espinosa, an up-and-coming designer here in Miami.”
“I suppose those are the types of people you consort with since you’re in . . . fashion.” Meera directs a meaningful look at her son.
What’s that about? Does she think having creative friends is a bad thing? And what’s with her using the word ‘consort’? That makes my relationship with Raúl sound sleazy, which it isn’t, nor could it ever be, since he just marched in the Miami Beach Gay Pride Parade wearing itty-bitty swim trunks and “Fuchsia Flare” body glitter. Full disclosure: I applied that glitter for him, which meant I had to get up-close and personal with various parts of his rock-hard anatomy, but he’s gay. So, no big deal. It’s not like I had a super-sparkly, pre-parade orgy with Raúl and his hot friends or something.
“Yes, being a model does bring me into contact with a lot of talented people—designers, photographers, makeup artists, stylists. I consider that to be one of the greatest perks of my job.” I smile across the table at her while thinking, “Suck it, lady!”
Before she has a chance to respond, our waiter appears at the head of the table. “Hola, my name is Carlo, and I’ll be your server this evening. What can I bring you to drink?”
“Izzy.” Arjun indicates that I should go first, which I appreciate.
“I would love a guava mojito. Meera, you should get one, too, so that you can have the full Cuban dining experience.”
She eyes me warily. “Isn’t there alcohol in a mojito?”
“Why else would I drink it?” I respond, with a chortle. “White rum is the alcohol that’s used in a guava mojito, right?” I turn to Carlo for confirmation.
“Sí,” he concurs.
“My mother doesn’t drink spirits,” Arjun informs me.
Of course not. God forbid she do something that might make her unclench!
“That’s okay. I’m sure they could make you a virgin mojito. Not that I know much about things that are virginal,” I say as a humorous aside behind my hand.
Meera flinches as if I slapped her.
Okay, so jokes about not being a virgin aren’t going to go over well with this crowd. Indian girls don’t save themselves for marriage, do they? Because that would be kind of whack. If a man’s going to spend the rest of his life with just one woman, she needs to have some skills in the sack, doesn’t she?
“I will have a coconut water,” Meera primly tells the waiter.
“The same for me.” Arjun follows his mother’s lead, which probably doesn’t bode well for our future. “Izzy,” he says to me once the waiter’s gone, “since Mother and I are new to the world of Cuban food, we’re hoping you’ll steer us in the right direction. What dishes would you recommend?”
“Well—” I barely get the word out of my mouth before mommy dearest cuts in.
“We do not eat beef or pork.”
I knew that beef was a no-no for Hindus, because they consider cows to be sacred, but pork’s out, too? I chuckle uneasily. “You’re really tying my hands here, Meera. El cerdo lo es todo in Cuban cuisine.”
Arjun frowns. “What does that mean?”
“The pig is all. Cubans really love their pork. We use all parts of the oinker in our food, and we add sausage or bacon to just about everything. But never fear, I like a challenge.” I pick up my menu and begin to peruse the dishes on offer. A few seconds later, I glance up and ask, “You can eat seafood, right?”
“Seafood’s fine,” Arjun assures me.
Meera purses her lips again. Apparently, this is her go-to expression when her delicate sensibilities are offended by something. “No shrimp. They are filthy creatures.”
Oooookay. So, no gnocchi aji amarillo, paella a la Cubana, or enchilado de camarones. There’s hardly anything left on YUCA’s menu that will satisfy this woman’s crazy dietary rest
rictions and preferences. I briefly entertain the thought of ordering the pulpo a la gallega for her just so that I can see her reaction when she gets a plate filled with tentacles.
‘What? You don’t like octopus either, Meera? But that’s a delicacy in Cuban cuisine (it’s not) and you’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t at least try it.’
My spiteful musings are interrupted when the taste bud-tempting scent of grilled beef fills my nostrils, and I look up to see a waiter walking by with two plates of churrasco (marinated skirt steak with a jalapeno chimichurri), which is my favorite thing on the menu here and now I can’t order it without making Meera loathe me even more than she already does.
When Carlo returns with our drinks, I quickly gulp down half of my mojito, hoping it will make the rest of this evening more tolerable. My obvious enjoyment of the alcoholic beverage earns me another stink eye from Meera, but I ignore her. At Arjun’s urging, I order for the table—some appetizers that would only delight a vegetarian (blech!) and for the entrées, plantain-coated mahi mahi (I dare Meera not to love this dish!), pollo criollo (chicken with mojo sauce—a classic Cuban dish I’m sure Arjun will enjoy), and corvina with an avocado-coconut rice (not happy about this—I am jonesin’ for some red meat!).
“Why don’t you tell my mother about your family?” Arjun prompts when we have time to kill while waiting for the appetizers to arrive. “Izzy comes from a big, tight-knit family, lots of aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, and one niece, I believe.”
“About to be two when my sister, Pilar, has her baby this fall.”
“And do you like children?” Meera quizzes, narrowing her dark eyes at me.
Now would be the time for me to gush about how much I adore the little tykes and can’t wait to have a whole cricket team of them myself so that Meera will consider me suitable for the role of Arjun’s baby mama, but I just don’t have it in me.
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